The Snobbish Dealer Locked My Engine Line—Until My Forensic Audit Repossessed His Entire Dealership Network At Dawn!

The heavy sound of tires skidding across loose gravel shattered the baseline hum of dyno cell four.

I didn't let go of the calibrated micrometer.

Beside the central chassis dynamometer, the prototype quad-turbo V16 engine was cooling, heat radiating from its inconel manifolds in shimmering waves.

The industrial steel roll-up door of the Detroit testing hangar rattled violently upward.

Marcus Vance—Carter Vance’s father and the majority equity partner of the regional Apex franchise—strode in, flanked by four private security officers wearing tactical blazers.

"Shut that rig down," Marcus ordered, pointing a gold-headed cane at my telemetry station. "Now."

Two of his guards pushed past my junior engineers, deliberately kicking over a bin of titanium cylinder head studs.

The metal hardware scattered across the oil-resistant floor with a sharp, clattering racket.

"You're trespassing on an active skunkworks facility, Marcus," I said, setting the micrometer gently into its felt-lined wooden box.

"This facility sits on industrial land leased through my holding corporation, kid," Marcus sneered, stepping onto the rubberized safety mat. "And your little stunt in the showroom this afternoon just cost my syndicate twenty-two million dollars in canceled deposits."

Behind him walked Julian Sterling, his phone pressed against his ear, his expression tight and calculating.

"The federal court in Manhattan just issued an administrative stay on your franchise seizure, Drake," Julian said, lowering the device with an arrogant smirk. "My father’s private equity firm owns seventy percent of the master real estate debt on this entire block."

Marcus took another step forward, resting both hands on his cane as he looked at the prototype engine.

"You took my son’s phone," Marcus whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "You had him cuffed in front of the press. Now, you’re going to hand over the unencrypted diagnostic root keys, or my security team will seize every single test mule in this bay under a statutory landlord’s lien."

My field tablet buzzed on the steel workbench.

I picked it up, glancing at the glowing prompt.

It wasn't a court stay.

It was an automated security alert from the Detroit Metropolitan Airport cargo terminal, showing three chartered Antonov cargo planes landing on runway four.