Andrew hit him—not hard, but enough to make a point. Arthur went quiet, spitting blood.
— “Your father is in D.C. The police aren’t going to find you. Right now, it’s just you and me.”
Arthur was trembling. He’d seen what happened to Kyle and Derek. He knew his turn would be worse.
— “Look, man, I get it, okay? I was wrong. I’ll apologize. I’ll pay you whatever you want. A million? Two? My dad will pay, just let me go.”
Andrew crouched down, looking him in the eye:
— “You were the worst of them. You shoved my mother. You said, ‘Let’s burn her stall.’ You laughed the loudest.”
Arthur shook his head frantically:
— “I was high. I didn’t know what I was doing, I swear.”
Andrew stood up, pulled out his phone, and started recording. Arthur shrieked:
— “No, don’t film me, please!”
Andrew said nothing and nodded to Gus. Gus stepped up with a heavy tire iron. Arthur saw the tool, and his eyes went wide with terror.
— “What are you doing? Stop.”
Gus placed the tire iron against Arthur’s right knee.
— “This is going to hurt.”
A sharp blow. A sickening crack. Arthur shrieked so loud it echoed through the entire shop. His voice broke; he was gasping with pain, straining against the chains. Gus moved to the left knee. Arthur wailed:
— “No! Please! I’ll do anything!”
A second blow. Another crack. Arthur lost consciousness.
Gray splashed water in his face. He sputtered, coming to, his head lolling on his chest. His legs hung at unnatural angles; he couldn’t move them. Andrew filmed everything. Slowly, methodically. Every second of pain, every cry.
— “Arthur Bennett. The developer’s son. Thought Daddy could always save you. Now you’re going to remember this night every single day. Every time you try to take a step.”
Arthur was sobbing, spit and tears covering his face.
— “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it…”
Andrew lowered the phone.
— “Too late.”
He nodded to Lee, who pulled Arthur’s phone from his pocket. They’d taken it at the scene.
— “Your mother is in D.C. She doesn’t know where you are. But she’ll find out soon. And she’ll be ashamed of you for the rest of her life.”
Arthur closed his eyes, crying silently. They dressed him, wrapped him in an old blanket, and put him in the van. They drove him to the Bennett estate and dumped him right at the front gate. A note was pinned to the blanket: “This is your son. Now he’s a cripple. Just like the people he’s run off the road and his father has protected him from.” They drove off into the night.
The security found Arthur the next morning, lying at the gate, unconscious and wrapped in a filthy blanket. They called 911. The ambulance arrived in ten minutes and rushed him to the ICU. Multiple fractures, traumatic shock. Stan Bennett returned from D.C. that same day. He rushed to the hospital, bursting into the room. Arthur was hooked up to monitors, his legs in casts, his face pale.
The doctor spoke to the father sternly:
— “Your son is going to be permanently disabled. His knees are shattered beyond full repair. He’ll be lucky to walk with a cane. Who did this?”
Stan didn’t answer. He turned, walked into the hallway, pulled out his phone, and called Alex Miller and Victor Owens. His voice shook with rage:
— “We’re meeting. Tonight. Now. This bastard has touched all our kids. It’s time to end this.”
They met that evening at an upscale steakhouse, in a private room. Three men in their fifties—powerful, wealthy, used to solving any problem with money or favors. But now they sat there, not knowing what to do.
Alex Miller, the County Commissioner, spoke first:
— “My son is still afraid to leave the house. He doesn’t sleep, he barely eats. He has a scar on his back that says ‘COWARD.’ It’s never going away. The police found nothing: no prints, no witnesses. It’s like ghosts did it.”
Victor Owens, the gas station mogul, added:
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