I stumbled backward, desperately trying to keep my footing, but there was nothing underneath me. I fell hard, my shoulder blades smashing against the damp, corrugated steel of a red shipping container. The impact knocked the wind out of my lungs in a violent rush. I slid down the rough metal wall, hitting the wet cement with a heavy thud.
I gasped for air, clutching my ruined shin. The pain was radiating in agonizing waves, making the edges of my vision go dark. I tried to push myself up on one knee, to get back into the fight, but my body refused to obey.
The enforcer stood over me, lightly tapping the heavy steel wrench against the palm of his left hand. A slow, cruel smile crept across his perfectly shaved face.
“You should have kept walking, old man,” he said. His voice was smooth, educated, and dripping with condescension. “You have absolutely no idea whose property you’re interfering with.”
He didn't give me time to process the words. He closed the distance in two quick strides.
I tried to raise my arms to defend myself, but he was already on top of me. He kicked my left arm away, grabbing my right wrist and violently twisting it behind my back. The old rotator cuff tore, a sharp spike of pain shooting through my shoulder. He grabbed my heavy leather jacket by the collar, hauling me up just enough to forcefully shove me face-down onto the freezing, oil-stained concrete.
The side of my face hit the wet asphalt hard. The smell of diesel fuel and old fish flooded my nose.
Before I could even attempt to brace myself, the enforcer dropped his weight. He drove his knee squarely into the center of my spine, pinning me completely flat against the ground. The pressure was immense. He leaned forward, wrenching my arms higher up my back, stretching the joints right to the absolute limit of breaking.
Every breath I tried to take was shallow and sharp. The cold dampness of the concrete was seeping into my cheek. I could hear the engine of the Ferrari idling quietly nearby. I could hear the muffled, frantic sobs of the little girl trapped behind the heavy glass.
“You think you’re a hero?” the young man whispered, leaning his face down close to my ear. He smelled of expensive cologne and peppermint. “You’re just a pathetic old mechanic who doesn’t know his place. You’re nothing.”
He pushed his knee harder into my spine, grinding my face into the dirt.
My heart was hammering against the cold concrete. The pain in my leg was severe, and my shoulder felt like it was on fire. I was pinned, helpless, and bleeding into the asphalt.
But as I lay there, staring sideways at the puddle of dirty water reflecting the gray Seattle sky, the panic in my chest began to evaporate. The old man who fixed motorcycles was gone.
The beast in the basement had finally broken the lock.
CHAPTER 2
The pressure on my spine was agonizing. Every time I tried to draw a breath, the heavy fabric of my leather jacket constricted, pulling tight across my chest while the young man’s knee dug deeper between my vertebrae. The cold, wet concrete leached the warmth from my cheek. A few feet away, the Ferrari idled with a smooth, expensive purr, completely indifferent to the muffled, terrified crying of the little girl locked inside.
“Listen to me, you old piece of trash,” the enforcer said, his voice dropping to a menacing, conversational murmur near my ear. He tightened his grip on my wrists, pulling them an inch higher. A sharp spike of pain shot through my torn rotator cuff. “I don’t know what kind of fantasy you’re living in, but this city belongs to Marcus Thorne now. The docks, the warehouses, the cargo—it’s all his. If you had just minded your own business and gone back to the gutter, you might have lived to see noon.”
Marcus Thorne.
The name echoed in my head, cutting through the pain. I knew of Marcus. He was a new player, an arrogant upstart who had moved into the city’s power vacuum about three years ago, snapping up the shipping logistics, extorting the unions, and apparently, based on the terrified girl in the car, dabbling in human trafficking. He thought he had conquered the West Coast. He thought he was untouchable.