The garage was silent again, save for the wet, ragged sobbing of the bald man writhing near the tool cart. Dean stood over the bodies. His breathing was perfectly steady. His heart rate had barely elevated. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the dull ache in his bad knee, and slowly turned his head to look at Trent. Trent was backed against the massive front tire of the Peterbuilt. He was trembling so violently that the heavy rubber treads squeaked against his hoodie. His sunglasses had slipped down his broken nose, revealing eyes that were wide, bloodshot, and completely, utterly hollowed out by terror. He had brought monsters to kill a sheep only to realize the sheep was a wolf wearing a wool coat. Dean began to walk toward him. His footsteps were slow,
deliberate. The steel toes of his boot scraped softly against the concrete. “No,” Trent whimpered, pressing his spine so hard into the tire it looked like he was trying to phase through it. He raised his hands, his palms facing out. “No, please. Please, man, stop.” Dean stopped two feet away. He looked at Trent. He looked past the muscles, past the tattoos, past the carefully constructed facade of a local tough guy. He saw exactly what Trent was. A scared, pathetic child playing dress up in a world that didn’t care about him. “You brought men to hurt me,” Dean said. His voice wasn’t angry. It was a quiet, factual hum. “You brought a chain. You wanted to put me in a wheelchair because your ego couldn’t handle the truth.
He—I was mad. I wasn’t thinking. I swear to God I wasn’t thinking,” Trent babbled, tears mixing with the sweat on his bruised cheeks. He slid down the rubber tire until his knees hit the greasy floor. He was begging. Dean reached down. Trent flinched, curling into a tight defensive ball, waiting for the killing blow. But Dean just reached into the front pocket of Trent’s hoodie and pulled out his cell phone. Dean looked at the screen. He locked eyes with the trembling black belt. Then Dean squeezed his hand. The glass shattered, cutting into Dean’s palm, the plastic casing snapping under the immense, unyielding pressure of a man who spent his life turning rusted steel bolts. Dean dropped the mangled electronics onto the floor and crushed it into dust beneath his heel. “You’re going to pack up your gym,” Dean said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “You’re going to sell the mats. You’re going to break your lease. By Monday, that storefront is going to be empty. You will never teach another child. You will never put a belt around your waist in this town again.” Trent stared at the floor, nodding frantically, sobbing. “Okay. Okay. I swear I’m done. I’m out. If I drive past that strip mall next week and see your sign.” Dean leaned in closer, the smell of grease and copper filling Trent’s senses. “I will not hit you. I will not break your ribs. I will simply remove you. Do you understand the difference?” Trent looked up into Dean’s eyes. He saw the void. He saw the absolute unquestionable truth in the statement. He nodded once. “Get your trash out of my shop,” Dean said. Dean turned his back on the three broken men. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if they were getting up. He walked to the heavy industrial sink in the corner of the garage. He turned the metal knob, letting the scalding hot water run over his bruised, cut hands. He pumped a thick glob of pumice soap into his palms and began to scrub. He scrubbed the grease. He scrubbed the blood. He watched the dark gray water spiral down the metal drain. He closed his eyes. He breathed in for four seconds. He held it for four seconds. He pushed the heavy iron door in his mind shut, listening for the internal click of the vault locking back into place. It was harder to close this time. It always was. Dean dried his hands on a paper towel. He checked his watch. It was five thirty p.m. He needed to get home. He had promised Leo they would order pizza tonight.
