Eleanor lowered her eyes and began fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.
“No, the checks come. It’s just… we have a new tax in town.”
“A tax?” Mike frowned. “The county raised the rates?”
“I wish,” she sighed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s Butch Miller. You remember him? He used to be a bully back in high school, shaking down kids for lunch money. Now they call him ‘The Hog.’ He’s got a crew of thugs. They’ve taken over everything—the local hardware store, the diner, even us seniors. He says we have to pay for ‘community security.’”
“Security from what?” Mike’s voice turned cold.
“From him,” she said bitterly. “If you don’t pay, your windows get smashed, or your livestock goes missing. Old Mr. Henderson lost his prize bull last month because he couldn’t make the payment.”
Mike clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. So, while he was locked up for protecting someone, a parasite had moved in back home.
“How much does he take?”
“Nearly half the check, Mike. Every month on the fifth, his boys drive around. Tomorrow is the fifth.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Mike stood up and walked to the window. The sun was dipping below the tree line. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m home now. Go get some sleep.”
He didn’t sleep well. Mike lay on the old twin bed, listening to the wind. The instincts he’d honed in the service and hardened in prison wouldn’t let him relax. He knew men like Butch. They were scavengers. They were only strong when they had the numbers and the victim was afraid.
The morning didn’t start with birdsong, but with the roar of a modified engine. A black, tinted SUV pulled into the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust. Three men climbed out. Two were young, thick-necked guys in gym shorts and hoodies, chewing gum with vacant expressions. The third was older, wearing a heavy gold chain and a tracksuit. He wasn’t the boss; he was just the bagman.
Mike stepped out onto the porch. He was wearing a plain t-shirt and work pants, barefoot and appearing relaxed. But the spring inside him was coiled tight.
“Alright, Eleanor, you know the drill!” the older one shouted, not even looking at Mike. “Let’s get the envelope moving. We’ve got a long day.”
His mother started toward the door, clutching a small stack of bills. Mike put a hand out to stop her.
“Keep it, Mom. Nobody’s getting a dime today.”
He stepped down the porch stairs and stood in front of the men. They looked at each other and laughed.
“Well, look at this. A hero,” the bagman sneered, spitting on the grass. “Who are you, pal? The nephew? You looking for trouble?”
“I’m her son,” Mike said evenly. “And I live here. You three, on the other hand, are trespassing. Get back in your truck and leave. If I see you in this town again, we’re going to have a problem.”
The laughter stopped. The bagman stepped closer, trying to loom over Mike, but Mike didn’t flinch.
“Listen, tough guy. You clearly don’t know how things work around here. This is Butch’s town. Every house pays its dues. And for that attitude, you’re gonna pay a surcharge. In blood.”
One of the younger guys stepped forward, swinging a baseball bat he’d been hiding behind his leg. The move was fast, but to Mike, it looked like it was happening in slow motion. He stepped inside the arc, grabbed the guy’s wrist, and delivered a short, sharp strike to the solar plexus. The kid gasped, dropped the bat, and crumpled. The second one tried to pull a knife, but Mike caught him with a brutal leg sweep that sent him face-first into the dirt.
The bagman backed away, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. He hadn’t expected a fight from a “country boy.”
“You… you’re dead! You have no idea who you’re messing with! Butch is gonna bury you!”
“Tell your boss…” Mike’s voice was low, but it carried. “Tell him the bank is closed. If I see any of you near my mother’s house or any other senior in this town, I won’t be this gentle. Now get out.”
He picked up the bat and slammed it into the ground near the bagman’s feet. The man jumped, scrambled to help his groaning associates into the SUV, and tore out of the driveway, nearly taking the mailbox with him.
Eleanor stood on the porch, pale as a ghost.
“Mike, what have you done? They’ll come back. They’ll burn the place down!”
“Don’t be scared.” He went up and hugged her. “I’m here. I’ll handle it.”
The day passed in a tense wait. Mike knew this was just the opening act. Men like Butch didn’t tolerate being embarrassed. He walked the perimeter of the property, checked the locks, and filled several buckets with water. He found an old axe in the shed and spent an hour sharpening it. He didn’t plan on using it for wood.
Night fell quickly. The town went dark, with only a few dim porch lights visible in the distance. Mike didn’t sleep. He sat on the porch in the shadows, listening. Around 2:00 AM, he heard the crunch of gravel near the back garden, followed by the unmistakable smell of gasoline.
Mike moved like a shadow. He rounded the corner of the house and saw a figure dousing the side of the shed from a jerry can. A lighter flickered. A flame caught, licking at the dry wood.
“Not tonight,” Mike muttered. He covered the distance in two strides and tackled the arsonist. The man flew into a patch of blackberry bushes.
The shed was already catching. Mike grabbed a pre-positioned bucket and doused the flames before they could climb. He threw another for good measure. He’d caught it just in time.
The arsonist tried to crawl away, but Mike’s heavy boot landed on the tail of his jacket.
“Where are you going?”
