Chapter 3Remote Killing My Stolen Porsche

Forty minutes later, I stepped onto the polished gray tile of the Westgate Porsche dealership.

I didn't bother with small talk. I pulled my state ID, the original bill of sale, and the vehicle title from my briefcase and set them flat on the concierge counter.

Within two minutes, the general service director was escorting me into a glass-walled VIP office.

"Mr. Campbell. How can we help you this morning?"

I sat down, straight-backed, staring directly into his eyes. "My vehicle has been stolen."

The director blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The digital authentication was hijacked without my authorization," I said, my tone matter-of-fact. "I need you to initiate the factory emergency anti-theft override. Restrict throttle output immediately, activate hazard protocols, and force the car into a low-speed emergency limp mode to the shoulder."

The man’s expression stiffened. "Mr. Campbell... are you certain? If the vehicle is currently moving at highway speeds, a remote override will force engine deceleration down to a crawl while flashing warning indicators. On an interstate, that carries inherent risk."

My gaze didn't waver by a millimeter.

"I am entirely certain. The car is currently on Interstate 285, operated by an unauthorized driver who does not possess legal consent to operate it. I accept full civil and legal responsibility for the command."

The director studied my face for three long seconds, swallowed, and nodded. He spun his monitor toward him and began typing.

I pulled out my phone and loaded the state department of transportation's live traffic cameras.

Camera 42: East Loop corridor.

There it was. My silver-gray Panamera cruising in the far-left passing lane, pacing at roughly eighty miles an hour alongside a tandem semi-trailer. Through the glare of the windshield, I could make out Kyle’s silhouette—one hand propped casually on the windowsill, flicking a cigarette into the slipstream.

My knuckles trembled, just faintly.

Lauren knew Kyle had only had his driver’s license for barely a year. She knew he had two reckless driving citations on his record. She knew the East Loop at rush hour was a death trap.

Yet she had handed him the keys anyway.

In her hierarchy of values, my car, my safety, my livelihood—none of it tipped the scale against Kyle’s pathetic need to project an illusion of wealth.

"Command confirmed, Mr. Campbell," the director murmured, turning an iPad toward me.

On the diagnostics telemetry, the digital speedometer began to plummet.

75.

55.

35.

It leveled out at a stubborn, unyielding fifteen miles per hour.

On the live highway feed, the amber hazard lights of the Porsche burst into rapid life. The car shuddered, lost momentum, and was forced to peel out of the fast lane, crawling awkwardly across three lanes of honking traffic before dragging itself onto the gravel shoulder.

I watched the screen in silence.

There was no sudden rush of adrenaline. No petty satisfaction.

Just a cavernous, echoing quiet.