Thorne didn't look at Dax. He kept his eyes locked on me. He took a shaky breath, his hands visibly trembling at his sides. Slowly, deliberately, the ruthless crime boss of the western seaboard straightened his posture. He brought his right hand up in a rigid, perfect, and terrifyingly crisp military salute.
“Report... reporting, sir,” Thorne stammered, his voice cracking. “Private Silas Thorne, Third Battalion Auxiliary. B-O-T-1. Reporting to the Supreme Commander.”
The bodyguards shifted uncomfortably, staring at their boss in absolute disbelief.
I looked at Thorne. My mind reached back thirty years, cutting through the fog of memory, through the blood and the sand of classified operations that had never made the news. I remembered a young, terrified mercenary attachment unit that my Black Ops team had bailed out of a compromised extraction point in a nameless jungle. Thorne had been one of those boys. He had seen what my unit was capable of. He knew that the eagle on my chest wasn't a gang patch; it was a death sentence for anyone who stood against it.
I bent down slowly, picking up the heavy steel pipe wrench Dax had dropped.
Thorne flinched, his salute wavering slightly, but he didn't run. He knew running was useless.
I walked past Viper, who pressed his back against the wall, utterly terrified. I walked past Thorne, feeling his terrified breath catch in his throat, and stepped out into the sunlight. I stopped next to Dax, who was sitting in the gravel, spitting blood and staring up at me in horror.
I didn't raise the wrench at him. Instead, I reached over and gently tapped the heavy steel against the shiny, custom-painted gas tank of Dax’s superbike. Tink. Tink.
“Silas,” I said, keeping my voice quiet, staring at Dax.
“Sir!” Thorne shouted from behind me, still holding the salute.
“Your hounds are too loud,” I said simply. “They came into my home. They touched my things. They ruined my shirt.”
I could hear the frantic shuffling of Thorne’s boots on the concrete as he rushed up behind me. He looked down at Dax. The fear in Thorne's eyes instantly transmuted into a violent, desperate rage directed entirely at the young man who had just risked bringing the wrath of a Black Ops legend down upon his empire.
“Break his shoulders,” Thorne whispered to his bodyguards.
Dax’s eyes went wide. “Wait! Mr. Thorne! Boss, no, I didn't know—”
Two of the massive men in tailored suits stepped forward, their faces blank. They grabbed Dax by his arms, dragging him to his feet. Dax screamed, thrashing wildly, but it was useless. I turned my back, walking slowly back into the shade of the garage.
I didn't need to watch. I heard the sickening pop of cartilage tearing, followed by a high, piercing scream that echoed off the desert mountains. I heard a second pop, and the scream cut off into a breathless, sobbing gasp.