Chapter 5 - The Voice on the Line
Greg Miller stopped laughing.
The arrogant smirk on his face froze, stretching into an awkward, bewildered grimace as he looked at the old man holding the titanium phone. There was something in the way the old man held himself—the absolute lack of fear, the chilling, razor-sharp focus in his eyes—that sent a sudden, primal jolt of unease through Greg’s spine.
"Who... who do you think you're calling?" Greg stammered, his voice lacking its previous thunder. "I told you, get off the property or I'm calling the county sheriff."
The old man didn't acknowledge Greg. He listened to the encrypted line for three seconds, his pale eyes fixed entirely on Jake, who was standing by the exit door with his jacket half-zipped.
"Yes, Marcus," the old man—Frank—continued into the phone, his voice carrying clearly across the silent workshop. "I’m at an independent garage off Route 45. Miller’s Auto Repair. We have a slight operational disagreement regarding human decency and customer service."
A brief pause hung on the line.
"No, the truck can wait," Frank said calmly. "What cannot wait is the integrity of our regional supply chain contracts. I want the commercial audit team down here within thirty minutes. And bring the regional franchise licensing director with you."
Greg’s face drained of color. The skin beneath his fake tan turned the sickly, gray hue of spoiled milk.
"Supply chain... audit?" Greg squeaked, his voice cracking into a pathetic falsetto. "What are you talking about? What franchise? This is an independent mom-and-pop shop!"
Frank lowered the phone, slipping it back into the inside pocket of his canvas jacket. He turned his head slowly toward Greg Miller, and for the first time, the full weight of his gaze struck the manager like a physical blow.
"Independent?" Frank repeated, his voice dropping into a register of icy, terrifying calm. "Mr. Miller, every single replacement part on your shelves—every alternator, every brake pad, every distributor cap, and every gallon of synthetic oil in your fluid tanks—is distributed exclusively through Frank Dawson Logistics Group. A corporation I founded forty years ago."
Greg’s knees buckled slightly. He grabbed the edge of the mechanic’s desk to keep from falling. "Dawson... Frank Dawson? You're... you're the Frank Dawson? The founder of Dawson Freight and Supply?!"
Frank didn't answer the question. He walked past Greg as if the manager were nothing more than a coat rack, stopping two feet away from Jake.
The old man reached out, picking up Jake’s discarded metal badge—JAKE - SHOP HELPER—from the workbench where Greg had tossed it earlier.
"What is your full name, son?" Frank asked, his voice softening instantly into a profound, grandfatherly warmth.
"Jake... Jake Parker, sir," the teenager stammered, his mind spinning wildly.
"Well, Jake Parker," Frank smiled gently, placing the metal badge back into the palm of Jake's hand and closing the boy's fingers over it. "You just spent your grocery money to help an old man you didn't even know. And for that, your manager just fired you."
May you like
Frank turned his head, fixing his cold, unblinking glare back on Greg Miller.
"Which means," Frank continued, raising his voice so it echoed off every metal rafter in the building, "that Miller’s Auto Repair is about to experience a severe, long-term shortage of inventory."
