Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Duffel
The cold night air rushed into the car as David pushed his door open, his boots crunching loudly on the loose gravel of the abandoned lot. Maya stepped out right behind him, her breath pluming in the crisp air like small wisps of smoke. Across the open expanse of concrete, the sound of the crunching gravel immediately broke the quiet hum of the portable generator.
The older man in the leather jacket snapped his head toward the sound, his hand instantly dropping toward his waistline. Marcus froze, turning around with a look of pure, unadulterated horror as he saw his parents stepping out from the shadows of the rusted truck.
"Marcus!" David called out, his voice cutting through the night like a whip. "Step away from the truck right now!"
"Dad? Mom? What are you—how did you find me?" Marcus stammered, stumbling backward over his own feet and nearly tripping over the heavy duffel bag resting on the ground. His face was pale, his eyes wide with panic as he looked between the dangerous stranger and his approaching parents.
The man in the leather jacket let out a low, gravelly chuckle. He didn't pull his hand away from his waist, but he relaxed his posture slightly, sizing David up with a cold, predatory squint.
"Well, well. Look who decided to crash the party," the man said, his voice dripping with casual menace. He stepped over the duffel bag, placing himself squarely between Marcus and his father. "Your boy here was just finishing up a little business transaction. Hate to see an interruption right when we're shaking hands."
"This business is over," David said, closing the distance between them until he was standing just a few feet away from the stranger. He kept his voice steady, masking the primal urge to liven his fists with the terrifying reality of the situation. "My son is coming home with me right now. Leave the bag and walk away."
The stranger smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth that gleamed in the amber light of the work lamp. "It's not that simple, old man. Your son made a commitment. He took an advance on consignment, and merchandise isn't free. If you walk away now without settling his tab, things are going to get very uncomfortable for your little family."
"I don't care about your tab," David growled, taking another step forward. "You touch him again, and you won't have to worry about money ever again."
"Dad, stop! You don't know what you're doing!" Marcus cried out, finally finding his voice. He darted forward, grabbing his father's jacket sleeve with desperate hands. "He's not just some guy from school, Dad! If you don't let him talk, he'll—"
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Before Marcus could finish his sentence, the sharp sound of police sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing off the concrete walls of the abandoned mill and growing louder by the second.
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