33. Scar
33
SCAR
M y boots hit the dock with a soft thud, the only sound cutting through the stillness of the early morning. The salty air clings to my skin, the faint tang of diesel and fish washing over me as I take in the empty expanse of the yard. I’m at the far end of the pier with the Enforcer, checking on the crates, ensuring nothing is out of place before I head back to the meet zone.
Everything is quiet. Too quiet.
The dockyard lights flicker as I walk, casting long shadows across the weathered wood, their dim glow cutting through the morning mist that’s started to rise off the water.
Something’s wrong.
My instincts are honed to a razor’s edge. I’ve been in the game too long, seen too much. And the feeling creeping up the back of my neck isn’t a mistake. My brothers aren’t here. They’re supposed to be, keeping watch, making sure the yard stays clear until we have visitors. But as I walk closer to the middle of the docks, there’s an absence in the air. The normal clatter of metal and the distant murmur of men talking is gone.
I turn to look at the Enforcer, trailing me just a few metres behind. He’s standing still, head angled as though in thought, a finger to his lips commanding my silence. There is a hardness to the set of his face, a harsh anger that I’ve never seen before. In a split second, he has his gun raised, a hand gripping it as he aims it in my direction.
I don’t have time to think.
I never saw this coming.
And that saying, about seeing your life flashing before your eyes as you know you’re on your way out? All I see is my wife’s beautiful face as she holds baby Scarlett and they’re smiling at me. If I die today, it’s the very image I want to leave this world with.
He pulls the trigger.
Something drops behind me, and I turn to find a body slumped less than four yards away from me, a gun clattering to the ground.
The Enforcer pulls the collar of his jacket up around his neck, adjusting his gloves as he moves towards me, his footsteps deliberately quiet. I can feel the adrenaline flowing off him as he tightens the silencer on his gun, the familiar heat of battle starting to simmer beneath the surface.
“Thank me later,” he growls, as he steps over the dead body at my feet. “Let’s move.”
Then we hear it. A faint, muted sound—just a whisper of movement.
I slow, instinctively slipping into the shadows, my back pressed against the edge of an old shipping container. I listen. The sounds of struggle, muffled voices, the scrape of boots on wood—our men have been infiltrated and they’re in trouble.
My hand instinctively brushes the grip of my gun, but I know this isn’t a full-scale assault. Frank’s men don’t operate like that. They’re methodical. Silent. They wouldn’t start a fight if they weren’t in control.
We edge closer to where we left our men assembled earlier, my heart rate steady as he checks all angles. A sliver of light catches my eye from around the corner of a stack of crates. I lean forward, just enough to get a glimpse of the scene unfolding.
Rafi’s on his knees, his head down, looking like he’s been hit. Mason stands beside him, hands raised, but I can see the tension in his shoulders—the slight tremble of his hand. A man stands in front of them, his face half-hidden in the shadows, pointing two guns at the men.
The Enforcer taps me on the shoulder before I can move and gives me a warning shake of his head. He steps out in front of me, and I see the knife in his hand. It’s more like a machete. It’s in his hand one minute and gone the next as he throws it at the intruder. The blade lands squarely in the middle of the man’s neck, where it lodges, crippling him instantly.
Too many things happen at once.
Mason Ironside tackles Rafi to the ground and lands on top of him. The gun in the man’s hand goes off, letting out a stray bullet before the metal weapon clangs to the ground. I see red, in more ways than one. A spray of red liquid blossoms on Mason Ironside’s back. Anger assails every one of my senses. And pure, cold rage surges from within me.
Rafi and Mason are completely still on the ground. My feet are rooted at the spot, too frozen to approach the carnage. Something hits me in the back, and I whirl around, but not quick enough to avoid the boot that flies into my face. I hear yells from a distance, even as I fall to my knees with the force of the hit. I shake away the pain, and I can feel my eye already swelling as I look up to face my assailant. The Enforcer comes into view, a low grizzly growl escaping him as he lifts the man with two hands and throws him across the concrete until he lands with a heavy thud. I see three more men appear, even with my limited sight, to converge on the Enforcer until he’s howling with anger, his voice echoing through the dimly lit alleys between containers. He’s loud enough to wake even the dead.
If there’s one thing I know about the Enforcer, it’s that he’s not afraid of death. He’s seen it too many times to back away from it now, and I wonder what happened to him in another life to make him this desensitized. He won’t go down quietly without a fight, even though he has nothing to live for. No family. No belongings. No direction but the one on which he tiptoes currently. Yet still, he’ll fight to his very last breath, if only to ensure my safety and the safety of others. Loyal to a fault, loyal to the end.
His jaw tightens, even as fury engulfs him. There’s no time to call for backup. It’s just him. Just like it always is. But he’s done this a thousand times. He may be standing right in front of them, but they won’t know what hit them until it’s too late. The Enforcer shifts, moving like smoke, his hand gripping the cold steel of the crowbar he had tucked in the back of his pants. In one fluid motion, he brings the crowbar down on the back of one of the men’s head. The sickening crack of bone echoes briefly in the silence, but the man crumples without a sound, his body folding like a broken doll.
He doesn’t pause. There’s no time. He drops the crowbar and moves on.
He glides towards the second man that takes aim at him, even as another jumps him from the back. The Enforcer flicks him off easily, then attacks the man in front of him. This guy’s taller, but slower. The Enforcer pulls out a thin blade from the sheath at his side. In one smooth motion, he slashes the blade across the man’s throat. Blood spills, hot and fast, but he doesn’t let him fall. He keeps the man upright, his body twitching in his grip for a moment longer, the life draining from him, a warning to all who wish the same fate, before he lets the body slump to the ground, his eyes flicking to the others. Two down.
The third man, the one who attached himself to his neck is the hardest, a hulking figure with a thick neck and bulging muscles. I can see the warning in the Enforcer’s eyes, before he lifts the side of his lip in a semi smirk and waggles his finger at the man. The guy’s standing in front of him, keeping his distance, but he’s got a wide stance, his hand hovering over the grip of his gun. This guy doesn’t look like he wants to go down easy; even the Enforcer’s clear warning doesn’t deter him from his madness. He asked for it.
I watch in awe as he backhands the man and sends him hurtling across the concrete. In this moment, he seems like a giant. A giant ball of fire intent on destruction. He pulls out his gun and shoots another that runs at him point blank in the head, even as he wrangles the gun from the man’s hand. His foot strikes out and he sends another man flying into the side wall of a container. And finally, despite all the stories I’ve heard and the impressive work he’s done for us, I understand why the Enforcer’s reputation precedes him; the man is a veritable machine.
Spurred on by his strength, the magnificent agility with which he moves, I’m on my feet and rushing at another man who’s come to join the party. My sheer speed takes him by surprise; I don’t stop until I’m in front of him, sending my knee into his torso, knocking his gun out of his hand. He’s down for the count, but another man latches onto my neck, and I feel the tip of the blade as it pierces my skin and blood starts its downward trail. I grab the blade, pushing it away from my skin, and I don’t let go, even as the knife cuts into the flesh of my palm. Blood oozes, the pain radiating through my whole body as I cling to the knife. If I let it go, I’m as good as dead.
A shot rings out, and the pressure on the knife is released, along with the weight of the man at my back. The knife is stuck in my hand as I stagger forward, trying to stay upright. Nausea overcomes me, but I push forward, removing the knife and letting it drop to the ground.
Suddenly, Mia is at my side, concern lacing her features, a gun in her hand.
“Sit down,” she commands, even as my knees buckle. She grabs me as I start to fall, but I’m too weak, too heavy for her to manage, so she guides me gently to the floor, breaking my fall so I don’t hurt anything vital.
“Rafi,” I mumble, heat overtaking my body.
The Enforcer staggers into view, blood coating his vest. At some point, he discarded his coat. I don’t think anyone has ever seen him without his coat on – even during the hardest of jobs, he’s always fashionably dressed in a full three-piece suit. I myself have never seen him so dishevelled, but I’m thankful that he’s alive.
“They’re fine,” he mutters, even as he takes out his phone and barks into it. “Surface wounds,” he says, as he turns back to me, throwing his phone to the ground. He rips a length of fabric from one of the men’s shirts and wraps it around my hand, stemming the blood. Tells me doctors and reinforcements are on the way.
I look around, my eyes trying to focus. All I see is the ground around us littered with bodies. I don’t know how many times I fall in and out of consciousness, trying desperately to stay awake, remain alert. But I know I’ve lost so much blood that unconsciousness is inevitable.
Rafi comes into view, looming above me, but all I see is his bloodstained clothes, and I’m so alarmed by the sight that I start to wonder if I’ve crossed to the other side and met him there.
“Stay with me, brother,” he whispers, as he lifts my head and cradles it in his lap.
“Mason.”
“He’s okay; clean exit wound. He’ll live.”
Any loss to me is like the removal of a limb. I can’t stand to lose men, let alone good ones. Mason Ironside has become more than a friend; he’s like a brother to Brando, and I know that Mia would be devastated if anything happened to him. He’s like a father to…
“Mia?” I try to sit up, but my brother holds me down. “Where’s Mia?” I ask, and he looks at me in confusion. “She was just here.”