Chapter 6 - Unfinished Business
Marcus caught the shift in Tyler’s demeanor immediately. He spun around, closing the distance between them in a single stride, seizing his son by the shoulders.
"Tyler. What are the Millers doing here?" Marcus demanded, his voice dropping into a register that brook no lies.
Tyler looked at the floor, his lips trembling. "I... I didn't know they’d show up here. I swear, Dad, I didn't!"
"What did you do?"
Toby spoke up from the wheelchair, his voice small but cutting through the tension. "He owes them money."
Marcus’s head snapped toward Toby. "How do you know that?"
"I heard him in the locker room last week," Toby explained, gripping the warm thermos tighter. "Before the game. Two guys in work boots cornered Tyler by the showers. They said if he didn't pay back what he lost on the high-stakes poker games out on the ridge, they were going to take his car. Tyler told them he'd have the cash by tonight."
Marcus looked back at Tyler, disgust warring with disbelief. "Gambling with the ridge crews? Are you out of your mind? Those aren't kids playing around, Tyler. Those are career convicts."
"I was winning at first!" Tyler cried out, desperate and defensive. "Then I had a bad run! It was just ten grand! I thought I could make it back before they noticed, but they started showing up everywhere. They said if I didn't hand over the money tonight, they’d break my legs so I’d never run track again!"
"So locking Toby outside wasn't just bullying," Marcus said, the pieces clicking into place with cold, sickening precision. "You were waiting for them. You were planning on handing over something else."
Tyler didn't answer. He couldn't.
"What did you promise them, Tyler?" Marcus roared.
May you like
Outside, the headlights of the black sedan suddenly flicked on, blinding bright, illuminating the entryway in an intense white glare. Two doors opened, and two tall men in heavy canvas coats stepped out into the rain. One of them racked the slide of a twelve-gauge shotgun with a distinct, metallic clack that carried straight through the night air.
"Marcus," Bishop said calmly, drawing a heavy revolver from inside his leather cut. "We've got company."
