Chapter 4 - The Speed Dial of Damnation
The dial tone echoed loudly off the concrete walls of the silent gym. Frank did not drop Brock; he held him suspended by his collar, letting the blood drip rhythmically from the young man's chin onto the gray canvas.
*Ring... ring... click.*
"Speak," came a deep, raspy voice through the speakerphone. It was the voice of a man accustomed to having his orders carried out without question—a voice soaked in expensive bourbon, political influence, and unchecked authority. "Axel, I told you never to call this line during working hours."
Axel’s voice broke into a high-pitched whine. "Uncle Victor! We got a situation at the gym! Some crazy old lunatic broke in! He locked the doors! He’s attacking Brock! He shattered Brock's face, Uncle Victor—he’s trying to kill us!"
On the other end of the line, the sound of papers rustling ceased immediately. The voice grew dangerously cold.
"Is this a joke, Axel? You have fifteen fighters in that building."
"He's not human, Victor! He took out Mason and Drake in five seconds! You need to send the tactical squad from the 4th Precinct right now! Tell them to shoot on sight! He’s threatening to murder your nephew!"
Frank Miller slowly turned his head toward the phone resting on the counter. The furrow between his brows deepened. His eyes didn't show fear—they narrowed with a chilling, electric spark of recognition.
He knew that voice.
He had heard that voice thirty-two years ago, crying in the burning sands outside Kuwait, begging for an extraction helicopter that wasn't coming.
Frank released Brock. The young fighter collapsed into a fetal position, weeping and holding his ribs. Frank walked calmly past the trembling Axel, reached down to the desk, and picked up the phone.
He brought the microphone to his lips.
"Victor," Frank said quietly.
Silence fell over the line. Complete, dead air.
"Who is this?" the voice on the phone demanded, though the arrogance had suddenly thinned out, replaced by a tremor of hesitation. "Identify yourself. You are speaking to the Deputy Commissioner of Public Safety for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."
"You always did like hiding behind titles, Corporal Vance," Frank whispered, his voice like dry leaves scraping over a tombstone. "Back in the Euphrates Valley, you called yourself a supply officer until you sold three crates of military-grade morphine to local warlords and left Bravo Company to bleed out."
Across the line, an intake of breath sounded like a death rattle.
"Frank...?" Victor Vance choked out. "Master Gunnery Sergeant Miller...?"
"You told me that night you’d spend the rest of your life making amends," Frank said, his eyes drilling into Axel Vance, who looked as if he had just seen a ghost materialize from the floor. "Instead, you built a criminal empire in this city. You raised your nephews to be predators. And your little boy Brock put his hands on my Clara."
"Frank, wait! Listen to me!" Victor’s voice rose into a panicked scream, completely shattering the illusion of the untouchable commissioner. "Don't touch him! Whatever happened, we can settle this! I'll pay for the hospital! I'll give Clara whatever she wants—a million dollars! Just let Brock go! Frank, please!"
Frank stared at the phone. "Thirty years ago, Victor, I spared your life because your mother begged me on her knees. That debt has expired."
Frank crushed the gold-plated smartphone in his bare fist, snapping the circuit board in half with a sharp POP. He dropped the smoking plastic onto the desk.
May you like
Then he turned back to Axel.
***
