“Hey!” the enforcer pinning my back suddenly barked. He felt the shift in my shoulder muscles. “He’s reaching for something under his coat!”
The goon grabbed the shoulder strap of my tank top and violently yanked me upward, rolling me onto my back. As I flipped over, my left hand came with me, pulling the black satellite device into plain view.
Damon flinched, stepping back instantly, his hands coming up in a defensive panic. He thought it was a weapon. A Glock, a knife, something lethal.
When he realized it was just a bulky, outdated-looking radio, his fear instantly transformed into a mask of cruel amusement.
My thumb found the single, large red activation button on the side of the terminal. I held it down. The screen stayed black for a terrifying second, and then a small, bright green light pulsed to life. The satellite connection was establishing.
I didn’t look at Damon. I looked straight up into the foggy sky, brought the device an inch from my bloody mouth, and spoke with a terrifying, absolute calm.
“Protocol Alpha. Lock the cage. Strip command.”
Silence hung in the heavy coastal air for three seconds.
Then Damon let out a sharp, mocking laugh that cut through the tension. “What the hell was that?” he asked, looking at his men, grinning. “Is he calling the Coast Guard? Protocol Alpha?”
Damon stepped forward, his leather shoe splashing directly into the oil puddle. He leaned down and snatched the comms device violently out of my hand. I didn't fight him for it. The message was already sent. The frequency was automated.
He held it up to the glare of the headlights, examining the thick casing.
“You really are a senile old freak, aren't you?” Damon sneered. “Playing soldier in a garage. You think some radio code is gonna summon the cavalry? I own the cops. I own the dispatch.”
He raised his arm and hurled the heavy device against the brick wall of the garage. It struck with a loud, satisfying crack, shattering the casing. Plastic and internal circuitry exploded across the pavement, skittering into the dark corners of the lot.
“There goes your backup, G.I. Joe,” Damon mocked.
He stepped over my legs and deliberately drove the heel of his shoe hard into the center of my chest. The impact wasn't enough to break ribs, but it forced all the air out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. He left his foot planted on my sternum, pressing down, establishing absolute physical dominance.
“You broke my watch band when you pushed me,” Damon said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, theatrical whisper. “You scratched my paint. And you made me look stupid in front of my guys. That means you owe me a debt, Frank. And people who owe my family don't usually breathe for very long.”
I lay there, staring up at him, breathing slowly through my nose to manage the throbbing in my left arm. The pain was distant now. A cold, mechanical detachment was taking over my brain. It was a familiar state. The state where fear died and calculation began.
“Let the boy out of the car, Damon,” I said softly. It wasn't a plea. It was a warning he lacked the capacity to understand.
“No, no, no,” Damon tutted, pressing his heel harder into my chest. “Leo is my property. He owes my father. And now, you owe me. But I’m a generous guy. I’ll let you buy his life back. Right now.”
Damon reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit. He pulled out a thick silver money clip, bulging with folded cash. He didn't pull out the hundreds. He meticulously peeled off a stack of crumpled one-dollar bills.
With a theatrical flick of his wrist, he tossed the money directly into the puddle of motor oil beside my head. The green paper soaked up the black sludge instantly.
“Pick it up,” Damon ordered, his smile turning cruel and serpentine.