I didn't move. I just watched his eyes.
“I said pick it up, old man,” Damon repeated. “But your hands are dirty. So you’re going to use your teeth. You pick up every single dollar with your mouth, you swallow your pride, and maybe I let you live. Maybe I let the rat go.”
The enforcers chuckled, the sound low and ugly in the damp night. I could see the reflection of the headlights on the oily dollars inches from my face. I could hear Leo, his muffled sobs barely audible through the thick glass of the McLaren.
Damon thought he was breaking me. He thought he had complete control of the board.
He had absolutely no idea what the countdown clock in the sky had just started. I wasn't stalling because I was afraid. I was stalling because I needed to make sure Damon stayed exactly where he was for the next four minutes.
I shifted my jaw, tasting the blood in my mouth, and gathered the saliva pooling in my cheeks.
CHAPTER 3
“Tick tock, mechanic,” Damon taunted, removing his foot from my chest and stepping back slightly. He pointed toward the oil-soaked dollar bills. “Down on your stomach. Show my guys how a dog eats.”
I pushed myself up onto my elbows. The sharp agony in my left arm flared, but I compartmentalized it, locking it away behind the mental wall I had built decades ago. I shifted onto my knees, keeping my back straight. The oil dripped heavily from my clothes, staining the concrete beneath me.
I looked at the money. Then I looked slowly up into Damon’s sneering face.
I didn't lower my head. Instead, I leaned slightly to the right, looked down at Damon’s expensive Italian leather shoe, and forcefully spat a thick glob of blood and saliva directly onto the polished toe.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Even the enforcers froze, their chuckles dying in their throats. For two full seconds, the only sound was the distant crashing of the ocean waves against the breakwater.
Damon stared down at his shoe, his brain visibly struggling to process the extreme disrespect. When his eyes finally snapped back to mine, the arrogant amusement was completely gone. In its place was a chaotic, unhinged fury.
“Hold him!” Damon screamed, his voice breaking in pitch.
The two enforcers surged forward, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me back onto my knees, locking my arms behind me.
Damon closed the distance in a blind rage. He didn't punch me. Instead, his hands clamped onto the collar of my grease-stained gray tank top. He planted his foot and pulled with violent force. The worn fabric tore down the middle with a loud, sickening rip, shredding completely to my waist. The cold Oregon fog bit instantly into my bare chest.
Damon raised his fist, preparing to shatter my nose.
But his hand stopped mid-air.
His eyes had dropped to the center of my exposed chest.
Tattooed directly over my heart, spanning six inches across the pectoral muscle, was a faded, intricate design etched in heavy black ink. A massive eagle with its wings violently spread, its talons clutched tightly around a bleeding dagger. Beneath the talons was a precise, stenciled sequence of numbers: T-9-0-4-OMEGA.