Their posture is loose and practiced, like this is routine.
I stay pressed to the wall, forcing myself to catalogwhat I’m seeing even as my stomach tightens. I can handle violence, but that isn’t how I prefer to do business. Nothing about these men rings familiar. Why am I here?
My breathing stays even. I track the rise and fall of their shoulders, the spacing between them, the way they trade places without speaking. There’s no wasted movement or hesitation from these men.
One of the men has a distinct birthmark on his neck, and something about him tugs at my memory. I’ve seen his face before on the labor side of the port, tied to one of Boudreaux’s staffing contracts. Other than that, nothing stands out.
I focus on the man in the chair. His head hangs forward, chin dropped to his chest, face lost to shadow and blood. Whatever he looks like underneath it all is impossible to tell from this angle.
A low, tired sound slips out of him, more breath than voice, strained and wet. The chair creaks beneath the weight of it as he shifts weakly, barely clinging to consciousness.
Something about it tugs at me anyway. Familiar, close enough to scrape. I can’t place it yet.
The men keep circling, dragging it out, savoring every moment of their cruelty. Their fists swing hard and deliberately, each blow landing with a sickening thud.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “Let the poor bastard die already.”
I’ve been present for enough consequences to know the difference between leverage and cruelty. Whoever that man is, he’s gone. They’re not trying to break him for information. They’re breaking him for sport.
Pressure gathers low in my gut, winding tight.
I glance back toward the edge of the building,weighing the risk of calling for backup, but I know there’s no time. Whatever this is, it’s happening now, and they meant for me to see it.
The knife in one man’s hand catches the dim light as it slices through the prisoner’s shoulder, fabric and skin giving way. The man barely flinches, too far gone to give them the satisfaction.
The one with the birthmark grips the captive’s chin and jerks his head back, forcing his face into the light.
The angle is wrong at first. It’s just a partial profile, but enough to register bone structure when, before, he was just a blood-covered blob. Then I realize it’s a jaw I’ve seen across conference tables, a mouth I’ve watched tighten before making decisions that shifted entire contracts.
Almost instantly, the air in my lungs escapes, and it’s like I can’t breathe for a moment.
Blood mats his hair and streaks down the side of his face, swelling one eye nearly shut. The other is open and focused. Furious. Still alive in a way that has nothing to do with strength and everything to do with refusal.
Seeing my father like this guts me.
It’s the same look that made him untouchable in this city. The one who taught me how to hold a room without raising my voice. Seeing it here, bound, bloodied, and helpless, scrapes something raw and violent through my ribs.
My body surges forward on instinct. I lock it down just as fast.
This is real. This is happening. And if I lose control now, I lose everything.
My eyes keep working even as my pulse roars in my ears. Wrists bound. Chair bolted. Breathing shallow but measured. He’s been here longer than he should have survived.
The realization lands cold and absolute. Not disbelief. Not denial. Just a brutal, immediate knowing.
Then the man with the knife presses his thumb into a fresh wound on my father’s shoulder.
The sound he makes is low and strangled, torn out of him despite his effort to keep it in and remain stoic. There’s no pleading or bargaining.
That’s enough.
I bring the gun up and fire.
The first man falls back before he can react, more shock than precision driving the moment. The report cracks through the warehouse with finality. His body hits the floor hard and doesn’t move.
The other two spin toward the sound. Panic flashes across their faces as they scramble, hands flying for weapons that are suddenly too far away. Neither a knife nor a wire garrot will help them now.
I don’t give them time to reach their guns.
