Brick lunged forward, dropping his phone and throwing a wild, haymaker punch aimed at my jaw. I didn't retreat. I stepped inside the arc of his swing, letting his arm sail uselessly over my shoulder. I drove my left palm upward, striking him hard under the chin. His teeth snapped together, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed like a sack of wet cement.
“Get him!” Dax roared from the floor, clutching his bleeding head.
Viper and the third kid rushed me simultaneously. Viper pulled a folding knife from his belt, the blade snapping open with a sharp click. The sight of the weapon changed the rules of engagement. I no longer had to hold back.
The third kid grabbed the collar of my mechanic’s shirt from behind, trying to pull me backward so Viper could strike. I dropped my center of gravity, ignoring the tearing sound of fabric. The thin gray material of my shirt ripped violently down the center, parting wide open and hanging off my shoulders in ruined shreds.
Freed from his grip, I spun, caught the third kid by the wrist, twisted his arm sharply until a loud pop echoed through the bay, and shoved him into Viper. They both tumbled into the heavy metal side of the tool cart, knocking it over in a massive crash of scattering steel tools.
I stood in the center of the garage, breathing heavily, the torn halves of my shirt hanging uselessly at my sides.
Dax scrambled to his feet, grabbing the steel pipe wrench from the floor. He raised it, preparing to charge me again. But as he looked at me, he froze. His eyes widened, fixing on my exposed chest.
Underneath the ripped fabric of my shirt, my torso was a canvas of violence. Long, faded white surgical scars crisscrossed my ribs. Bullet graze marks marred my collarbone. But the thing Dax was staring at wasn't a scar.
It was a large, meticulously detailed tattoo inked heavily over my left pectoral muscle, directly above my heart. It depicted a pitch-black eagle with its wings spread, its talons gripping a jagged dagger dripping with stylized red blood. Beneath the eagle was a sequence of heavily codified military letters and numbers: B-O-T-1-O-M-G.
Dax lowered the wrench slightly, his chest heaving, his face contorting into a mask of nervous mockery. He pointed a trembling finger at my chest.
“What is that?” Dax sneered, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow. “You think you’re some kind of badass? Did you buy a fake temporary tattoo to scare the local kids, you psycho old man? What, are you gonna pretend you were in the military?”
I didn't answer. I just stood there, letting the desert breeze wash over my scarred skin. That tattoo was the mark of the United States Armed Forces Tier One Black Ops Taskforce. The numbers designated me as the original commanding officer of the most lethal shadow unit the government had ever assembled. A unit that didn't officially exist.
“I’m gonna cave your skull in,” Dax spat, tightening his grip on the wrench and taking a step forward. “Fake tattoos aren't going to save your—”
He was cut off by the sudden, massive crunch of gravel outside.
We all turned toward the blinding light of the driveway. A massive, heavily armored, pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided off the highway and pulled directly into my lot, stopping perfectly parallel to the gas pumps. Two black SUVs pulled in sharply behind it, completely blocking Dax’s superbikes from the exit.
The heavy doors of the SUVs opened, and six men in tailored dark suits stepped out, their hands resting cautiously near their lapels.