And woven through that terrible tapestry of scars, covering the entirety of my back from my neck down to my waist, was the heavy, midnight-black ink of a massive tattoo.
It was a leviathan. A gigantic, snarling Black Dragon wrapped fiercely around a rusted iron anchor. The ink was old, faded at the edges, but the design was unmistakable. It was the absolute seal of the underworld. The mark of the man who had built the West Coast smuggling empires with his bare hands.
The enforcer stared at the ink. He was young. He had probably only been in the life for a few years, long after I had stepped away. To him, the Black Dragon was just a bedtime story told by nervous old mobsters who drank too much.
He didn’t recognize the ghost sitting in front of him. He just saw a tattoo.
He let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh, running a hand through his perfectly slicked hair. He was trying to recover his swagger, trying to hide the brief flash of intimidation caused by the brutal scars.
“Look at this,” he sneered, pointing a trembling finger at my back. “A half-baked pirate tattoo. What, did you serve on a submarine in the seventies? You think drawing a cartoon dragon on your back makes you tough? You think it makes you a hero, saving damsels in distress?”
He took a step closer, raising his foot to deliver a crushing kick to my unprotected ribs. “You’re just a pathetic old piece of—”
He stopped.
He didn’t stop because of anything I said. He stopped because the puddle of dirty water near his expensive shoes was vibrating.
It wasn't a sound at first. It was a physical sensation. A deep, heavy rumble coming from the concrete beneath our feet, radiating up through the pylons of the pier. The corrugated metal walls of the shipping containers began to subtly hum, rattling against each other.
The enforcer slowly lowered his foot, turning his head toward the gated entrance of the port, a quarter of a mile away.
The low rumble was growing louder, shifting from a vibration into a heavy, mechanical roar. It sounded like a thunderstorm rolling in off the ocean, thick with thunder and fury.
He looked back at me, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his sharp face.
I pushed myself up onto my knees, ignoring the agonizing fire in my ribs. I pulled the torn edges of my leather jacket over my shoulders, keeping the Black Dragon exposed. I didn't look like a victim anymore. I looked at the enforcer the way a butcher looks at a side of beef.
“You should have kept walking, kid,” I rasped, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the wet asphalt.
The roar became deafening.
The enforcer spun around, backing away toward the safety of the Ferrari. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking pale, sick, and very, very young.
Down the main avenue of the docks, cutting through the morning fog like an armored cavalry, they arrived.