The old paper mill loomed against the darkening sky, its broken windows like empty eye sockets. Malik’s footsteps echoed on the cracked pavement as he approached the loading dock where Kenny and Cole waited. Their letterman jackets glowed red in the sunset. “Look who showed up,” Kenny called out, his smile too wide. Cole lounged against a rusty rail, trying to look casual.
Malik stayed by the corner, keeping space between them. His boxing training screamed danger. Their body language was wrong, too relaxed for guys who’d been humiliated in class. “What do you want?” Malik asked, scanning the shadows behind them. “To talk,” Kenny said, spreading his hands. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.” “Yeah,” Cole added. “All this drama over a stupid desk? Let’s work something out.”
Malik’s muscles tensed as they tried to circle closer. He shifted his weight, keeping both in view. “There’s nothing to work out. You attacked me, got caught, and now you’re trying to cover it up.” Kenny’s fake smile vanished. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Coming here with your fancy clothes and your attitude. Running to daddy when things get tough?” Cole sneered. “Like you didn’t run to yours?” Malik shot back. “At least my father doesn’t hide behind a badge while—”
A scrape of boots on metal cut him off. Dark shapes emerged from the mill’s shadowy doorways. Large men in leather vests with patches showing crossed axes. Iron Guard patches. Malik recognized them from town, the bikers Sheriff Benton used for unofficial work. “Crap,” Malik muttered, backing up. He counted five men, all built like brick walls. Kenny’s smirk turned ugly. “Not so tough now, huh?”
The first biker lunged. Malik ducked the grab, driving an elbow into ribs. His boxing training took over. Slip. Strike. Move. He caught another with a hard right to the jaw, but there were too many. A massive arm locked around his throat from behind. Malik drove his heel down, broke free, but took a crushing blow to his ribs. He staggered, gasping.
Two more grabbed his arms. Pain exploded in his shoulder as they wrenched it back. A fist like a hammer smashed into his stomach. Another cracked across his jaw. Through blurring vision, he saw Kenny and Cole watching. Their faces lit with mean satisfaction.
Then the night erupted in new violence. Three figures materialized from the darkness like avenging angels. Gio moved with terrifying grace, his expensive suit rippling as he broke the nearest biker’s arm with a single sharp twist. The crack echoed off the mill walls. Gio’s men were just as efficient. One swept a biker’s legs, driving him face-first into the concrete. The other caught a wild punch and turned it into a throw that sent two hundred pounds of leather-clad muscle flying.
Malik slumped against the wall, tasting blood. Gio’s knee found another attacker’s solar plexus with surgical precision. The man folded like paper. Kenny and Cole tried to run, but Gio’s men cut them off. “Touch my son again,” Gio said, his voice colder than the river in winter, “and there won’t be enough left of you to—”
Police sirens split the air. Red and blue lights strobed across the mill’s weathered walls. Sheriff Benton emerged from his cruiser, deputies fanning out behind him. “Well, well,” Benton drawled, taking in the scene with obvious satisfaction. “Looks like we caught ourselves a mobster threatening minors.” “They jumped my son,” Gio said quietly. “That’s not how these fine citizens tell it.” Benton nodded to the bikers picking themselves up. “They say you came here looking for trouble, making threats.”