“Grab the kid! Put the old man down!” Damon roared.
The three enforcers surged forward. One of them lunged past me, snatching Leo by the jacket and dragging the screaming boy toward the McLaren. The other two hit me simultaneously. Hands the size of cinder blocks grabbed my greasy tank top and violently hurled me off the hood of the car.
I hit the concrete floor hard. My shoulder slammed into the edge of a plastic drainage tray, flipping it over. Thick, black, used motor oil flooded out, soaking immediately into my clothes and spreading across the wet asphalt.
Before I could roll, a heavy combat boot slammed down on my right wrist. A hand grabbed a handful of my gray hair, violently wrenching my head to the side.
Smack.
A thick palm connected with my jaw, snapping my head back.
Smack.
A second slap, harder than the first, splitting my lower lip against my teeth. The metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth, mixing with the noxious fumes of the motor oil I was pinned in.
I lay there, my left arm throbbing with agonizing heat, staring sideways into the dark puddle of oil. My heart was pounding, a steady, ancient rhythm waking up in my chest. For twenty years, I had sworn I would endure any humiliation to avoid opening the door to my past. I would take a beating. I would let arrogant men feel strong.
But I heard Leo sobbing wildly from the backseat of the McLaren.
I looked at the rusted bottom of my red toolbox lying on its side inches from my face. My promise was over.
Slowly, beneath the bulk of my pinned stomach, my fingers found the hidden latch.
CHAPTER 2
The motor oil was cold against my cheek. The enforcer kept his heavy knee pressed squarely into the center of my back, ensuring I couldn’t find the leverage to rise. Above me, the fog felt heavy, suffocating.
“Hold him steady,” Damon’s voice drifted down, tight with adrenaline and wounded pride. His expensive shoes stepped carefully into my line of sight, avoiding the black sludge spreading across the pavement.
My lip was bleeding freely, but my focus had narrowed entirely to the space beneath my body.
While the goons were busy holding my right arm and pressing down on my spine, my left hand—aching and trembling from the wrench strike—was hidden between my stomach and the cold concrete. My fingers were tracing the familiar, smooth metal contour of the false bottom on my red Snap-On toolbox, which had spilled open during the struggle.
“You actually thought you could tell me no?” Damon sneered, crouching slightly so his face was closer to mine. “You’re just a grease monkey, Frank. You change spark plugs for people who matter.”
He was talking, buying time to feel powerful, feeding his own ego. It was the classic mistake of every amateur I had ever encountered in the field.
Beneath me, my thumbnail caught the tiny recess. I pressed hard. The false panel popped with a soft click, entirely masked by the rumble of the McLaren’s engine idling nearby. My hand slid into the hidden compartment. My fingers wrapped around a heavy, reinforced, brick-like object. It wasn't a standard cellphone. It was a military-grade satellite uplink terminal. Thick rubber casing, heavily encrypted, independent of any civilian grid.
I hadn't turned it on in two decades. I didn't know for certain if the internal battery charge had held.
I squeezed it, dragging it slowly toward my chest.