— “I can’t, my fingers.”
Lee took his hand and pressed his thumb—the only one not broken—to the sensor. The phone unlocked. Andrew took the device and found the contact labeled “Dad.” He hit call. It rang three times before a deep, authoritative voice answered:
— “Derek? Where are you? The security isn’t answering, I’m worried.”
Andrew held the phone to Derek’s face and nodded:
— “Talk.”
Derek wheezed, trying to find his voice:
— “Dad, I… help me, they’ve got me.”
There was a pause on the other end, then the voice turned hard:
— “Who has you? Where are you?”
Andrew leaned in and spoke into the phone, his voice cold:
— “Your son humiliated a defenseless woman. Now he’s paying the price. Tell Miller and Bennett: their kids are next. Or maybe they already were.”
He ended the call. Victor Owens was left listening to the dial tone.
A moment later, Derek’s phone started blowing up with calls. Andrew turned it off and threw it on the floor. Gray brought a bucket from the corner. It was filled with slop—water, trash, old food. Derek saw it and tried to pull away, but the chains held.
— “What are you—? No… please.”
Gray silently dumped the bucket over his head. Derek sputtered and choked, the stench filling the room.
Gus and Lee unchained him, stripped off his clothes, and left him in his boxers. Derek’s body was pale, shaking from cold and shock. His broken fingers hung at wrong angles; he clutched his hands to his chest, moaning.
Andrew started the camera again.
— “Derek, now you’re going to crawl across this floor and ask for forgiveness. To my mother. On camera. So all of Pittsburgh can see who you really are.”
Derek shook his head:
— “I can’t. I can’t crawl. My hands…”
Gus nudged him with a boot:
— “Crawl.”
Derek fell to the floor, face-first into the grime. He began to drag himself on his elbows and knees, his broken fingers scraping against the concrete. He cried out in pain, sobbing, but he kept moving. Andrew walked beside him, filming.
— “Louder. I want everyone to hear.”
Derek wheezed through his tears:
— “Forgive me, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m a coward. I’m nothing. Please forgive me.”
They went about thirty feet. Derek collapsed, unable to move further. Andrew stopped the recording and looked at Gray. Gray nodded:
— “That’s enough.”
They picked Derek up, put his clothes back on him, and led him outside. They put him in the van and drove him to his gated community. They dumped him right at the front gate—beaten and smelling of trash. A note was taped to his chest: “This is your son. He bullied a defenseless woman. Now he knows what pain feels like.” They drove off into the night.
The next morning, his father found him. He called the ambulance, the doctors, the police. Derek, like Kyle, said nothing. He was too afraid to tell the truth. He was terrified Andrew would come back to finish the job.
Two days later, the video of Derek appeared on local community pages. An anonymous account posted the clip: Derek crawling on the floor, begging for forgiveness, crying. The comments exploded. Some thought it was fake; others recognized Derek Owens, the gas station heir. People started connecting it to the story of the elderly woman at the market. The video got thousands of views in twenty-four hours. Derek’s father tried to have it taken down, but it had already been shared and re-uploaded everywhere. The scandal went beyond the city. Victor Owens, a powerful businessman, was now the father of the punk who harassed an old lady. His reputation was in tatters.
Derek withdrew from the world. His fingers healed poorly, leaving him with a permanent reminder. His father tried to find those responsible, but he hit a wall of silence every time. The police went through the motions of an investigation but found nothing. Derek refused to give a statement, only saying: “I don’t remember, I didn’t see anything, just leave me alone.”
Andrew sat at home, watching the news online. The video of Derek was everywhere. The comments were mixed, but most said the same thing: “He got what he deserved.” Andrew closed the browser and looked at his mother. Vera was asleep on the sofa, tucked under a blanket. He walked over, adjusted the blanket, and gently touched her hair. Two down. One to go.
Arthur Bennett vanished. After what happened to Kyle and Derek, he stopped leaving his house. His father hired a full security detail: four large men guarding the estate around the clock. Arthur didn’t go to clubs, didn’t see friends, and even changed his phone number. He knew—he was next.
Lee watched the Bennett estate for a full week. A three-story mansion in an elite neighborhood, high fences, cameras, gated entry. During the day, security was at the gate; at night, they patrolled the perimeter. Getting close was nearly impossible. Lee reported to Andrew every evening:
— “He’s not budging. He’s holed up like a rat in a hole.”
Andrew wasn’t in a hurry. He knew: sooner or later, Arthur would come out. Fear fades, people get restless. He just had to wait.
Ten days passed. Arthur started to get careless. His father had gone to D.C. for a three-day business trip, and his mother went with him. Arthur was left alone with the security and decided he could relax a little. Friday night, he called his dealer; he needed a fix. The dealer told him: “You come to me, I’m not doing deliveries right now.” Arthur figured the dealer’s place was only twenty minutes away, the neighborhood was familiar, and his security would be right there. He decided to risk it.
Lee saw him leave. The grey Mercedes pulled out of the gates at 9:00 PM, followed by a black Ford with the security team. Lee immediately called Andrew:
— “He’s out. Heading toward the West End.”
Andrew was ready. Gray and Gus were waiting in the van near an old industrial park. The plan was set.
Arthur arrived at the dealer’s: a residential street, an old house, a quiet yard. The security stayed at the curb; Arthur went inside alone. He was there for about fifteen minutes. He came out looking satisfied, a small baggie in his pocket. He got into the Mercedes and started the engine. He’d driven about three blocks when the van cut him off, slamming on the brakes right in front of him. Arthur mashed the brakes, stalling the car.
Gray and Gus jumped out of the van and ran to the Mercedes. Arthur tried to restart the engine, but he was too slow. Gus smashed the side window, opened the door, and hauled Arthur out. The security in the Ford reacted, but they were too late. Lee, waiting on a motorcycle, rode up to the Ford and threw a heavy brick through the windshield. The glass shattered, the car swerved and hit a utility pole. Andrew stepped out from the shadows and approached the Ford. Two guards were dazed, trying to get out. Andrew neutralized one with a heavy flashlight. The second managed to scramble out, but Lee swept his legs and delivered a sharp blow to the temple. Out. Arthur was already in the back of the van, bound and gagged. The whole thing took less than a minute. They were gone before the police arrived.
The industrial shop was cold and dark. They hauled Arthur inside. He was thrashing, trying to scream through the tape. They chained him to the chair—arms and legs. They ripped the tape off. Arthur gasped, seeing Andrew in front of him. His face went ghostly pale.
— “You… you’re crazy. The whole police force is looking for me. My father…”
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