Steve blinked, trying to focus.
He didn’t recognize me. Dark clothes, face in shadow. So I helped him out.
“I’m the son of the woman whose fingers you and your brother broke. She begged you not to take her mother’s earrings, and you laughed. Remember?”
Steve went pale. His lips started to shake. “My brother—my brother will find you.”
I hit him across the face. Not wild, just clean and sharp. His nose broke with a crunch and blood poured out. “Don’t threaten me with your brother.”
“I’m coming for him next. Right now it’s your turn.” I hauled him up and dragged him toward a puddle of dirty motor oil in the corner of the bay.
Steve fought, twisted, tried to get loose, but I was stronger. Two years of Army training, hand-to-hand drills. Against me, he had nothing.
I shoved his face into the oil. Held him there and counted to ten. Then pulled him up.
Steve gagged, coughed, retched. Tears, blood, and black oil ran down his face. “That’s for the humiliation.”
“For making her scrub floors. For filming it.” I pushed his face down again.
Held him longer this time. Steve thrashed, but I didn’t let go. Then I pulled him back up.
He lay there gasping and crying. Then I took his right hand.
Set it on the edge of a concrete curb. Put my boot on it. Steve understood what was coming and screamed.
I leaned in slowly, feeling the bones give under my weight. Crack. He howled. First hand broken.
Then the second, same way. Slow enough that he felt every second of it. Another crack.
Steve kept fading out, and I slapped him awake. I wanted him to remember every second. When I finished, he was lying in a mess of oil, blood, and vomit.
Both hands broken. Face smashed up. Breathing in ragged pulls. I crouched beside him and wiped my hands on his jacket.
“Those are the hands you used to hit her. You won’t use them again. If you live through this, tell your brother.”
“I’m coming for him next.” Steve didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he was already out cold.
I stood and headed for the door, looked back once. He was still breathing. That was enough.
I left the car wash and walked home. Warm night, quiet again. Stars overhead, moon out, everything peaceful.
And in that bay lay a man with both hands broken and his face caved in. He had it coming. Mom was waiting when I got home.
She looked at me and understood. “Second one?” I nodded.
“Done. One left. The one who started it.” She looked at me for a long moment, then said quietly:
“Alex, you’ve changed. Your eyes are different. I’m afraid of you.” I stepped over and put my arms around her.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Mom. I’m doing this for you. So you never have to be afraid again.”
“So nobody ever puts their hands on you again.” She leaned into me and cried. I stroked her hair.
Felt her trembling. Small, aging, broken. My mother.
I was going to make sure she slept through the night again. That she didn’t jump every time someone knocked at the door. That she got to live without fear.
And for that, there was one man left. Wade Crispin. The leader.
The one who started all of it. Tomorrow I’d go to him. And it would be the last visit he ever got.
They found Steve at the car wash the next morning. A neighbor heard him groaning and called for help. Same story: multiple fractures, facial trauma, shock.
At the hospital the doctors just shook their heads. Two men in three days. Same crew.
Both crippled the same way. A pattern. Revenge?
