Chapter 6 - A Message in Blood and Steel
Chad Kensington was hiding in his multi-million-dollar penthouse overlooking Oakwood Bay. The power had been cut to the building’s elevators, the air conditioning was dead, and the floor-to-ceiling windows rattled against an incoming coastal thunderstorm.
Chad was sitting on his imported Italian sofa, clutching a 9mm pistol in his trembling, sweat-slicked hands. His father had been arrested three hours ago at the country club. His bank accounts were empty. His sports cars had been towed away by federal marshals.
“It’s not fair,” Chad muttered to himself repeatedly, rocking back and forth. “We own this town. We own everything.”
CRACK.
The reinforced steel security door of the penthouse didn't just unlock; it blew inward with the force of a controlled hydraulic breaching ram.
Chad screamed, jumping to his feet and raising the handgun with both hands. “Stay back! I’ll shoot! I swear to God I’ll shoot!”
Through the smoke and dust walked Marcus Hayes.
Marcus was clad in full matte-black tactical gear, an unyielding wall of muscle and combat experience. He didn't even draw his weapon. He simply walked directly toward the barrel of the gun.
Chad pulled the trigger in a panic.
CLICK.
Nothing happened. Chad looked down in horror. The magazine had been remotely released by an electromagnetic disruptor device Marcus had planted on the outer wall thirty seconds prior. The ammunition clip dropped harmlessly to the hardwood floor.
Before Chad could scream again, Marcus closed the distance in a fraction of a second. His massive hand locked around Chad’s throat, lifting the two-hundred-pound college athlete completely off his feet and slamming him against the reinforced concrete wall.
Chad gasped for air, his legs kicking frantically in the empty space below.
“You like hitting people who can’t fight back, don’t you, Chad?” Marcus said, his voice as steady as granite.
From the hallway, I stepped into the penthouse.
Chad’s wide, terrified eyes locked onto mine. He recognized me immediately from the hospital room.
“Mr... Mr. Sterling...” Chad wheezed through his constricted windpipe. “Please... it was Wyatt’s idea... Wyatt told us to do it!”
“Put him down, Marcus,” I instructed.
Marcus released his grip. Chad collapsed to the floor in a coughing, gasping heap, clutching his throat while tears of pure terror streamed down his cheeks.
I walked over and crouched down directly in front of him. I pulled out my phone and displayed a single photograph: Chloe’s face on the hospital bed, wired shut, swollen, surrounded by trauma monitors.
“Look at her,” I ordered.
Chad shook his head, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“I said, LOOK AT HER!”
My voice echoed through the concrete penthouse like a thunderclap. Chad flinched violently, forcing his tear-filled eyes to look at the image of the girl he had brutalized.
“Six fractures,” I told him, each word landing like a lead weight. “She had to undergo four hours of reconstructive surgery this morning. The doctors had to insert titanium plates into her jaw because your boots shattered her bone into fragments.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want!” Chad sobbed, groveling at my boots. “My dad will pay you! Just don’t kill me!”
“Your father is currently in a federal holding cell, Chad. He doesn't have a penny left. And I’m not going to kill you.”
Chad looked up, a faint flicker of pathetic hope entering his eyes. “You... you aren’t?”
“No,” I replied softly. “Death is an escape. You are going to stand trial in federal court. You are going to plead guilty to every single charge. And you are going to spend the next fifteen years of your life inside a maximum-security penitentiary, knowing that every time you look in the mirror, it was a father who put you there.”
Marcus reached down, pulled Chad up by his collar, and dragged him toward the balcony. Waiting below in the street were four state police cruisers, their red-and-blue lights flashing in the rain. Chief Briggs wasn't there to save him. The DA wasn't there to dismiss the charges.
May you like
Chad was handcuffed to the outer railing, left completely exposed for the entire city and every media helicopter to see.
“One down,” Marcus said, wiping the rain from his face as we headed for the stairs. “Two to go.”
