Chapter 5
Half an hour later, a thick black wire had been forced out through the broken casing.
There was no insulation, no proper protection, just exposed wiring hanging there while the so-called repairman wrapped the connection with cheap electrical tape in a few lazy loops.
“All set,” he said, dusting off his hands. “It works now.”
Ash from his cigarette fell to the floor.
Bobby rushed forward and plugged his car in.
The light came on.
“Mom, you’re amazing!” he shouted, giving her a thumbs-up.
Mrs. Watson practically glowed.
“Of course I am. That girl thought she could outsmart me. She’s still too green.”
And just like that, the fuse had been lit.
Greed is addictive. Once people get away with something, they want more.
By the third night, the camera feed showed not just Bobby’s car but also a power strip connected beside it. One cord ran to that dusty little neighborhood car. Another stretched into Bobby’s rideshare vehicle, where they had plugged in a high-powered space heater.
“Dry the dampness out of the car,” Mrs. Watson said from off-screen, directing the whole thing like a foreman.
I looked at that cheap extension cord and felt a cold smile curl at the corner of my mouth.
That much load, with wiring done that badly?
If nothing happened, that would be the miracle.
Then a black luxury sedan rolled slowly into the frame.
It was a brand-new Rolls-Royce Ghost parked in the space next to mine. Two-tone paint. Money shining even in the dim garage lights.
The driver’s door opened, and a bald, broad-shouldered man stepped out. Gold chain around his neck. Tattoos on both arms. Heavy boots. The kind of man who looked like trouble before he even spoke.
Everyone in the building knew him.
Victor “Dragon” Vega.
He had made his money in construction and demolition. His temper was famous, but so was the fact that he lived by his own brutal version of rules.
He looked at the mess of wires on the ground, then at Mrs. Watson, who was crouched there arranging plugs like she was decorating a Christmas tree.
“Hey,” he barked. “Keep those wires away from my car.”
His voice was rough and loud enough to shake the concrete.
Mrs. Watson jumped, then straightened up. Seeing only a bald man with tattoos, she decided he didn’t look respectable, which in her mind meant he could be dismissed.
“Why are you yelling?” she snapped. “I’m using my own electricity. How is that any of your business? Think you’re special just because you’ve got money?”
Victor stared at her for a long moment.
Then he muttered, “Crazy woman,” locked his car, and walked away.
Mrs. Watson spat in the direction of his back.
“Look at him, dressed all fancy. No manners at all.”
That night, long after the garage quieted down, the taped wire connection began to spark.
At first, it was faint. Tiny little crackles, like fireflies.
Then the tape began to melt.
It dripped down onto the pile of junk nearby—cardboard, plastic bags, and a bottle of cheap windshield washer fluid Mrs. Watson had left there.
The flame rose in an instant.