The Lamborghini hissed to a halt. The butterfly doors instantly swung upward.
A young man stepped out. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was wearing a pristine white silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, tailored dark slacks, and genuine crocodile-skin boots. His hair was perfectly styled, and a diamond-encrusted watch gleamed in the ambient light. But it was his eyes that caught my attention. They were completely devoid of empathy. They were the dead, flat eyes of a predator who had never once been told 'no' in his entire miserable life.
Right behind the supercar, a massive, armored black Mercedes G-Wagon roared into the lot, aggressively parking to block the only exit. The doors opened, and two men stepped out. They were huge. Enforcers. One was heavily built, older, wearing a dark suit—Gage, I would later learn. The other was a towering Russian-looking musclehead wearing a tactical jacket, moving with the practiced grace of a professional killer.
The young man in the silk shirt didn't even look at my ruined motorcycle. He stared directly at the trembling boy cowering behind my legs.
"There you are, you little rat," the young man said, his voice dripping with sadistic amusement. He casually reached behind the driver’s seat of the Lamborghini and pulled out a solid titanium baseball bat. He tapped it lightly against his palm. "I told you what would happen if you tried to run from my car, didn't I, Leo? You're making this very difficult."
"Leave him alone," I said. My voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, steady baseline. The kind of tone that usually made smart men hesitate.
The young man finally looked at me. He scanned my faded jeans, my grease-stained hands, and my weather-beaten face. A slow, arrogant smile spread across his lips.
"And who the hell are you?" he mocked, stepping forward. The two enforcers from the SUV fanned out, flanking him, creating a human wall that completely cut off any path of escape. "Some washed-up highway trash playing hero? Move aside, grandpa. The merchandise belongs to me."
"He's a child," I said, my boots planted firmly on the asphalt. "Not merchandise. Get back in your car and drive away."
The young man laughed. It was a high, thin sound. "Gage, Ivan. Secure the cargo."
The massive Russian, Ivan, lunged forward with terrifying speed. He bypassed me entirely, his huge hand snapping out and grabbing the little boy by the scruff of his shirt. Leo screamed, kicking and thrashing wildly in the air, but the Russian held him effortlessly, like a stray kitten.
"No! Please! Let me go!" Leo shrieked, his terrified eyes locking onto mine.
Ivan carried the boy to the Lamborghini, shoving him roughly—but carefully enough not to leave a visible bruise—into the backseat. The heavy door slammed shut. The electronic locks beeped. The boy slammed his fists against the tinted glass, but the sound was completely muffled.
A cold, dark switch flipped inside my chest. It was a feeling I hadn't allowed myself to feel in fifteen long years. The blood in my veins seemed to slow down. The temperature in the air felt like it dropped ten degrees.
I took one step toward the Lamborghini.
"I said," I rumbled, my voice turning to gravel, "let the boy go."
"I think you need a lesson in respect," the young man hissed, stepping directly into my path.
He gripped the titanium bat with both hands, pivoted his hips, and swung with absolutely everything he had.
I could have dodged it. My instincts screamed at me to step inside his guard, shatter his jaw, and disarm him. But Ivan and Gage were already pulling heavy, suppressed pistols from their jackets. If I moved on the kid, they would shoot me, and the boy would disappear forever. I needed them to think I was a victim. I needed them to drop their guard.
So, I stood perfectly still, and I took the hit.