Chapter 3 - A Harvest of Fear
At 11:30 PM, the rain turned into a torrential downpour, hammering violently against the glass windows of Marcus Vance’s run-down apartment on 4th Street.
Marcus sat at his cluttered kitchen table, an empty bottle of cheap bourbon in front of him, cleaning the cylinder of a silver snub-nosed revolver. He was a large, greasy-haired man in his late thirties, with heavy shoulders and small, mean eyes.
"Stupid bitch," Marcus muttered to himself, slipping three rounds into the cylinder. "Thinks she can hide from me in some rich man's estate. I'll drag her out of there by her hair tomorrow morning."
THUD.
The heavy steel front door of his apartment didn't just open—it exploded off its hinges with a sickening metallic crunch, crashing onto the wooden floorboards in a cloud of dust and drywall.
Marcus leaped up, his hand scrambling for the revolver on the table.
Before his fingers could touch the metal, a heavy leather combat boot slammed down on his wrist, pinning his arm to the table with bone-crushing force.
"ARGH!" Marcus howled in agony, his bones creaking under the weight.
Four towering men in dark tactical gear stepped through the ruined doorway, automatic rifles held at ready positions, securing the small apartment in less than three seconds.
Then, Callum Brennan stepped inside.
Callum walked slowly, deliberately, his tailored dark coat completely dry despite the storm outside. He looked around the filthy, beer-stained apartment with disgust before bringing his icy gaze down to the terrified man pinned to the table.
"Marcus Vance," Callum said, his voice terrifyingly smooth.
"Who the hell are you?!" Marcus screamed, tears of pain leaking from his eyes as the operative pushed down harder on his crushed wrist. "Do you know who I work for?! I'm with the Moretti family! You touch me, and Don Moretti will skin you alive!"
Callum pulled a soft silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and casually wiped a speck of dust from his shoe.
"Don Moretti surrendered his regional operations to my firm at midnight yesterday," Callum said softly. "You don't work for Moretti anymore, Marcus. You don't work for anyone."
Callum gestured with his finger.
The operative lifted his boot, hauled Marcus up by his collar, and slammed him face-first onto the kitchen table.
Callum stepped closer, leaning down until his face was inches from Marcus's bleeding nose.
"You put your hands on Nola Ferris," Callum whispered.
Marcus froze, his eyes widening in sudden, terrifying realization. "Nola? That... that worthless cleaning girl? She's my fiancé! She's carrying my kid!"
Callum grabbed Marcus by the throat, his massive hand tightening like a steel vise, cutting off the man's air supply until Marcus's face turned purple, his legs kicking frantically against the floor.
"She is not your fiancé," Callum hissed into his ear, his dark eyes burning with demonic fury. "And that child will never bear your name, never see your face, and never know your wretched existence."
Callum leaned closer, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper.
"If you ever step foot within ten miles of Nola Ferris, if you ever utter her name to another living soul, or if you ever even think about her again... I will not kill you, Marcus. I will buy the prison you are sent to, and I will make sure every single day of your life is a waking nightmare."
Callum released his grip. Marcus collapsed onto the floor, gasping frantically for air, clutching his bruised throat.
Callum turned to his second-in-command, a sharp-faced man named Frank.
"The police chief has the evidence of Vance's illegal extortion activities and domestic violence charges?" Callum asked flatly.
"Everything is on the Chief's desk, Boss," Frank replied crisply. "He'll be serving twenty years without parole."
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Callum pulled a pair of dark leather gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. He looked down at Marcus one last time, his expression cold enough to freeze water.
"Take him away," Callum ordered. "And clean this room. It smells like a coward."
