— “Andrew! My goodness, look at you. Vera said you were coming home today.”
He nodded politely. Mrs. Gable chatted about how much his mother had missed him and how hard she’d been working, then added:
— “She’s down at the farmers’ market right now, selling vegetables. The mill laid her off a few years back, and her social security isn’t enough. She usually gets back around eight.”
Andrew checked his watch: 6:30. The market was a twenty-minute walk. He didn’t wait. He grabbed his jacket and headed out.
The market was busy. It was a cool March evening, and people were stopping by on their way home from work. Andrew walked through the rows of stalls, looking for his mother. He found her in a far corner. A small wooden table, some potatoes, carrots, and greens. And his mother. She was facing away from him, wearing an old coat and a knit cap.
Andrew was about to call out to her when he heard the voices. Three guys had approached her stall: young, maybe 22 or 23, wearing expensive outdoor gear and brand-name sneakers. One was a tall blonde with styled hair; the second was stocky with a heavy jaw; the third was thin, wearing glasses and holding a phone.
The blonde one said loudly:
— “Hey, Grandma, you still peddling this junk? We thought you’d kicked the bucket by now.”
Vera flinched and turned around. Her face went pale. Andrew stopped ten feet away, hidden by the crowd. The stocky guy grabbed a tomato from the table, squeezed it in his hand, and let the juice spray over the rest of the produce.
— “Look at this crap you’re selling! It’s garbage!” he laughed, tossing the crushed tomato back onto the table.
Vera tried to speak, her voice trembling:
— “Please, boys, just leave me be.”
The thin one with glasses raised his phone, recording.
— “Come on, Grandma, do something for the ‘Gram! Give us a dance!” the blonde one said, shoving her shoulder.
His mother stumbled back, tripped over a crate of potatoes, and fell to the ground. The blonde one roared with laughter, and the stocky one joined in:
— “Look at that! On her knees! That’s where you belong for selling this trash!”
A small crowd had gathered. About fifteen people stood there, watching. No one moved. Some had their phones out, filming. Others just looked away. Vera was crying, trying to push herself up, but the stocky guy nudged her back down with his foot.
— “Stay down! Or maybe we should just burn this whole stand down.”
Andrew stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. The crowd parted for him. He walked right up to the stall and stood next to his mother. The blonde one turned, saw him, and smirked:
— “Oh, look. Another one. You her son or something?”
Andrew didn’t say a word. He just moved. A fast, short hook to the jaw. The blonde kid flew backward, crashing into a neighboring stall. The stocky one tried to lung, but Andrew caught him with an elbow to the bridge of the nose. A sickening crunch, blood, and a scream. The thin one with the glasses froze, his phone still up. Andrew grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and drove a knee into his gut. The kid folded like a lawn chair, his phone clattering to the pavement.
Nine years in the pen hadn’t gone to waste. Andrew didn’t fight like a street brawler; he fought like a machine. The blonde kid tried to get up. Andrew stepped over, put a boot on his hand, and applied pressure. The kid shrieked.
— “Do you have any idea who I am?! My father is…”
Andrew didn’t let him finish. A sharp kick to the ribs silenced him. The kid gasped for air.
The stocky one, clutching his broken nose, reached into his pocket. Andrew saw the glint of steel. One step, a sweep of the leg—the kid hit the ground, and the pocketknife skittered away. Andrew picked it up, looked at it, and tossed it into the trash. He leaned over the stocky one:
— “You brought a knife to a conversation? Brave kid.”
A final punch to the jaw put him out. The thin one with glasses was trying to crawl away, but his legs wouldn’t work. Andrew caught him in two steps, spun him around, and hit him squarely in the solar plexus. The kid slumped, gasping for breath.
The crowd was dead silent. Andrew reached down, helped his mother up, and pulled her into a hug. Vera was shaking, sobbing into his chest.
— “Andy, what have you done?”
The blonde kid, spitting blood, wheezed from the ground:
— “You’re dead, convict. We’re gonna bury you.”
Andrew turned and looked down at him, his expression unreadable:
— “Try it.”
His voice was flat, calm, and absolutely terrifying.
The stocky kid struggled up, holding his ribs, and helped the blonde one to his feet. The thin one was already bolting for the exit. The blonde one, swaying, shouted so everyone could hear:
— “You don’t know who you’re messing with! My dad is Miller—County Commissioner. His dad is Owens—he owns half the gas stations in the state. We’re gonna erase you, loser.”
Andrew just watched them go. The crowd began to disperse. A few people approached Vera, asking if she was okay.
Andrew helped his mother pack up what was left of her produce. His hands were steady. He felt as calm as if he’d just finished a shift at the shop. Vera looked at him, and her eyes were full of fear.
— “Andy, those are powerful families. They’ll crush us. They’ll put you back in jail.”
Andrew put an arm around her:
Comments are closed.