Chapter 7: Blood on the Concrete
986 Words
The third man laid the tools out on the table like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Pliers. A small hammer. A battery pack with wires. Nothing dramatic, nothing cinematic. Just efficient things that hurt.
Preston watched Alex’s face for the flinch that didn’t come.
“You’re tougher than you look,” Preston said. “But everyone breaks. The question is how much of you is left when it happens.”
Alex flexed his freed left hand under the zip tie’s remaining loop, keeping the movement hidden. Right hand still bound, ankles tight, but one free limb changed everything.
The scarred guard from earlier stepped forward first, cracking his knuckles.
Preston raised a hand. “Wait.”
He leaned in, voice almost paternal.
“Last offer. Sign, and this ends. You go home tonight with ice packs and a story about muggers. Refuse, and we start with fingers. Your choice.”
Alex looked past him to the tools, then back to Preston’s eyes.
“You talk a lot for a man who needs three guys to hold one kid.”
Preston’s jaw tightened.
The scarred guard smiled.
He swung.
Alex jerked the chair left, taking the punch on the shoulder instead of the face. Pain flared, but the chair rocked. Bolts groaned in the concrete.
The second guard grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. The third reached for the pliers.
Alex exploded.
He yanked his left arm fully free, slamming the zip-tied chair arm upward into the guard’s throat. The man gagged, staggering. Alex surged forward, using his body weight to tip the chair. It crashed sideways, bolts ripping halfway from the floor.
Ankles still bound, but momentum carried him.
He rolled into the scarred guard’s legs, toppling him. The third man lunged, but Alex kicked out, heel catching the knee. c***k. The man howled, dropping.
Preston backed toward the door, eyes wide for the first time.
“Stop him!”
Alex grabbed the fallen pliers with his free hand, sawed frantically at the right wrist tie. Plastic parted. He dove for the hammer as the scarred guard recovered, tackling him from behind.
They hit the concrete hard. Fists rained down. Alex blocked most, took one to the temple that blurred vision. He drove the pliers backward into the man’s thigh. Hot blood sprayed his arm. The guard screamed, grip loosening.
Alex twisted free, hammer in hand now.
The third man limped forward, pulling a knife.
Alex rose to one knee, breathing fire through cracked ribs.
“Come on,” he rasped.
The door burst open behind Preston.
Not police.
Four hard-looking men in work jackets, the lead one carrying a shotgun loose at his side. Faces Alex didn’t recognize, but they moved like they owned the room.
Preston froze.
The scarred guard reached for his gun.
The shotgun boomed once, deafening in the enclosed space. Ceiling plaster rained. The guard’s hand stopped halfway to his holster.
“Next one’s lower,” the lead man said calmly. “We’re here for the kid.”
Preston found his voice. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
The lead man ignored him, nodding to his crew. Two moved forward, zip-tying the guards efficiently while the third covered Preston.
Richard stepped in last.
No jacket. Shirt sleeves rolled. Glock in hand, suppressor attached. Face calm, but eyes burning.
Preston went pale, recognition flickering.
“You...”
Richard didn’t speak to him. He walked straight to Alex, knelt, and cut the ankle ties with one smooth slice.
Alex stared up at him, blood trickling from his split lip.
“Dad? How...”
Richard helped him stand, steadying him when his legs buckled.
“Old friend,” Richard said quietly. “From before you were born. Owes me a big favor. Heard about the k********g through the docks. Sent his people.”
Alex leaned on him, ribs screaming, mind foggy from pain and adrenaline.
Richard nodded. “Lucky timing. Come on. Let’s get you out.”
Behind them, Preston tried to stand, voice rising.
He was held down.
Richard guided Alex out into the cold night air. Rain had stopped. A dark sedan idled at the curb. He eased Alex into the back seat, wrapped a blanket around him.
Alex’s voice was weak. “Mia?”
“Safe. Police have her statement. I’ll pick her up soon.”
Then Richard returned inside the warehouse.
Preston gasped, “This isn’t over. My family...”
Richard turned.
He shot Preston once in the thigh.
Preston collapsed screaming, blood spreading fast across the concrete.
Richard looked at the lead man.
“Message delivered?”
The man nodded. “He’s leaving the city. Tonight. Family too. New state. He stays, he disappears for good. That’s the deal.”
Preston clutched his leg, face gray. “You can’t... exile me...”
The lead man shrugged. “Already done. Tickets booked. Car waiting. You talk to police, you talk to anyone, the next visit won’t leave you breathing.”
They acknowledged Richard with “Mr. V.”
He was frightened. V.? You say? Are you Tambovskaya Vincent?
Richard didn’t wait for more.
The sedan pulled away. In the rearview, Alex saw the warehouse lights go dark.
He closed his eyes, head against the window.
“Who’s the old friend, Dad?”
Richard’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“Someone from when I was younger. Helped me out of a bad spot once. I helped him. Debts like that don’t expire.”
Alex nodded, too exhausted to press.
He didn’t see Richard’s reflection in the glass: eyes cold, ancient, carrying ghosts Alex would never know.
Preston Harrington was already on a private jet by dawn, leg bandaged, family hastily packed, heading east.
The valley closed ranks.
No police leads. No witnesses. Just a rich family that suddenly “relocated for business.”
Richard drove home through empty streets.
The monster slept again.
For now.
- Writer
