"No," Julian said, his voice hardening as his ego demanded total control. He looked down at me with renewed malice. "No one talks to me like that. No one threatens my family. Pick him up."
Ivan grabbed me by my broken shoulder and hauled me roughly to my knees. The agony flared again, white and sharp, but I locked my eyes onto Julian Vance.
I knew he thought he had won. I knew he believed his money and his father's name made him a god. But he didn't realize that the timer had already started. The signal had been sent. And hell was already riding down the highway.
CHAPTER 3
The gravel bit deeply into my bare knees. Ivan’s massive, vice-like hands clamped down on both of my shoulders, ensuring I couldn't move. The pain from my shattered left collarbone was agonizing, radiating down to my fingertips, but I forced my breathing to remain slow and even. I looked up. Julian Vance stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the sleek, neon-green hood of his Lamborghini.
Through the tinted rear window of the supercar, I could see little Leo. The boy’s face was pressed against the glass, his eyes wide with horror as he watched me bleed. He was sobbing, his small fists weakly hitting the window. Julian wasn't paying any attention to the kid. His entire focus, entirely fueled by his bruised, psychotic ego, was locked onto me.
"I really hate it when trash doesn't know its place," Julian said, shaking his head slowly. He stepped closer, the sharp click of his crocodile-skin boots echoing in the quiet desert night. "My father always told me that the lower classes have a problem with authority. You people think you have dignity. You think suffering makes you noble."
Julian stopped right in front of me. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of my gray hair, violently yanking my head back so I was forced to look up at his flawless, smirking face.
"You aren't noble," Julian hissed. "You're a loser. And I want you to apologize to my car. I want you to beg for your miserable life before I leave you out here for the buzzards."
Julian suddenly drove his hand to the back of my neck, applying vicious pressure, trying to force my face down into the dirt. "Eat the dirt, old man. Eat it and say you're sorry."
My muscles screamed in protest, but I locked my spine. I pushed back against his leverage. For a second, the spoiled billionaire’s son struggled to force a sixty-eight-year-old wounded man to the ground. His face flushed red with embarrassment and fury as he realized he couldn't physically dominate me on his own.
"Ivan! Put him down!" Julian screamed.
The Russian enforcer drove a heavy knee into my lower back and slammed his immense weight against my shoulders. The combined force was too much. I collapsed forward, my face smashing into the rough, oily asphalt. Dust and grit filled my mouth.
Julian laughed loudly, a shrill, ugly sound. "There it is. Right where you belong. You're nothing but a dirty, worthless biker."
I slowly turned my head, spitting a mouthful of bloody gravel onto his expensive boots. I looked up at him, my eyes completely dead, completely devoid of the fear he was so desperately trying to extract from me.
"You're going to die tonight, Julian," I said softly.
Julian’s laughter stopped instantly. The sheer, unwavering certainty in my voice hit him like a physical blow. He hated it. He hated that he had broken my bones, tased me, and forced me into the dirt, and yet he still felt small standing in front of me. His arrogant composure finally snapped.
"Let's see how tough you are when I strip you down like a dog!" Julian screamed.
He lunged forward, grabbing both sides of the heavy, reinforced leather jacket I had worn for the last thirty years. The jacket was layered over a thick flannel shirt. With a primal yell of frustration, Julian yanked backward with all his strength.
The heavy snaps popped like gunshots. The thick fabric of the flannel tore violently down the middle, completely ripping open my chest to the cold desert air.