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of a shiny red and black truck. Its rear door swung wide to accept the cargo. Brandon Chargon’s final ride in a vehicle was not to be next to a gorgeous woman in the breezy freedom of his beloved ‘57 Ford Fairlane convertible. Instead, he rode entombed in a latched steel container carried in the locked bed of an armored truck.

Chapter Four
    IT WAS 9:30 P.M. and forty-one year old Jackie Dunbarton had put in another long day at the office. She was an old timer with twelve years of service at Star Mortgage in the Terra Fina Tower Building, now the office manager after a promotion the week before. She intended to prove the wisdom of her bosses by burning the midnight oil six days a week to accomplish more than was expected of her. Her first week of late night departures had put her on a first name basis with Nate, the night security guard.
    She reclined and looked out her eighth floor window. Arizona Avenue routed cars below that carried nine-to-fivers, probably on their way home from dinner. Jackie planned to enjoy a frozen turkey dinner she had purchased to get into a Thanksgiving frame of mind.
    As she straightened some papers on her desk and thought about taking home some of those delicious oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies someone had brought for the office breakfast, her phone rang. She checked the time. Who could be calling this late? She considered letting the call go to voicemail, but figured that the call could be from one of her bosses and their discovery of her diligence was too great an opportunity to pass up.
    “Hello?”
    “Is this Star Mortgage?” a deep male voice said.
    “Yes, but we are closed,” Jackie said. She rolled her eyes, sorry she had answered.
    “This is evening security and we are contacting any tenants who remain in the building because we need to do some elevator maintenance. Could you tell us how much longer you’ll be tonight?”
    “Nate? Is that you?”
    “No, ma’am, there’s no Nate here.”
    “Fine, well, I’m actually on my way out right now,” Jackie said as she slipped her purse over her shoulder and pushed her chair in.
    “Well then, your timing is perfect. Could you please use the freight elevator instead of the passenger elevator when you leave?”
    “Certainly, but I don’t have a key card,” Jackie said.
    “That’s no problem. We’ll leave it open on your floor for you. Are you familiar with the location of the freight elevator?”
    “Yes, it’s the one around the corner beside the restrooms, right?”
    “Exactly. We appreciate your cooperation, ma’am.”
    Although she had passed by it many times to and from the restroom, Jackie had never ridden the freight elevator. As promised, it waited, door open, and she stepped inside. The metal button panel was surrounded by scratches and gouges, engraved by movers and delivery personnel who had used objects to press buttons. The elevator car was twice the size of the passenger elevator, but was filthy and worn. It smelled like sweat.
    In the ceiling, a fluorescent light flickered as the large doors slid toward one another, kissing with surprising delicacy, closing Jackie in.
    The number 8 illuminated above the door blinked and changed to an L, but Jackie sensed the elevator rising instead of sinking. Although she felt movement and heard the air of the elevator shaft, the L stayed lit. After ten seconds, the elevator shuddered and stopped, and the large doors opened to an undecorated foyer with no chairs and only one door. Two men in matching red Polo shirts and black pressed slacks stood on either side of a metal wheeled container the size of a kitchen stove.
    One man swatted his hand toward Jackie, instructing her to move back, deeper into the elevator to make room for their cart. She complied, stepping to the back of the elevator while patting the back of her hair—a nervous response to an order given more forcefully than she felt it needed to be.
    “You’re welcome,” she said, making sure to inject plenty of