“Protocol 50?” he repeated, his laughter echoing off the steel shipping containers. “What is this, a spy movie? You’re calling in an airstrike, grandpa?”
He stepped his foot off my spine, hauling me up by the collar of my jacket just enough to force me onto my knees. I swayed, clutching my injured shin, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The enforcer walked a few paces away, stopping next to a massive, rusted iron ship anchor that was chained to a concrete piling. He looked at the watch, then looked back at me with a sneer of absolute disgust.
“You old men are all the same,” he spat. “You watch too much television. You think because you wear a leather jacket, you command respect. You command nothing. You’re pathetic.”
He raised his arm and smashed the antique pocket watch face-down against the rusted iron anchor.
The intricate gold casing shattered instantly. Glass, gears, and the delicate green microchip exploded into dozens of tiny pieces, scattering across the wet pavement. The heavy mechanism was reduced to useless scrap metal in a fraction of a second.
My chest tightened. That watch had belonged to my mentor. It was the last physical tie I had to the man who had saved my life forty years ago. But the transmission had already gone through. The machine was in motion.
The enforcer dropped the twisted remains of the casing into a dirty puddle at his feet. He turned back to me, the amusement gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, simmering rage. He didn’t like that I had tried to resist. He didn't like that I had spoken with authority.
He walked calmly back to where I was kneeling on the wet asphalt. He dropped the heavy steel wrench onto the hood of his Ferrari with a loud clatter. He didn't need it anymore. He wanted to feel this with his own hands.
Before I could brace myself, he grabbed the front of my jacket, pulling me forward. He pulled his right arm back and drove a savage, professional punch directly into my lower ribs.
The impact was brutal. A sickening pop echoed in my ears as the cartilage gave way. The breath exploded from my lungs in a violent rush.
I doubled over, gagging for air, but he didn't let me fall. He held me up by the heavy leather collar and drove a second, equally devastating punch into the exact same spot on my ribcage.
White light exploded behind my eyes. I hit the ground hard, rolling onto my side, clutching my chest. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass. My vision swam, the looming red and blue shipping containers blurring into abstract shapes against the gray sky.
The enforcer stood over me, adjusting his immaculate cuffs. He wasn't even breathing hard.
“Total wipeout,” he mocked, nudging my injured ribs gently with the toe of his expensive leather shoe, causing another jolt of agonizing pain. “Look around, old man. No one is coming for you. No one even knows you’re here. You’re going to die on this dock, and I’m going to take the merchandise to Marcus.”
I coughed, a thin line of saliva running down my chin. I lay on the wet cement, listening to the agonizing silence of the docks.
He was right about one thing. No one was here yet.
But I knew the Black Dragon network. I knew the men who still wore my brand on their skin. The signal had been received.
All I had to do was survive the next five minutes.