I lay there, the sticky coffee running down my sides, my ribs burning with every shallow breath. I didn't scream. I didn't curse at her. I just burned the image of her face into my memory.
"Let him up," Karen commanded, tossing the empty plastic cup onto my chest. "He’s got a big day ahead of him. The city tow truck is coming for that eyesore of a motorcycle in two hours. And if he tries to stop them, Marcus will have him arrested for assault."
The heavy boot lifted off my back.
I didn't move immediately. I had to wait for the spasms in my back muscles to subside. Slowly, agonizingly, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The world tilted sideways for a moment. I gripped my left side, feeling the unnatural movement under the skin.
"Get off my property," Karen said, turning her back to me and walking toward her front door. "And Arthur? Pack your bags. I've already filed the paperwork with the city. Your house is going up for a forced HOA auction next Friday."
I froze on my hands and knees.
A forced auction. That was impossible. You couldn't force a home into auction unless there were tens of thousands of dollars in unpaid liens. I owned my house free and clear. I had never missed a tax payment.
I looked up at Marcus. The lead guard was watching me, a sickening grin on his face. He patted a thick manila folder tucked into the side pocket of his tactical pants.
In that moment, the clue clicked into place. The excessive fines, the constant harassment, the private security. Karen hadn't just been fining me. She and Apex Patrol had been manufacturing thousands of dollars in fake violations—structural damages, toxic waste dumping, code violations—and pushing them through a corrupt HOA board she controlled. She needed my lot. She was trying to steal my home to build her expansion.
"Move," Marcus barked, stepping toward me with the baton raised.
I pulled my torn shirt together, struggling to my feet. Every step was a fresh wave of torture, my left leg dragging slightly as I forced myself to walk back across the property line. I passed the ruined Harley, the water still dripping from its engine, and walked into my dark, empty garage.
I hit the button to close the garage door, the heavy wooden panels sliding down to shut out the bright morning sun, leaving me alone in the dim light, bleeding, sticky, and completely cornered.
CHAPTER 3
The inside of my garage was silent, smelling of motor oil, old wood, and memories. The moment the heavy door touched the concrete floor, sealing me off from the outside, the adrenaline that had been keeping me upright suddenly evaporated.
I collapsed against my heavy steel workbench, gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles turned white. I let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded more like a groan. My left side felt like it was on fire. I managed to strip off the torn, coffee-soaked work shirt, tossing it into a greasy rag bin.
I walked over to the small utility mirror hanging above the sink. The entire left side of my torso, just below the flaming skull tattoo, was already blooming into a horrifying shade of dark purple and black. Marcus hadn't just bruised me. At least two ribs were fractured, maybe fully broken.
I opened the first-aid kit mounted on the wall, pulled out a wide roll of athletic tape, and spent the next ten minutes in agonizing, breath-holding silence, tightly binding my ribcage. It wouldn't fix the bones, but it would keep them from shifting and puncturing a lung every time I moved.
Once I was taped up, I sat heavily in my rolling mechanic’s chair.
My mind was racing, connecting the pieces of the puzzle Karen had just laid out. A forced HOA auction next Friday.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed a number I hadn’t called in six months. It rang three times before a gruff voice answered.
"Mike," I said, my voice tight. "I need a favor."
Mike was a retired city detective, an old friend who spent his days fishing and complaining about the department.
"Arthur? You sound like you swallowed glass. What's wrong?"
"Apex Patrol," I said, wincing as I leaned forward. "The private security firm working in Oak Creek. I need you to run the name Marcus, the lead guy. Shaved head, about six-foot-three."
There was the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background. "Apex... yeah, I know them. They're not a real security firm, Arthur. They lost their state licensing two years ago. They operate as 'private consultants' to get around the background checks. Half their guys have jackets for aggravated assault and extortion. Why?"