He went still and nodded fast. I took my hand away. He was breathing hard, snot running down his face.
“For every time you humiliated my mother, you’re going to lose a bone. She begged you for mercy and you didn’t have any. Neither do I.” And then I got to work.
Methodical. Calm. First I broke his wrist by pinning it down with my boot and leaning in. Sharp crack.
Luke let out a muffled howl, and I covered his mouth again. Then the other wrist. Then I hit his knee from the side hard enough to shatter the kneecap.
Another crack. Luke blacked out, came to, blacked out again. When I was done, he was lying in the dirt broken, sobbing, and wetting himself from fear.
I wiped the knife on his jacket, slid it away, and bent close to his face. “If you tell anybody who did this, I’ll come back and next time I won’t leave you breathing. Understand?”
He nodded, choking on tears and mucus. I stood up and walked away without looking back. I could hear him whining behind me, but it didn’t matter.
That was one. Two left. I walked home through the quiet town.
My hands didn’t shake. My heart beat steady. No pity. No regret.
Just the satisfaction of a job done right. Mom was still awake when I got home, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea.
She looked at me, searched my face, and asked nothing. I poured myself some water, drank it, and said, “One down.”
“Two to go.” She nodded, stood up, and went to bed. I stayed in the kitchen watching dawn come up through the window.
I felt calm. Certain. Like I’d done what needed doing. Tomorrow would be Steve’s turn. Word about Luke spread through town by noon the next day.
They found him in the empty lot that morning, beaten and broken, both arms and a leg shattered. An ambulance took him to the county hospital. The doctors said the fractures were severe.
Luke kept repeating the same thing: “I didn’t see anybody. It was dark. I don’t know who it was.” Steve and Wade Crispin heard first. I saw them drive up to the bar and look over the scene.
Wade shouted at everybody, demanding witnesses. There weren’t any. The lot was empty at night, dark and deserted.
Somebody had gone after Luke on purpose, but nobody knew who. Steve was smarter than his brother. I watched him scanning the area, thinking.
He understood this wasn’t random. Somebody had targeted one of their men. Somebody dangerous. Wade understood that too.
That evening they sat in the red-roofed house drinking and talking. I caught pieces of it through an open window as I passed by. “One of the debtors snapped,” Wade said. “Check them all.”
“Anybody who complained, anybody who paid late. We’ll find him, and he’ll get worse.” Steve nodded grimly.
I walked away smiling. They were looking in the wrong direction. They thought it was some debtor getting revenge. They had no idea it was me—the son of the woman they’d beaten.
The next day Steve got more careful. Carried his knife, looked over his shoulder. But he still went to the car wash alone.
He had to. Money doesn’t collect itself. I waited until evening. Showed up at the wash around nine-thirty, after dark.
Steve was closing up, waving off the last customer. Then he was alone in the bay counting the day’s cash. I came in through the side door.
It wasn’t locked yet. Big empty bay, footsteps echoing. Steve had his back to me.
He was bent over the table counting bills. I moved in quietly.
He heard something, turned, saw me, and jumped up, reaching for the knife in his pocket. I was faster.
I drove a punch into his stomach, right under the ribs. Steve folded, the knife clattering onto the concrete. He gasped for air.
I grabbed him by the hair and yanked him backward. He hit the floor. I got on top of him and pinned him down.
Looked him in the eye. “Know who I am?”
