Chapter Fifteen
~ Levi ~
Saturday Market hit different when you were a McKenzie. Before, I'd come here as a foster kid on the edge of things, keeping to the alleys and the far end of the produce stands, pockets empty and hands in constant danger of being swatted away.
Now, I was the one handing out samples, calling “Try the tomatoes!” in a voice that sounded almost cheerful, standing behind a folding table draped with a banner that read MCKENZIE FARMS in hand-painted letters.
It wasn’t an upgrade I’d expected, but I couldn’t deny how it fit: the apron, the clatter of coins in my makeshift change belt, even the sunburned heat that settled over my neck by noon.
The market thrummed with its usual undercurrent: dogs on leashes winding around ankles, toddlers snatching at cookie samples, the judgy glare of the jam lady every time I cut a deal that undercut her prices.
Everywhere I looked, someone wore a smile with teeth.
I kept mine on, too, and if it was faker than most, nobody called me out on it.
Knox was posted at the booth’s edge, arms crossed over his chest like he was guarding the Mona Lisa instead of cucumbers.
He caught me watching him and gave the barest nod, a signal that said I see you, kid, keep it up.
Ransom, as usual, had gone AWOL—rumor was, he’d wandered over to the artisanal soap tent to score free coffee.
I envied that ability, the way the McKenzie boys could just walk through the world like it belonged to them.
I didn’t see Quiad at first, but I felt him—like a shift in air pressure, or the magnetic pull of a thunderstorm miles out.
It was the kind of sense you develop when the man you love makes a habit of showing up exactly when you need him.
I pretended not to look for him, tried to focus on restocking tomatoes, but my head kept swiveling up to scan the crowd.
He appeared next to me just as I was reloading the sample tray, his hands already moving to take the basket from mine.
“Take a break,” he rumbled, voice low enough only I could hear. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks, babe,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Love the vote of confidence.”
He set the basket down, then, in an almost invisible gesture, pressed the back of his hand against my lower back. The contact was brief, but it recharged me better than a shot of espresso. He looked me over, those brown eyes catching every scab and sunburn, and nodded like he was satisfied.
“You eat yet?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Had a donut.”
He made a noise deep in his throat. “That’s not eating.”
“Says the guy who mainlined black coffee and a Slim Jim for breakfast.”
He almost smiled, but not quite. “Finish your shift. I’ll have lunch ready when you’re done.”
Then he slipped back into the crowd, moving through the press of bodies like a battleship in a flotilla of rubber ducks. I watched him go, my heart doing that dangerous ballooning thing it always did when he was near.
Around noon, the market got rowdy. The pop-up barbecue across the way started flaring up, the smoke curling over and making my eyes water.
Bodean, who’d volunteered for “outreach,” wandered by with a fistful of flyers, most of which he’d handed off to girls in cutoff shorts.
He beamed at me, winked, and kept moving.
The tomatoes sold out first. I watched the empty basket with something close to pride, then packed up the stems and started stacking the rest of the wares. The change purse felt heavier now, which meant Pa would be in a good mood tonight. Maybe we’d even get beer with dinner.
The old man at the next booth—a cheese guy who looked like he’d fought in at least three wars—leaned over the partition.
“Hey, Levi!” he called. “You got any more of those beefsteak reds? Lady over here is offering double if you can hook her up.”
I checked the box under the table, but it was clean. “Sorry, mister. That’s it until next week.”
He nodded, then leaned in close. “You tell your old man these prices are highway robbery. Back in my day, we traded with honest numbers.”
I smirked. “I’ll tell him, but he’ll probably just double them again for spite.”
The man laughed, then shuffled back to his post.
Knox came up as I was closing out the last sale. He surveyed the mostly empty table, then uncrossed his arms and shrugged, which in Knox language meant, You didn’t fuck up. I beamed, a little, and he gave me a look that was almost fond.
“You want me to help haul this to the truck?” I asked, already stacking crates.
“Yeah. Get the eggs. Don’t break any.”
We loaded up, moving through the crowd in a two-man convoy. I watched the way people made space for him, the way even the guys twice his size instinctively stepped aside. At the truck, he tossed the baskets into the bed, then clapped me on the shoulder.
“Go tell Ma we’re heading back,” he said. “She’s at the pie tent.”
I started off in that direction, but doubled back when I remembered the little box of honey sticks left under the front seat. The lot was mostly empty now; the post-lunch rush had drained the market, leaving behind only the stragglers and the clean-up crews.
I dug under the seat, fingers scraping against grit and something sticky, then pulled out the honey box, a few sticks rattling loose.
As I straightened up, I saw them—two men, walking slow across the back edge of the lot, their steps too in-sync for it to be an accident.
Both wore ball caps, both had the heavy build of guys who never bothered with gym memberships but could still snap your arm if you gave them a reason.
They weren’t looking at the market. They were looking at me.
I pretended not to notice, pivoted to the tailgate and started counting the money in my change pouch, back turned to them but every nerve ending lit. Their footsteps closed the gap. I heard the crunch of gravel, the faint wheeze of one guy’s breath, the metallic squeak of a zipper.
I’d lived this scene before—different cast, same script. You spot the threat, you scan for exits, you start weighing what it’ll cost to run. But I wasn’t the same kid anymore. I was a McKenzie now. I was married, for fuck’s sake. There was supposed to be a forcefield that came with that.
But the world didn’t give a shit.
The two men stopped just behind me. I felt the air shift, the way it does before a punch lands.
“Hey, Levi,” said one. “You got the time?”
I turned, slow, already forcing my face into that blank, nothing-to-see-here smile. “Almost one-thirty. You lost?”
The guy grinned, showing a row of bad teeth. The other one edged around, blocking the path back to the market. My heart thumped hard, the tattoo on my wrist pulsing in time.
“Nah,” the first man said. “We’re exactly where we need to be.”
He reached for my arm.
I jerked away, but not fast enough—his fingers closed around my wrist, the grip tight enough to bruise. I tried to twist, but the other guy caught my shoulder, shoving me up against the bed of the truck. The edge dug into my ribs, hard enough to pop something.
“Come on, man,” I hissed. “We don’t have to—”
They ignored me. The first man twisted my arm behind my back, wrenching it up high. I gasped, the pain sharp and immediate. The second man patted me down, searching for a phone. He found it, yanked it from my pocket, and tossed it into the weeds.
“Just take the money,” I said, hoping to God they’d listen. “It’s in the pouch. I don’t care. Just take it—”
The man holding me leaned in, his breath hot and sour. “We’re not here for the cash.”
Then I saw the third man.
He stepped out from behind the half-collapsed shed at the end of the lot. He wore a suit, like someone playing dress-up at a funeral, and sunglasses too dark for the weak sun. He moved slow, hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world.
I knew him. I knew the set of his jaw, the weird precision of his walk. I’d seen him once before, standing behind Gloria at the diner, a ghost of a threat who’d left before Knox could clock him.
He stopped a few feet away and took off his sunglasses.
“Hello, Levi,” he said.
My mouth went dry. I knew this voice, too—calm, cold, never angry because it never needed to be. It was the kind of voice that didn’t care about getting caught.
“You got the wrong guy,” I managed, trying to shift my weight, but the men holding me only pressed harder.
“No,” said the man in the suit. “We’ve got exactly the right one.”
He took a step closer. I could see the pores on his nose, the way his lips peeled back over perfect teeth. “You know why you’re here?”
I shook my head, even though the answer pulsed behind my eyes.
He shrugged, then glanced at the men holding me. “Bring him.”
They marched me away from the truck, across the gravel, toward the thin strip of woods that bordered the lot. I tried to dig my heels in, but one of them rabbit-punched me in the kidney, dropping me to my knees. Gravel bit through the denim, shredding my skin.
“Please,” I said. It came out hoarse, pathetic. “Don’t—”
“Shut up,” the second man said, hauling me back to my feet.
They dragged me into the shade, past a line of dumpsters, out of sight from the market.
The man in the suit followed, not even watching his step.
I stumbled, desperate, but couldn’t shake free.
My mind spun through every possible way out, every trick I’d ever used, but these men knew the game. They knew it better than I did.
At the end of the alley, they threw me up against a mossy brick wall. The world tunnelled down: me, the men, the distant echo of the market, now useless as a lifeline.
The suit man knelt in front of me, eye to eye. “Gloria says hi,” he said.
I shook my head, the words meaningless.
He smiled, patient. “She owed us, you see. A lot. But she didn’t have what we needed.” He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “You, on the other hand—you’re worth quite a bit.”