I narrowed my eyes. My name is Arthur Pendelton.
"Why does that placard say V.C.?" I asked, pointing toward the windshield.
Trent’s head snapped around to look at the placard, and a jolt of genuine panic flashed across his face. He quickly stepped directly into my line of sight, completely obstructing my view of the vehicle. His hand gripped the silver tablet so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"That is none of your business," Trent snapped, his voice losing its polished customer-service gloss. "Client confidentiality is absolute. You are trespassing."
Right at that moment, the thick gold watch on Trent’s left wrist illuminated with a bright green light. A rapid buzzing sound emanated from the device. Trent glanced at the screen, and his jaw muscles flexed violently. He quickly pressed his palm over the watch face to silence it, but not before I noticed his hands were noticeably trembling.
"I'm not trespassing during open business hours," I stated firmly, standing my ground. "And I know for a fact that chassis number 001 was delivered to this facility yesterday morning. I hold the manufacturer’s title release."
I reached into my pocket again to produce the folded documentation.
Trent didn’t wait to see what I was pulling out. He aggressively shoved his left arm forward, pressing his hand flat against my chest to stop me from moving forward. The physical contact was jarring.
"Do not reach into your pockets," Trent commanded loudly, instantly turning heads across the entire showroom floor. Conversations abruptly stopped. A wealthy couple inspecting a Bentley nearby slowly backed away.
"Take your hand off me," I warned, staring directly into Trent's panicked eyes.
"Security!" Trent shouted, turning his head toward the front desk. "We have a hostile vagrant on the floor! Get him out of here!"
Two large men in dark gray uniforms immediately abandoned their posts at the reception desk and jogged toward us. Their heavy boots echoed loudly against the marble.
I looked back at Trent. The man wasn't just acting like a snob. This was something else. A salesman dealing with a confused wanderer would be patronizing, maybe annoyed. But Trent was experiencing raw, unfiltered adrenaline. He was guarding the Vespera like a cornered animal protecting a den.
"You're making a massive mistake," I told him quietly as the guards closed the distance. "I own that car."
Trent leaned in close, his breath smelling faintly of stale nicotine and peppermint mints.
"You don't own anything, old man," he hissed, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "That car is leaving this state in one hour, and there is nothing you can do about it."
Before I could process the meaning of his words, the two security guards arrived. One of them immediately grabbed my left elbow with a firm, bruising grip, while the other stepped between me and Trent.
"Sir, you need to come with us right now," the first guard ordered, pulling my arm toward the exit.
Over the guard's shoulder, I watched Trent reach into his suit pocket. He pulled out a small black leather pouch containing the Vespera's electronic key fob. He frantically caught the attention of a young mechanic in gray coveralls standing near the back hallway.
Trent tossed the pouch to the mechanic and made a violent, sweeping motion with his arm.
"Take it to the loading bay," Trent ordered the mechanic, his voice cracking with urgency. "Right now. Do not wait for the prep team. Get it out of sight!"
The mechanic looked confused but nodded, jogging toward the rotating platform.
The security guard yanked my arm harder, throwing me slightly off balance. The glass doors of the exit were fifty feet away, and my daughter's legacy was about to disappear into the back of the building.
The security guard’s thick fingers dug deeply into the fabric of my flannel shirt, wrenching my shoulder awkwardly. He expected me to stumble forward, to submit to the momentum and allow him to march me out the front doors like a common shoplifter.