“You’re pathetic,” Dax sneered, standing over me. “Look at you. You’re nothing. Just a stubborn piece of trash holding up progress.”
I didn't move. I kept my breathing slow and measured, trying to control the dark, violent instinct that was screaming at me to grab his ankle, snap the joint, and drive my thumb into his throat. No, I told myself. Martha asked you to stop. You promised her.
Seeing that I wasn't fighting back, Dax seemed to grow more infuriated by my silence. He turned and marched over to the red rolling tool cart parked near the wall. I heard the loud clatter of metal as he swept a handful of screwdrivers onto the floor. Then, he grabbed my heaviest tool—a two-foot-long solid steel pipe wrench.
Viper let out a low whistle. “Damn, Dax. Don’t kill him before he signs the paper.”
“Shut up,” Dax snapped. He walked back toward me, the heavy wrench tapping against the side of his leg.
He stopped next to my head. Without a word of warning, he raised the steel wrench and swung it downward. It struck my right shoulder with a sickening, hollow thud.
The pain was blinding. A brilliant flash of white light exploded behind my eyes, and my arm instantly went numb. The heavy steel had missed the collarbone by a fraction of an inch, striking the thick muscle of my shoulder instead. I gritted my teeth, trapping the groan in my throat. I refused to give him the satisfaction of a scream.
“I said, are you going to sign?” Dax yelled, leaning down.
When I still didn’t speak, he grabbed the collar of my thin gray mechanic’s shirt, wrapping his fist in the fabric, and hauled my torso up off the floor. I was forced to look him in the eye.
He drew his hand back and slapped me across the face. Hard. The impact snapped my neck to the side. Before I could turn back, he backhanded me across the other cheek. The sharp edge of a heavy silver ring on his index finger tore a small jagged line across my cheekbone.
I slowly turned my head back to center. I stared into his eyes. I didn't blink. I didn't show fear. I just watched him, the same way a man watches a dog that is barking too loudly.
Dax’s bravado flickered. For a split second, I saw genuine confusion in his eyes. He was used to victims begging, crying, or fighting wildly. He didn't know what to do with silence. To compensate, he dropped me. My head bounced lightly against the floor.
“You want to play the tough guy?” Dax said, his voice trembling slightly with rage. “Fine. Let’s see how tough you are.”
He walked a few feet over to where an old, wide, aluminum drain pan sat under the lift. It was filled with two inches of thick, black, used motor oil. Dax kicked the pan with his boot, sliding it across the concrete until it bumped directly against my nose. The pungent, toxic smell of the sludge was overwhelming.
Dax reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a stack of cash. They were all crumpled one-dollar bills.
He began peeling them off, dropping them one by one into the pan of black oil. The paper floated for a second before sinking into the sludge, completely ruined.
“Mr. Thorne authorized fifty grand,” Dax said, dropping another bill. “But considering the trouble you’re causing, I think the price just went down to about ten bucks.”