She caught me off guard! Marcus yelled, ripping the bloody tape from his knuckles. She’s some kind of psycho! She had Julian’s watch, Ramos! She had his actual field watch! The one Dad said was lost in the river when Julian got ambushed!
Ramos’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. The faint smirk on his face vanished completely, replaced by an icy, dangerous stillness. She showed you the watch?
Yes! Marcus shouted, stepping closer. The crystal was cracked. His name was on the back. She said she was his commander! She said Julian didn’t die because of some rookie mistake. She said Dad lied to me!
Ramos exchanged a swift, chilling glance with the two men behind him. Neither of them moved, but their postures instantly tightened.
Your dad didn’t lie to you, kid, Ramos said softly, his voice dropping into a tone that was far too calm. Julian was weak. He got sentimental about things that didn’t concern him, and he got what was coming to him. Now, this Callaway woman… she came here thinking she could shake down your family. She thinks that watch gives her leverage.
Leverage for what? Marcus demanded, breathing hard. What the hell is going on, Ramos? What was Julian mixed up in?
Don’t worry your pretty head about business, boy, Ramos said, clapping a heavy, calloused hand onto Marcus’s shoulder with enough force to make him wince. Your dad sent us to solve the problem. Clean. Permanent. We’re going to pay Coach Callaway a visit at the campus athletic complex. She’s still there, setting up her office for tomorrow morning.
Marcus pulled away from the grip, his brow furrowing. Wait. A visit? Dad told me he was going to have her fired. He said he was calling the district attorney.
Ramos chuckled—a dry, rattling sound from the back of his throat. Your dad plays the political game when the sun is up, Marcus. But when someone threatens the family business, we don’t wait for the lawyers. We take back what belongs to us.
You’re going to hurt her, Marcus said. A sudden, strange knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Dana humiliated. He wanted to knock her out on the mat in front of the entire student body and reclaim his status. But the look in Ramos’s eyes wasn’t about athletic pride. It was the look of a butcher heading into an abattoir.
We’re going to retrieve Julian’s watch, Ramos corrected, tapping his leather jacket where the unmistakable outline of a compact pistol pressed against his ribs. And then we’re going to ensure Miss Callaway suffers a tragic, fatal training accident in that empty gym. An unfortunate slip on the high bars. A dropped barbell across the throat. Tragedies happen in weight rooms all the time.
Marcus froze. No. That’s too far. Dad wouldn’t order a hit on a teacher—
Your dad ordered it twenty minutes ago, Ramos barked, stepping into Marcus’s space, his dead eyes boring into the young fighter. And you’re coming with us. Because you need to prove you have the stomach for this empire. You want to run Vance Logistics one day? You want the cars, the money, the local judges in your pocket? Then you watch how real men handle threats. Or you can stay here, wrap your little hands, and cry about your viral video.
Marcus swallowed hard. The intoxicating arrogance that usually flowed through his veins suddenly felt like cold poison. He looked at the blood on his hands, then at Ramos’s cruel, scarred face.
I’m coming, Marcus whispered.
Good boy, Ramos said, turning toward the rusted metal exit. Let’s go teach the new coach a lesson about tenure.
Across town, a violent autumn storm had finally broken over Ridgefield. Rain lashed against the towering, multi-paned windows of the campus fieldhouse, rattling the ancient steel frames. Thunder groaned in the distance, vibrating through the polished hardwood floors of the empty basketball court.
Inside the athletic department’s secondary office, Dana Callaway sat alone under the harsh glare of a single desk lamp. The rest of the vast building was dark, bathed in deep blue shadows cast by the flashes of lightning outside.
On the desk in front of her lay Julian Vance’s military watch. Beside it was a micro-screwdriver set, a pair of tweezers, and an encrypted military-grade laptop she had retrieved from beneath the spare tire of her pickup truck.
With steady, surgical precision, Dana unscrewed the back plate of the scarred field watch. Beneath the battery housing lay a modified cavity, no larger than a grain of corn. Using the tweezers, she lifted out a paper-thin, black micro-SD card coated in industrial waterproofing resin.
