I didn't care about the money. I cared about the peace. I cared about the memory of Martha sitting on the porch with a glass of iced tea. Silas Thorne was an ex-mercenary who had built a criminal empire masked as a real estate development firm. He wanted my land because it was the perfect blind spot connecting two major highways—an ideal logistics hub for his smuggling routes. I knew the signs. I knew how men like Thorne operated.
Dax’s smile vanished. His jaw tightened. “Mr. Thorne doesn’t like the word 'no,' Frank. And neither do I. I’m the guy he sends when people get confused about how the world works.”
“I understand how the world works,” I said softly, my eyes tracing the positions of the three men behind him. Viper had his hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe of my office. Brick was standing aggressively in the center of the driveway, blocking my path to the road. The third man was hovering near my tool chest. Poor tactical formation. They were relying entirely on intimidation, not strategy.
“Then you understand that you’re going to sign the deed over today,” Dax said, stepping closer. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded legal document, holding it out to me. “Sign it. Take the check. Pack your bags.”
“I’m not signing anything,” I said, keeping my hands at my sides. “You boys need to get back on those toys and ride back to whatever city you came from.”
The air seemed to freeze. Dax stared at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his anger spiked. He wasn't used to being dismissed, especially not by a tired old man in a dirty mechanic’s shirt.
“You think this is a negotiation?” Dax whispered.
Before I could blink, Dax violently shifted his weight. He didn't throw a punch. Instead, he swung his arm and hurled the heavy black full-face helmet directly at my chest like a bowling ball.
The heavy fiberglass and padded interior slammed into my sternum with the force of a battering ram. The impact knocked the wind out of me in a sudden, sharp gasp. My boots slipped on the oily concrete, and I was thrown backward, my spine crashing violently into the heavy corrugated metal of the rollup garage door.
The metal rattled like thunder. The pain shot up my back, settling in the base of my neck. I slumped forward, catching myself on one knee, gasping for the hot desert air.
“Sign the deed,” Dax demanded, his boots stepping into my peripheral vision.
I looked up at him, my breathing ragged. I could feel the adrenaline beginning to pulse through my veins, a cold, familiar chemical rush that I had spent three decades trying to bury.
“No,” I rasped.
Dax’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Wrong answer.”
The word hadn’t fully left my mouth before Dax was moving. As I stayed on one knee, trying to catch my breath from the impact of the helmet, he lunged forward. Viper and Brick stepped up immediately, closing the perimeter, boxing me into the corner of the garage between the metal door and the heavy hydraulic lift holding my Indian Chief.
Dax dropped his shoulder and drove a brutal, downward elbow squarely into the center of my back.
The force of the blow flattened me. I collapsed onto my chest, my cheek pressing against the cold, grease-stained concrete. Dust and the sharp scent of spilled gasoline filled my nose. My joints ached, protesting the sudden violence, but my mind was utterly clear. I had taken beatings that would have killed younger men. This was just pain. Pain was data. And the data told me Dax was reckless, angry, and undisciplined.