Chapter 6: The Old Names
924 Words
Alex had maybe forty minutes left before Preston returned.
The zip ties cut into his wrists, but the left one had a millimeter of slack. He worked it slowly, twisting his hand in tiny increments, feeling the plastic bite skin. Blood helped. Slick. The chair creaked but held. The two guards stayed in the shadows, breathing steady, bored.
He cataloged everything.
One overhead bulb. One metal door. Concrete floor with old oil stains. Faint sound of rain on a tin roof somewhere above. No voices outside. Isolated.
His ribs throbbed with every breath. The punches had been precise, meant to hurt without breaking yet. Message received.
Preston wanted fear. Compliance.
Alex gave him neither.
He thought of Mia. She had made it back through the gate. Cameras caught her. Police would be involved now. She would be safe at school, surrounded by teachers, cops, questions. She would be terrified, but safe.
Dad would know soon. If he didn't already.
That thought steadied him more than anything.
The left tie loosened another fraction. He stopped, rested, listened. One guard shifted weight. The other lit a cigarette; the flare briefly lit a scarred face.
Alex started again.
At The Anchor, the bar stayed dark.
Richard stood in the office, door locked, red neon bleeding through the small window. The burner phone lay open on the desk, frozen on the last campus feed: Mia bursting through the gate alone, phone to her ear, mouth open in a scream no audio captured.
He had watched it live.
He had watched his daughter run for her life while his son vanished off the edge of his world.
The public phone vibrated again. Police. He let it ring.
He opened the leather address book instead.
Names in faded ink. Numbers beside them. Some crossed out over the years. Many still active.
He started at the top.
First call: Viktor, old dock master. Still owed Richard for the night three Albanians disappeared from a container ship.
The line connected.
"Viktor. It's V."
A long silence. Then Viktor's voice, older now, but it shook slightly.
"V... I thought you were..."
"A kid from Crestwood. Black SUV. Took him off the street tonight."
Viktor's breath caught. "Information already got to me. A kid from Crestwood kidn*pped by a black SUV. Whole dock's whispering. I'll turn every container, every truck. We'll find it."
"Good."
Second call: Sheriff Harlan, who had taken the badge after the old chief "retired" early, courtesy of a quiet envelope years ago.
The sheriff answered on the second ring.
"Harlan."
"It's V."
A sharp pause.
"I need everything you know about the Crestwood kid. The k********g. Now."
Harlan's voice dropped. "We got the call twenty minutes ago. Girl ran back to school screaming. Black SUV, no plate visible. We're canvassing, but it's a blind spot. No leads yet. Kid's name is Alex Vincent."
"Send me what you have. Photos, statements, anything."
"Richard, this is..."
"Send it."
The line went quiet, then: "On its way. Encrypted."
Third: Marco Valenti.
Marco didn't know Richard as the bar owner. He knew the initial only. The one that still made men careful.
The phone rang twice.
"Valenti."
"It's V."
Marco's tone shifted instantly, respectful, cautious. He had never met the man behind the letter, but he knew the stories. Knew the silence after the war meant the legend still lived.
"Yes, sir."
"A kid from Crestwood was taken. Black SUV. "
"I'll confirm.”
“Quietly. No warnings. Do it fast."
"Already done."
Richard hung up.
He made four more calls. Old soldiers. Fixers. Informants. Each conversation short, coded, fourteen years of dust blowing off in seconds.
The valley's underworld stirred.
By the time he finished, the rain had stopped. He closed the book, pocketed both phones, and turned off the office light.
He left The Anchor through the back door, locked it behind him, and walked to the old garage two blocks away. The one he still rented under a dead man's name.
Inside: a matte-black sedan, dust-covered but maintained. He opened the trunk.
Old tools.
Glock 19 with suppressor. Spare magazines. Knife in ankle sheath. Burner cash. Fake plates.
He loaded what he needed, started the engine, and pulled out into the wet night.
No more Richard Vincent tonight.
Only V.
In the warehouse, the metal door clanged open again.
Preston walked back in alone. The guards stayed outside this time.
He carried a folder.
"Decision time," he said, stopping in front of Alex.
Alex's left hand was almost free. He kept it still.
Preston opened the folder, slid a transfer form across the table.
"Sign this. New school across the state. Full scholarship, my treat. You leave tomorrow. Your father keeps his bar. Your sister keeps her dreams. Everyone wins."
Alex looked at the paper, then at Preston.
"No."
Preston sighed.
"I was hoping you'd be reasonable."
He nodded toward the door.
The two guards returned, this time with a third man carrying a small black case.
Preston stepped back.
"Last chance."
Alex met his eyes.
"My father taught me one thing," he said quietly. "Never negotiate from a chair."
Preston's face hardened.
"Then we do this the hard way."
The third man opened the case. Tools glinted inside.
Alex slipped his left hand free.
The bulb flickered overhead.
Somewhere in the valley, engines started. Phones rang in dark rooms. Old debts were called in.
And V drove through the night, face calm, eyes cold, toward the warehouse he would find before dawn.
Because no one touched his children.
No one.
- Writer
