Page 16

James Murray savored the crisp autumn air as he made his final approach to the detached garage.

The November chill had emptied the streets of the upscale Dallas neighborhood, leaving him to work in perfect solitude.

Moonlight cast long shadows across manicured lawns, the kind of properties where security systems were common—but not at this particular house.

The three-story colonial with its detached garage stood partially gutted, plastic sheeting visible through several windows. Perfect timing.

His fingers instinctively touched the lock-picking tools in his jacket pocket.

At thirty-seven, Murray had perfected his craft over twenty years of breaking into cars and driving away with other people's property.

Two convictions had taught him caution but never deterrence.

If anything, his eighteen months in state prison had only refined his skills, connecting him with better fences who paid premium prices for vintage cars.

He crouched low as he approached the garage, moving with practiced stealth across the driveway. No motion-activated lights flickered on. No dogs barked. Murray smiled to himself. Amateurs. People with money always assumed their wealth alone would protect them.

The side door lock was basic—a simple pin tumbler that Murray could have picked in his sleep.

He inserted the tension wrench and rake pick, feeling the familiar resistance of the pins.

With subtle movements of his wrist, he manipulated the tumblers until he felt the satisfying give of the mechanism.

The lock turned with a barely audible click.

Murray slipped inside, easing the door closed behind him. The garage interior was dark, but the moonlight filtering through a small window provided enough illumination to confirm his prize was waiting—the Mustang's sleek silhouette unmistakable even in the shadows.

He withdrew a penlight from his pocket, keeping the beam low as he circled the vehicle.

Unlike the half-gutted house, the garage was immaculate—concrete floor swept clean, tools organized on pegboards, not a speck of dust on the car's gleaming paint.

Murray ran an appreciative hand along the Mustang's hood, feeling the cool, smooth metal beneath his fingertips.

"Hello, beautiful," he whispered.

Murray had stolen dozens of cars in his career, but vintage models were his specialty and personal passion.

There was something about the craftsmanship, the mechanical purity of these older machines that modern vehicles couldn't match.

And this one was exceptional—numbers-matching 390 V8 engine, original paint, pristine interior.

Even in the dim light, he could tell the restoration work was top-notch.

Forty thousand dollars minimum, he calculated. Maybe fifty with the right buyer—a collector who wouldn't ask questions about paperwork or provenance. Benjy, his fence in Houston, would salivate over this find.

The driver's door opened with a well-oiled precision that spoke of meticulous maintenance.

Murray slid onto the leather seat, inhaling the intoxicating scent of aged leather and faint motor oil.

His hands caressed the steering wheel—original, not a reproduction. A car this clean was increasingly rare.

Murray leaned down, aiming his penlight beneath the steering column. He'd need to pop the panel and access the ignition wires. Modern cars had made his job harder with their electronic security systems, but classics like this Mustang—they were almost too easy, built in a more trusting era.

He reached for his screwdriver when something in his peripheral vision made him freeze. A subtle shift in the shadows behind him, almost imperceptible. The back door opening silently.

Murray's heart slammed against his ribs. He started to turn, hand instinctively reaching for the switchblade in his pocket.

Too late.

Cold metal pressed against the base of his skull, unmistakably the barrel of a gun. Murray went rigid, his breath caught in his throat.

"James Murray," said a voice—wrong, distorted, run through some kind of electronic filter that made it sound inhuman. "Two convictions for grand theft auto. Released six months ago after serving eighteen months at Huntsville."

Murray's blood ran cold. Not a random interruption—someone who knew him, knew his record.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, voice strained. "My name's not—"

The gun pressed harder against his skull. "BMW 5-Series. Memorial Hermann Hospital parking garage, three weeks ago." The mechanical voice continued, emotionless. "Lexus ES from outside Montrose Steakhouse, last Tuesday. And now this Mustang."

Murray felt sweat break out across his forehead. Those were his jobs—cars he'd taken and sold with no arrests, no connections made by police. How could anyone know?

"Who are you?" he asked, trying to steady his voice. "Cop? FBI?"

"I'm what happens when the system fails," the voice replied. "Your trial is beginning now, James Murray. The charges: thirty-seven documented cases of grand theft auto across three states. Disregard for the property and security of others. Repeated offenses despite previous incarcerations."

Murray's mind raced, searching for a way out. This wasn't a cop—no warrant, no Miranda rights, no backup. But the alternative was somehow worse. The steel barrel against his head didn't waver.

A gloved hand appeared in his peripheral vision, holding a small notebook and pen. The hand placed them on the dashboard in front of him.

"Write," the voice commanded.

"Write what?" Murray asked, though he already knew. He'd read about the dealer from Santiago Heights, the sex offender. Both found with confessions beside their bodies.

"Your crimes. All of them."

"Look," Murray said, fear making his words tumble out faster. "I've got money. Not here, but I can get it. Five thousand by tomorrow morning. Ten thousand if you need it."

The gun pressed harder. "Write."

"Please," Murray whispered, genuine desperation replacing bravado.

"I've got a little girl. Sophia. She's seven.

Her mom's gone—I'm all she's got." This wasn't a lie—unlike most of what came out of his mouth.

Sophia was real, living with his sister while he "got back on his feet.

" She was the reason he'd promised himself that this Mustang would be his last job, that he'd use the money to move them both to Austin for a fresh start.

There was a pause, just long enough to kindle a flicker of hope that his words had reached something human behind that distorted voice. Then:

"You should have considered her before you chose this path. Your choices brought you here, not mine."

The finality in those words extinguished whatever hope had sparked. Murray's mouth went dry as desert sand. The Mustang—his ticket to a new beginning—had become a death trap.

With trembling fingers, he took the pen and notebook. He stared at the blank page, overwhelmed by the understanding that these would be the last words he'd ever write.

"Write your name," the voice instructed.

Murray obeyed, the pen wavering as he formed the letters. Tears blurred his vision, thoughts of Sophia—her gap-toothed smile, her too-serious eyes that had seen too much for a child her age—flooding his mind.

"Now confess," the voice commanded.

As Murray began to write, he felt a strange, detached calm settle over him.

He described stealing his first car at seventeen, his progression to higher-end vehicles, the thrill that had never quite faded even after twenty years.

His hand shook, but the words kept coming, as if some part of him had been waiting for this moment of reckoning.

He thought of Sophia again, of promises he'd made and broken, of the father he'd failed to be. What would she think when she learned how he'd died? Would anyone tell her the truth, or would they fabricate some gentler fiction?

The last sentence flowed from his pen: "I'm sorry, Sophia. I should have been better."

Murray set the pen down, his confession complete. The garage was utterly still, no sound but his own ragged breathing. The midnight blue Mustang gleamed in the darkness, beautiful and indifferent to the drama playing out inside its cabin.

"Is that it?" he asked, voice barely audible.

Behind him, he heard the subtle click of the gun's hammer being pulled back.

"No," the mechanical voice replied with cold finality. "Your execution is next."