startup fantasy.”
“My tech startup is not a fantasy,” Malik said, his voice surprisingly steady, though his
hands shook slightly under the table. “And you know the car isn’t stolen.”
Harlow’s smug expression hardened into a scowl. He slammed his hand flat onto the
metal table, the sound exploding in the small room. “Don’t play games with me! The NCIC
database lit up red the second we ran the tags. The car was reported stolen out of a luxury
dealership in Miami three weeks ago. You scrubbed the VIN, but you didn't scrub it well
enough.”
Malik’s highly analytical brain seized on that specific detail. *Reported stolen out of
Miami. Three weeks ago.*
That was definitively, demonstrably impossible. He had purchased the car directly from
an authorized Lamborghini dealer in Chicago, perfectly legal, with certified bank wires, a
pristine title, and full federal compliance forms. He had the physical title in his safe at
home. He had the digital title registered in the state database.
If the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database showed it was stolen from
Miami, someone had to have manually overridden the system. Someone with high-level
administrative access had planted a fake flag on his specific VIN.
Why?
The realization hit him like a freight train.
Bennett Trace. His software.
For the past six months, Malik’s company had been running beta tests for the state’s
Department of Motor Vehicles, cross-referencing their legacy databases with national
insurance registries to catch 'title washing'—a highly lucrative crime where stolen luxury
cars were moved across state lines, given forged titles, and resold to unsuspecting buyers
for massive profits. During the beta test, his software had flagged over four hundred luxury
vehicles in this specific county alone that had highly suspicious title histories.
The police weren't just arresting him because he was a Black kid in a nice car.
They were arresting him because *they* were the ones running the stolen car ring.
Harlow and Calder weren't just racist, aggressive beat cops. They were dirty. They were
using their police database access to flag legally owned luxury cars as 'stolen' when spotted,
impounding them, and then laundering the vehicles through a network of corrupt towing
companies and chop shops. And Malik’s new software contract with the state was about to
automatically expose their entire multi-million-dollar operation. They needed him
discredited. They needed him to look like a criminal, so his software would be dismissed as
fraudulent.
Malik looked at Harlow, his fear suddenly evaporating, replaced by a cold, calculating
fury.
“You flagged it yourself, didn't you?” Malik asked softly.
Harlow froze, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. The subtle tightening of the muscles
around his jaw was all the confirmation Malik needed.
“What the hell are you talking about, kid?” Harlow growled, but his voice lacked its
previous confident boom.
“My company tracks title fraud,” Malik said, leaning forward slightly, the chains on his
cuffs rattling against the table. “We track database anomalies. A car doesn't just magically
switch from clean to stolen in the NCIC without a digital footprint. Every keystroke is
logged. Every badge number associated with a query is recorded. You flagged my car as
stolen this afternoon just so you could impound it.”
Harlow stood up abruptly, kicking his chair back. It clattered loudly against the
cinderblock wall. He stormed around the table and grabbed Malik by the collar of his
hoodie, lifting him halfway out of his seat, choking him.
“Listen to me, you little punk,” Harlow spat, spit flying into Malik's face. “You are going
to sign a full confession stating you purchased a known stolen vehicle. If you don't, I will
personally guarantee that you spend the next ten years in a maximum-security cell, and
your little grandmother is going to die completely alone in that trashy apartment.”
Malik gasped for air, his vision swimming, but he forced a smile. A real, genuine smile.
Harlow frowned, confused by the reaction, and slowly lowered him back onto the cold
bench.
“You messed up, Harlow,” Malik rasped, rubbing his bruised throat. “You really messed
up.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“You impounded the wrong car.”
* * *
Chapter 3: The Trojan Horse
Fifteen miles away, sitting in a heavily guarded, razor-wire-fenced police impound lot on
the industrial outskirts of the city, the electric orange Lamborghini remained completely
silent.
But internally, it was screaming.
When Malik had said the car was a "test unit," he hadn't been speaking metaphorically.