Chapter 2Remote Killing My Stolen Porsche

My knuckles whitened against the phone casing.

"Call him. Tell him to turn the car around right now."

"Sean, stop being ridiculous."

"I have a nine-thirty signing with Mr. Burke," I said, every word clipped. "Thirty million dollars. I need my car."

Her voice hardened instantly. "Are you out of your mind? It’s a signature, Sean! Take an Uber! Kyle is already halfway down the beltway—how is he supposed to just turn around? His investors have a one-hour window today. If you ruin his shot, are you going to pay for his lost round?"

I let out an incredulous breath that felt like acid. "And my deal doesn't count? A thirty-million-dollar contract my team bled for six months to build?"

She clicked her tongue, that familiar, sharp sound of complete condescension. "You’re established. If you don't sign today, you’ll sign tomorrow. Kyle is clawing his way up from zero. Consider it a favor to me."

I didn't waste another breath arguing.

I hung up, opened the Porsche Connect app on my phone, and tapped into the vehicle management portal to pull the real-time GPS coordinates.

A system dialog popped up across the screen:

"This vehicle has been paired with a new primary mobile ID. Please re-authenticate ownership credentials."

A high-pitched ringing filled my ears.

She hadn't just tossed him the keys.

She had transferred the digital master key.

My thumb stabbed redial. "Lauren." My voice was a sheet of sheer ice. "You overrode my digital pairing on the car?"

A momentary lapse of silence on the other end, quickly replaced by indignation. "Kyle said his Bluetooth wouldn't sync without master access, so I gave him the two-factor code. It took two seconds. Why do you make a federal case out of every minor detail?"

I closed my eyes, inhaling the stale exhaust fumes of the underground deck.

"Fine."

"Sean—"

"He won't turn around? Don't worry. I have my own ways of making him pull over."

I cut the call before she could scream.

Turning on my heel, I sprinted out of the parking structure, surfaced onto the bright street, and threw my hand up at the first yellow cab speeding down the avenue.

"Porsche dealership on Westgate," I told the driver, slamming the door. "Floor it."

The cab surged into traffic. I pressed my temples against the cool windowpane and shut my eyes.

The afternoon I drove that Panamera off the lot three years ago, I had sat in the driver’s seat for four hours with the engine idling. I remember looking up into the rearview mirror, whispering to the empty cabin: "Dad, I finally built something that’s entirely mine. Something no one can touch."

How pathetic that sounded now.