CHAPTER 6: THE LEGEND OF THE IRON WRAITHS
"What exactly," Clay spoke, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest like the distant, ominous approach of an avalanche, "do you think you're doing to my bike?"
The question hung in the freezing air, heavy with unspoken menace. It wasn't a demand for an explanation; it was an indictment, a death sentence delivered in a low, gravelly monotone that echoed off the metal walls of the diner.
The tattooed thug took an involuntary half-step backward, his boots crunching loudly over the broken glass scattered across the pavement. He looked down at the single drop of blood still glistening on the blue chrome gas tank, then back up at Clay's unblinking green eyes. He knew that any wrong move, any hesitation or false bravado, would be his last.
"We didn't know it was yours, man," the tattooed thug stammered, raising his hands defensively, palms facing outward in a universal gesture of surrender. "Word on the street was that this stretch of highway was open for taking. We got orders from the upper tier to sweep the area, check for valuable transport. We swear, we didn't mean to cross the Wraiths."
"Orders from Salazar, I presume?" Clay asked, his tone dropping another octave, laden with a chilling familiarity that sent shivers down Rachel's spine from her position near the counter.
The thug's eyes widened in sudden, absolute terror. The fact that the old biker had named their employer so casually, without a shred of hesitation or fear, confirmed every terrifying rumor the cartel rookies whispered about around their campfire meetings in the dead of night. The Iron Wraiths hadn't vanished; they had simply gone to ground, waiting for the right moment to strike back.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the thug lied desperately, though his voice betrayed him completely, trembling with every syllable. "We're just freelance collectors. Let us walk away, old man. You don't want a full-scale war with the cartel over a parking lot misunderstanding."
Clay let out a harsh, dry chuckle—a sound devoid of any humor, cold and sharp as a razor blade. He stepped forward, his heavy boots crushing the glass beneath his feet with rhythmic, deliberate crunches. With every step he took, the two punks retreated another inch, until their backs were nearly pressed against the side of the building.
"A misunderstanding?" Clay repeated, his gaze narrowing as he reached down and casually rested a massive, calloused hand on the custom handlebar of his motorcycle. He stroked the polished chrome with an almost affectionate gentleness, before turning his piercing stare back to the thugs. "You break into my territory, you harass a working mother and her child inside a closed diner, and you leave your blood on my fuel tank. That’s not a misunderstanding. That’s a suicide note."
Before the tattooed thug could utter another plea for mercy, Clay moved with a terrifying speed that completely belied his age and massive frame. In a single fluid motion, he lunged forward, grabbing the younger punk in the hoodie by the collar of his jacket with one massive hand and lifting him entirely off his feet as if he weighed no more than a ragdoll.
The punk gasped, his legs kicking frantically in empty air as his hands clawed desperately at Clay’s iron-grip wrist. "Let me go! Help! Get him off me!"