Chapter 8 - The Ghost of the Arena
The massive indoor stadium of the Sterling Equestrian Center stood empty under the glare of industrial halogen lights. The raked dirt of the competition ring was freshly leveled, pristine and silent, surrounded by tiered mahogany seating and brass-railed private boxes. But at the center of the ring, a confrontation was already unfolding.
Donald Sterling stood by an open hydraulic transport ramp connected to a semi-trailer. Inside the trailer stood Black Sovereign, the undefeated five-million-dollar stallion that had won three consecutive international cups. Beside Donald stood two private security contractors, both armed with tactical holsters concealed beneath dark raincoats.
Marcus walked through the grand archway of the arena, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the soft sawdust. His clothes were torn, coated in mud and glass dust, but his gaze never wavered from Donald’s face.
""You should have stayed on the logging road, Marcus,"" Donald said, not bothering to turn around as he latched the horse trailer’s gate. ""A good horseman knows when an animal is broken beyond repair. You've always lacked that practical detachment.""
""You tried to murder my daughter,"" Marcus said, stopping ten paces away from the two armed guards. ""A child who trusted this academy.""
Donald finally turned, his expression cold, devoid of remorse. ""Your family sat on the mineral rights to this land for four generations and did nothing with them but graze ponies. I built an empire that commands the global bloodstock market. I offered you three million dollars for those deeds last year. You refused out of stubborn, sentimental pride.""
""And your son?"" Marcus asked, stepping slowly forward. ""You left Julian to die in that gas purge.""
May you like
A flicker of contempt crossed Donald's weathered face. ""Julian is weak. He botched a simple delivery. In this world, the weak are culled so the strong can lead the herd.""
Donald nodded slightly to the guard on his left. The man reached into his jacket, but before his hand could clear leather, Marcus charged forward like an unbridled warhorse.
