Thursday afternoon dragged like a rusted chain. The air inside the massive corrugated steel garage of Miller and Sun’s diesel repair was thick with the smell of motor oil, exhaust, and ozone from a welding torch. Dean lay on a rolling creeper beneath the massive undercarriage of a Peterbuilt semi-truck. His hands, stained black with grease, moved with mechanical precision, threading a bolt into the transmission housing. This was where Dean found peace. The machines made sense. If a part was broken, you replaced it. If a belt was loose, you tightened it. There was no ego, no malice, just physics and hard labor. He slid out from under the truck, grabbing a rag from his back pocket to wipe the sweat and grime from his forehead. He sat up,
his bad knee clicking loudly as he bent it. That’s when the light from the open garage bays was blocked out. Dean paused. He didn’t stand up immediately. He stayed seated on the low creeper, slowly wiping the grease from his fingers. He looked toward the entrance. Three silhouettes stood in the wide bay doorway, backlit by the harsh afternoon sun. The rest of the mechanics were on lunch break. The shop was effectively empty, save for the hum of the massive fans near the ceiling. The men walked inside. In the center was Trent. He was wearing dark sunglasses to hide his blackened eyes and a loose hoodie to conceal the stiff way he carried his torso. But the arrogance had returned, bolstered by the two massive shadows flanking him.
To Trent’s left was Garrett. He was built like a refrigerator with a thick untrimmed beard and cauliflower ears that looked like mangled lumps of dough. To Trent’s right was a younger man, completely bald, with tribal ink crawling up his neck and a heavy iron chain hanging from his belt. They didn’t walk like martial artists. They walked like bouncers, looking for an excuse to snap a collar bone. Trent stopped ten feet away from where Dean sat. “You thought it was over,” Trent said. His voice echoed off the concrete walls. He sounded confident again. The presence of violence-for-hire had reinflated his punctured ego. “You thought you could walk into my place, embarrass me, and just go back to changing oil.”
Dean didn’t say a word. He finished wiping his hands, neatly folding the filthy rag and placing it on a nearby tool tray. He slowly stood up. He didn’t adopt a fighting stance. He just stood there wearing a grease-stained gray work shirt and steel-toed boots. He analyzed the room. He had three heavy wrenches within arm’s reach. A heavy steel pry bar rested against the tire of the Peterbuilt. The exit behind him led to the parts cage, which had a reinforced lock. “Uh, this the guy?” Garrett grunted, his voice dripping with disappointment. He looked Dean up and down, taking in the thinning hair and the slight stoop in his shoulders. “You got your ribs cracked by a mechanic. Jesus, Trent, you’re softer than I thought.” Trent flushed crimson beneath his sunglasses. “He got a lucky shot with a weapon. He won’t be so lucky today.” Trent pointed a finger at Dean. “You’re going to get on your knees right now. You’re going to beg for forgiveness on camera, and then my boys here are going to put you in the hospital for a month. If you fight back, they’ll put you in a wheelchair.” Dean looked at Garrett. Then he looked at the bald man. He ignored Trent entirely. “He lied to you,” Dean said to Garrett. His voice was calm, soothing almost. “There was no weapon. I broke his nose with my forehead. I broke his ribs with my knee.” “He’s paying you to fight a battle he’s too terrified to fight himself.” Garrett narrowed his eyes. The casual, flat delivery of the violence made the big man pause. “Thugs were used to fear. They were used to people pleading, posturing, or trying to run. They were not used to men who looked at them like they were simply math equations waiting to be solved.” “I don’t care what he told me, old man,” Garrett said, cracking his thick knuckles. “A job is a job. I’m going to shatter your jaw. Try to block if you want. It’s more fun that way.” The bald man chuckled, reaching down and wrapping the heavy iron chain around his right fist like a brutal makeshift brass knuckle. Trent took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, a cruel smile twisting his bruised face. “Tear him apart.”
