Chapter 16: The Hellions
The rendezvous point was an abandoned shipyard on the eastern docks. The air smelled of salt, rust, and dead fish. It was the kind of place where deals were made or bodies were dumped. Tonight, Max hoped for the former.
Max leaned against the hood of the matte black Dodge Charger. He wore a tailored suit he had taken from the manager's office at Velvet. It fit his broader shoulders perfectly. He checked his watch. Midnight.
Headlights cut through the fog. Three SUVs rolled into the lot, boxing him in. Twelve men stepped out. They weren't street thugs like the Copperheads. These men moved with economy. They wore tactical gear mixed with street clothes. Scars, tattoos, military posture.
This was the mercenary unit Russo had called "The Hellions."
Their leader, a man named Graves with a prosthetic metal jaw and eyes like flint, walked forward. He stopped ten feet from Max.
"You're the kid?" Graves asked, his voice sounding like grinding gears. "Russo said you took Velvet single-handedly. I told him he was senile."
"Russo tells the truth," Max said calmly. "I have a job. I need soldiers."
Graves laughed. The sound was devoid of humor. "We don't work for children, and we don't work for ghosts. We cost ten grand a head, per week. And looking at you... you look like you stole your daddy's suit."
Graves turned to leave. "Pack it up, boys. Waste of gas."
"I'll pay you double," Max said. "And I'll give you a signing bonus."
Graves stopped. "Money talks. But respect walks. You want to lead us? You have to bleed for it. Prove you can handle the weight."
Graves signaled to one of his men—a giant Samoan carrying a sledgehammer. "Put him down, Tiny."
The giant charged. He moved surprisingly fast for his size, the hammer swinging in a deadly arc aimed at Max's ribs.
Max didn't move. He didn't flinch.
Status: Combat Initiated.
Opponent Threat Level: Moderate.
Action: Intercept.
In the split second before impact, the world slowed. Max watched the hammer inching toward him. He saw the sweat flying off Tiny's brow.
Max stepped inside the guard. He didn't dodge away; he moved into the danger. He caught the handle of the sledgehammer with his left hand, just below the head. The force of the swing was immense, enough to shatter concrete, but Max's arm didn't buckle. He absorbed the kinetic energy, grounding it through his legs.
Tiny's eyes widened. He tried to pull the hammer back. It wouldn't move.
"My turn," Max whispered.
He twisted the hammer from Tiny's grip, spun it around effortlessly, and drove the handle into Tiny's gut. The giant folded like a lawn chair, gasping for air, and collapsed.
Silence fell over the docks. Graves turned back around, his hand hovering near the pistol at his hip.
"Who are you?" Graves asked, his tone shifted from mockery to caution.
Max tossed the sledgehammer aside. It clanged loudly on the pavement.
"I am the one who is going to burn the Vittorio empire to the ground," Max said, his voice laced with that strange, resonant power. "And I'm offering you the chance to hold the matches."
Max reached into the car and pulled out a duffel bag. He threw it at Graves' feet. It unzipped on impact, revealing stacks of cash.
"That's the down payment," Max said. "Join me, and you'll see more money than God. Fight me, and you end up like Tiny."
Graves looked at the money, then at Tiny groaning on the ground, and finally at Max's impassive face. A slow grin spread across his metal jaw.
"Alright, Boss," Graves said. "Where do we start?"
"We start," Max said, his eyes flashing black in the darkness, "by cleaning house."