“I said put the items back and wait your turn. Like a civilized human being.”
The second thug, who had been leaning against the door, straightened up and reached into his waistband.
“Wait, this is the guy Lefty was talking about,” he whispered. “The one from the farmhouse.”
“Oh, the hero,” the first one sneered, stepping away from the counter.
Mike didn’t give them a chance to set their feet. He moved with explosive speed. He kicked the first man’s shin, and as the guy buckled, Mike delivered a palm strike to his chin that sent him reeling. The second one lunged, but Mike pivoted, caught the man’s momentum, and slammed him into a display of canned soup. The shelves collapsed in a roar of tumbling metal.
Mike grabbed the first guy by the collar and hauled him toward the door.
“Take your friend and get out,” Mike said, tossing him onto the sidewalk. “And tell Butch the free ride is over. From now on, his boys pay full price, just like everyone else.”
When he turned back, the store was still silent. Then, a few people started to nod. A few whispered “thank you.”
“They’ll burn the store down, Mike,” Mrs. Gable whispered, wiping her eyes.
“They won’t have the chance,” Mike promised. “Mrs. Gable, where do they hang out? Besides the old lumber mill?”
“The old co-op garage on the edge of town,” she whispered. “That’s where they keep their trucks and the stuff they take from people. Nobody goes near it.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
Outside, Mike saw a kid about twelve years old watching him from behind a tree. It was Billy, the neighbor’s boy.
“Mr. Mike! That was awesome! You went bam-bam and they were down!” Billy’s eyes were wide with hero worship.
“Billy, I need a favor,” Mike said, kneeling down. “You’re fast, and you know this town. I need to know exactly what kind of cars are at that garage and how many guys are guarding it at night. Can you do that without being seen? Like a ghost?”
“I’m a ninja, Mr. Mike!” Billy grinned. “I’ll find out everything.”
“Be careful. Don’t let them see you. It’s a secret mission.”
By sunset, Billy was back at Mike’s house, out of breath.
“Mr. Mike, they got three big SUVs. A black Mercedes and two Toyotas. And a big flatbed truck they use for hauling stolen gear. There’s only two guys guarding it, and they’re mostly drinking beer in the office. They got a dog, but he’s old and sleeps in the back.”
“Good work, soldier,” Mike said, handing him a candy bar. “Now go home and stay inside. Don’t tell anyone we talked.”
That night, Mike went to work. He didn’t use a gun. He used the environment. He slipped through the overgrown orchards behind the co-op garage. He found a hole in the chain-link fence and slid through.
The guards were exactly where Billy said they’d be—inside the office, laughing at a loud TV. Mike approached the vehicles. Three high-end SUVs, symbols of the gang’s stolen wealth.
He pulled a small bag of sugar from his pocket. It was an old-school trick, but effective. He unscrewed the gas caps and poured a generous amount into each tank. Once that sugar hit the fuel injectors, those engines would be scrap metal within miles.
Next, he went to the tires. He didn’t slash them; that was too obvious. He used a small tool to slightly loosen the valve stems. The air would leak slowly. They’d wake up, see the tires look okay, drive off, and be stranded on the highway twenty minutes later with four flats and a seized engine.
Before leaving, he peeked into the garage. It was filled with stolen property—generators, lawnmowers, even a few antique dressers wrapped in blankets. In the corner were several cans of gasoline.
He was tempted to light it all up, but that wasn’t his way. That was чужое добро—other people’s property. Instead, he found the main electrical box. With a pair of heavy-duty snips, he cut the main lines and shorted the breakers. The garage went dark, and the smell of ozone filled the air. The security system and the lights were dead.
The next morning, the town was buzzing. Butch’s fleet was dead on the side of the road. The engines had seized up, and the tires were flat. The “Hog” was stranded in his mansion, and his men were furious. The fear in the town was beginning to turn into something else: hope.
Butch Miller was livid. He sat in his oversized leather chair, screaming at Lefty.
“Who did this?! Find him! I want that ex-con brought to me in pieces!”
“Boss, we sent guys. He took them out like it was nothing,” Lefty said, his arm in a sling. “He’s trained. He’s not just some guy. We need real help.”
“Fine,” Butch spat. “Call the city. Call ‘Viper.’ Tell him I’ve got a job. I’ll pay triple. I want this town back under control, and I want that Mike guy erased.”
By evening, two tinted sedans with out-of-state plates rolled into Clear Creek. These weren’t local thugs. These were professionals—hitmen for hire. Their leader was Viper, a lean man with a scarred face and cold, dead eyes.
Mike saw them arrive. He was watching the road through his grandfather’s old binoculars from the attic. Eight men. Professionals. The stakes had just gone up. He knew his house was no longer safe for his mother.
“Mom, pack a bag,” he said, coming downstairs.
“What’s happening, Mike?”
“You’re going to stay with Aunt Vera across town for a few days. Tell her I’m doing some heavy renovations and the dust is bad for your lungs. It’s not safe here tonight.”
He moved her through the back woods to her sister’s house. He made sure she was settled, then returned to his property. But he didn’t go inside. He went into the deep woods that bordered his land. He knew these woods. He’d hunted them as a boy. Now, he was the hunter again.
The professionals arrived at midnight. They moved with discipline, flanking the house, using flashlights sparingly. They kicked in the door and stormed inside.
“Clear! Empty! He’s gone!”
Viper stepped onto the porch, looking at the dark woods.
“He’s out there. Burn the house. Draw him out.”
As they reached for their lighters, a heavy rock flew out of the darkness, shattering the windshield of one of their cars. The alarm blared, echoing through the valley.
“There! Into the trees! Get him!” Viper shouted.
That was their mistake. In the city, they were kings. In the Appalachian woods at night, they were blind. Mike had spent the afternoon setting “surprises.” Tripwires made of high-test fishing line. Pits covered in brush. Heavy branches tied back with tension.
The first man hit a tripwire. A heavy oak limb swung down, catching him in the chest and throwing him back ten feet. He didn’t get up. The others panicked, firing blindly into the shadows.
“Stop shooting, you idiots!” Viper yelled. “Form a line! Move together!”
Mike watched them from a high ridge. He moved silently, circling behind them. He took out the man on the far left with a sleeper hold, dragging him into the brush. Then the man on the right. One by one, the “professionals” were disappearing into the dark.
Fear took hold. These men were used to victims who begged. They weren’t used to a ghost that fought back.
“Fall back! To the cars!” Viper ordered, his voice cracking.
But when they reached the road, they found their tires slashed and the engines smoking. Mike had circled back while they were stumbling in the woods. He stood in the middle of the road, illuminated by the moon, holding nothing but a heavy wooden staff.
“You boys lost?” Mike asked.
Viper pulled a handgun, but Mike was already moving. He threw a heavy wrench he’d taken from their trunk, catching Viper in the wrist. The gun clattered to the asphalt. Mike closed the distance in seconds. A few precise strikes, and the “city professional” was on the ground, gasping for air.
The remaining three men looked at their boss, then at Mike, then at the dark, unforgiving woods. They turned and ran down the highway, leaving their cars and their pride behind.
Mike looked down at Viper.
“Who hired you? Butch?”
“Yeah… Miller,” Viper wheezed. “He’s at the house. Waiting for the call.”
“Call him,” Mike said, handing him a phone. “Tell him it’s done. Tell him you’re coming for your money.”
Viper did as he was told. Mike then tied him up and tossed him in the back of the sedan. It was time for the final act.
Butch’s mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. He was throwing a party, celebrating the “end” of his problems. Mike drove Viper’s car right through the front gates. The guards, seeing the car, opened up. Mike parked at the front door and walked in.
The music was blaring. Butch was at the head of a long table, surrounded by his remaining sycophants. Mike walked to the stereo and ripped the cord from the wall. The silence was deafening.
Butch turned, his face going pale. “You… how?”
“Viper sends his regards, Butch. He’s waiting in the car. But I think you and I have some business first.”
Butch’s bodyguards tried to move, but Mike’s gaze stopped them. They’d heard what happened at the garage. They’d seen the city guys run. They weren’t getting paid enough to die.
“I’ll give you anything!” Butch stammered. “Money, the cars, just name it!”
“I don’t want your money, Butch. I want you to go for a ride.”
Mike hauled Butch out of the house and drove him to the center of town, right to the grocery store parking lot. He started honking the horn, a long, steady blast. People began to emerge from their homes, curious and wary.
Mike dragged Butch out of the car and stood him in the middle of the square.
“Look at him!” Mike shouted to the gathering crowd. “This is the man you were afraid of. Look at him now.”
Butch was shaking, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry! I’ll pay it back! I promise!”
Old Mr. Henderson stepped forward, leaning on his cane. He looked at the man who had stolen his bull and his dignity. He didn’t hit him. He just spat on the ground at Butch’s feet.
“He’s going to return every cent,” Mike told the crowd. “And then he’s leaving this county. If he ever comes back, he deals with me. Do we have an agreement, Butch?”
“Yes! Anything! Just let me go!”
The “Hog” scrambled away into the night, a broken man. The townspeople stood there for a long time, realizing the weight had finally been lifted.
