Karen stepped out, the red silk dress shimmering in the sun. But she wasn't alone.
Three men stepped out of the massive entryway behind her. They were all in their thirties, broad-shouldered, carrying heavy muscle mass. They wore matching black tactical uniforms. Cargo pants, tight black polos, heavy utility belts, and thick tactical boots. They looked like SWAT officers, but their shoulders lacked any city patches. Instead, they wore silver shield pins that read Apex Patrol.
Karen had hired them three months ago, claiming the neighborhood needed "enhanced security" from package thieves. Everyone knew the truth. She used HOA funds to pay a private firm to intimidate anyone who crossed her.
"Get off my property, Arthur," Karen said, her voice dripping with venom.
"You’re paying for the damage to my bike," I said, stopping at the bottom of the porch stairs. I didn't look at the guards. I kept my eyes locked on her. "You deliberately aimed that hose. I want your insurance information."
"I feel threatened," Karen said loudly, her voice entirely devoid of fear. She glanced back at the lead guard, a tall man with a shaved head and cold, dead eyes. "Marcus, I am being threatened by a trespasser."
Marcus didn't hesitate. He didn't ask me to leave. He didn't issue a warning.
He simply stepped down the stairs, unclipping a heavy, solid black rubber baton from his belt.
"Time to go, old man," Marcus said.
"I'm not leaving until she takes responsibility for what she just did to my property," I replied, holding my ground. I wasn't looking for a physical fight. I was sixty-eight years old, and my knees ached when it rained. But I wasn't going to be bullied off a doorstep.
Marcus closed the distance faster than a man his size should have been able to.
I barely registered the movement of his shoulder before the black rubber baton came blurring through the air.
He didn't swing for my arm or my leg. He swung the heavy rubber club directly into my left ribcage.
The impact sounded like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot. The pain was instantaneous and absolute—a blinding flash of white agony that exploded through my chest and radiated down my spine. The air was violently forced from my lungs in a harsh gasp.
My legs gave out completely. I collapsed onto Karen's perfectly manicured lawn, my hands instinctively flying to my left side. I tried to pull in a breath, but the shattered ribs ground together, sending another wave of sickening pain through my nervous system.
"Grab him," Marcus ordered.
The two supporting guards stepped off the porch. They didn't try to help me up. They didn't try to escort me away. One of them grabbed my left shoulder, hauling me halfway up just so the other could drive his knee directly into my stomach.
I folded over, choking on nothing, tasting copper in the back of my throat.
The first guard shoved me hard. I fell flat onto my stomach, my face pressing into the damp grass. Before I could even attempt to roll over, a heavy tactical boot stepped directly onto the center of my back, right between my shoulder blades. The guard pressed his weight down, pinning me to the earth like a trapped animal.
"I told you," Karen’s voice floated through the ringing in my ears. I could hear the sharp click-clack of her high heels coming down the concrete stairs. "You don't belong here anymore, Arthur."
CHAPTER 2
The pressure on my back was immense. The guard wearing the heavy tactical boots shifted his weight, digging the stiff rubber tread deeper into my spine. Every time I tried to inhale, my fractured left ribs screamed, sending sharp, jagged spikes of pain straight to my heart.
I kept my cheek pressed against the damp Bermuda grass, my hands gripping fistfuls of dirt. I couldn't fight three men in their prime, not at my age, and certainly not with broken ribs. I just had to survive the next few minutes.
The click-clack of Karen's heels moved off the concrete and stepped onto the grass, stopping inches from my face.
I opened my eyes, squinting against the harsh Texas sunlight. Her bright red designer shoes were spotless, save for one tiny, singular drop of brown mud resting on the pointed toe of her left heel—a drop created when she had blasted my driveway.
"Look what you made me do," Karen said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of the screaming hysterics she had used moments earlier. It was the voice of a woman who was entirely used to getting whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.