"Listen, old timer, you really don't want to do this the hard way," Brock threatened, tightening his massive hands around my biceps. His partner, Miller, grabbed the collar of my canvas jacket, yanking it hard enough to choke me slightly.
The commotion had brought the entire showroom to a standstill. The wealthy clients sipping espressos paused, staring in uncomfortable silence. The sales associates who had ignored me earlier were now watching with smug satisfaction. I was a stain on their perfect environment, and they were thrilled to see me scrubbed away.
I still held the dropped contract in my left hand, crumpled tightly against my palm. I knew if they threw me out into the parking lot, I would lose my only window into the shadows of Elias’s operation. I couldn't blow my cover yet. If I announced who I was right now, Elias would immediately realize his fraud was exposed. He would lawyer up, shred the documents in his office, and shift the blame before my auditors could secure the evidence.
I needed to see the full extent of the rot inside my own building.
"I have chest pains!" I suddenly rasped, letting my knees buckle slightly. It was a cheap trick, but highly effective. "You're restricting my chest! If I have a heart attack on this floor, I’ll own the building by Tuesday!"
The legal threat worked like magic. Both guards instantly loosened their grip, stepping back with their hands raised in defensive postures.
"Nobody's hurting you, pal," Brock said nervously, glancing around at the wealthy onlookers.
Before the guards could decide what to do next, a voice broke through the tension.
"Hey, guys, let’s just calm down."
A young man stepped out from behind the reception desk and jogged over to us. He was probably twenty-four, wearing a suit that was slightly too large for him and a cheap tie that looked like it had been bought at a discount department store. His name tag read Marcus.
"Marcus, stay out of this. Mr. Sterling wants him off the property," Miller growled.
"He's just an old man," Marcus said softly, stepping directly between me and the guards. He turned to me, his eyes gentle and completely devoid of the contempt I had seen in Elias. "Sir, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?"
"I don't need a hospital," I grumbled, leaning into the persona of an irritable, stubborn grandfather. "I just wanted to sit down and look at the brochures. My legs are tired."
Marcus turned back to the guards. "I'll take him to the economy waiting area near the service department. I'll get him a coffee, let him catch his breath, and walk him out myself in ten minutes. No fuss. It looks bad if you guys manhandle him in front of the showroom."
Brock looked at the staring clients, then nodded slowly. "Ten minutes, Marcus. If Sterling sees him still here, it’s your head on the block."
The guards walked away. Marcus placed a gentle hand on my elbow, guiding me away from the gleaming Phantom and toward the back of the building. The "economy waiting area" was exactly as insulting as it sounded. It was a dull, windowless corridor near the service bays with scratchy plastic chairs and a coffee machine that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month. It was clearly designed to hide the lower-income customers who came in for basic repairs, keeping them separated from the elite buyers up front.
Marcus handed me a paper cup of black coffee. His hands were shaking slightly.
"I'm sorry about them, sir," Marcus said, sitting down in the plastic chair next to mine. "Mr. Sterling runs a really tight ship. He only wants a specific demographic on the main floor. It's... it's not right, but he's the General Manager."
I took a sip of the terrible coffee, studying the young man. "You don't seem to agree with his methods, Marcus."
He let out a tired sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just need this job. My mom is going through chemo, and the insurance here is the only thing keeping us afloat. But man... I don't know how much longer I can stomach it. The things Sterling does..."
He cut himself off quickly, clearly terrified of saying too much.
"What kind of things?" I asked gently.
Marcus looked down at his cheap dress shoes. "Nothing. Just... aggressive sales tactics. I've only been here three months, but the math doesn't make sense. Sterling personally handles the financing for a lot of our subprime clients. People who come in desperate for a vehicle, who don't have great credit. He isolates them, puts them in that glass office, and..." Marcus shook his head. "I don't know. He reports record profits to corporate, but the people who walk out of that office look like they’ve been to a funeral, not bought a car."
My stomach tightened. He was describing exactly what I had seen on that dropped contract.
"Does he use a specific folder?" I asked quietly. "A red one?"