Minutes after our car pulled away, a convoy of military vehicles rolled up to the scrapyard entrance. Armed men climbed out—every one of them built like a tank and packing serious heat.
They had that look. The kind that meant business.
Inside the factory, the black-clad guards immediately drew their weapons. Their leader stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension. "State your business. This territory belongs to Mr. Bailey now. Unauthorized personnel need to clear out."
The mercenaries shot each other uncertain glances, confusion mixing with unease in their eyes. 'Bailey's turf?' they wondered. 'Ellis swore this was his operation. When did Bailey take over?'
Spotting the tied-up men near the entrance, the mercenaries quickly realized they were outgunned and outplayed.
Harold Bailey wasn't someone you crossed and lived to tell about it.
