chapter 32

Chapter 32: The Crowbar Defense

​The red outline on Camera 4 pulsed like an arterial bleed.

​Down in the narrow, oil-stained alleyway between my warehouse and Derrick’s shop, two figures moved with practiced stealth. The rain had softened into a steady, freezing drizzle, slicking the red brick walls and reflecting the pale amber glow of the distant streetlights.

​I didn't need to zoom the lens to know what they were holding. The dark glass of two magnum wine bottles caught the light, filled with a sloshing mixture of diesel and motor oil. White cotton rags were stuffed tight into their necks.

​Julian’s street thugs hadn’t just come back to threaten Derrick. They had come to burn his livelihood—and everything inside it—to ash.

​A cold, lethal calm settled over my chest, replacing the exhaustion that had been dragging at my limbs all night. In my past life, I had stood by while Julian systematically stripped everything away from the people around me, believing his refined, polite lies until it was far too late.

​Not in this life. Not tonight.

​I grabbed my heavy iron crowbar from the worktable, its cold forged surface fitting naturally against my calloused palm. I deliberately left the 12-gauge shotgun locked in its rack on the wall. A gunshot in this alley would bring the local precinct straight to my doors hours before the quarantine failed completely, dragging unwanted eyes to my perimeter.

​This was close-quarters work.

​I hit the silent release on the low-clearance side hatch, slipped out into the freezing drizzle, and pulled the steel door shut until the latch clicked without a sound.

​The alleyway was thick with the stench of stagnant water, old exhaust, and raw gasoline. The two thugs were huddled right against the rear wooden window frame of Derrick’s small office bay. One of them produced a cheap yellow disposable lighter, his thumb flicking the wheel once, twice—a tiny orange spark illuminating his pockmarked jaw under a damp hoodie.

​"Get the rag soaked first, man," the second thug muttered in a raspy whisper, fumbling with his own bottle. "Light it, toss it deep past the desk, and hit the street. Sterling said make sure the whole frame catches before we clear out."

​"Clear out to where?" I asked softly from the shadow of the industrial dumpsters ten feet behind them.

​Both men spun around so fast the lighter tumbled into an oily puddle with a faint hiss.

​"What the—" the lead thug grunted, squinting into the dark.

​I didn't give them a second to process. I surged forward out of the shadow, driving the flat end of the iron crowbar straight into the lead thug’s sternum with every ounce of momentum in my body.

​OOF!

​The heavy impact knocked the air clean out of his lungs. He stumbled backward against the brick wall, his gas bottle dropping and shattering across the wet pavement, spilling raw gasoline over his boots.

​The second thug let out a harsh curse, dropping his bottle and pulling a eighteen-inch lead water pipe from inside his rain jacket. "You crazy bitch!" he yelled, swinging the lead pipe in a wide, lethal arc aimed straight for my temple.

​I ducked beneath the swing, the iron pipe whistling inches over my head and cracking violently against the red brick behind me, sending a shower of mortar dust into the air.

​I rolled to my right, coming up off my knee, and whipped the crowbar back around. The forged steel edge caught him hard across the side of his thigh. He let out a ragged scream, his leg buckling under him as he hit the wet asphalt.

​"Derrick!" the lead thug wheezed, scrambling up from the wall and wiping blood from his lip. "She’s out here! Get out here!"

​He was trying to make it look like a fight between us—trying to trick Derrick into stepping out into a chaotic trap.

​He lunged at me, driving a heavy tactical knife down toward my shoulder. I brought the crowbar up diagonally to block the blade. Steel slammed into steel with a sharp, deafening CLANG that echoed up the narrow alleyway like a gunshot.

​The force of his attack pushed me back against the wooden frame of Derrick’s office window. My foot slipped on the wet gasoline patch.

​The thug saw the opening and didn't hesitate. He pulled his left arm back and swung his heavy lead pipe with everything he had.

​There was no time to bring the crowbar around. No time to dodge.

​I instinctively raised my left forearm to shield my head and neck.

​CRACK-THUD!

​A white-hot burst of absolute agony exploded behind my eyes as the lead pipe slammed directly into my left ulna.

​I heard the sickening crunch of deep tissue bruised to the bone. The sheer shock of the blow brought me down to one knee, the world spinning in violent streaks of red and white. Pain radiated up my arm and straight into my chest, stealing my breath completely. My left hand went instantly numb, hanging limply at my side.

​"Finish her!" the thug on the ground snarled, crawling forward.

​The lead thug raised the lead pipe high above my head, his face twisted in a murderous grin. "Sterling said you were trouble, girl. Time to sleep."

​He brought the pipe down with full force.

​CLANG-BANG!

​A heavy iron breaker-bar cut through the dark like a meteor, smashing into the thug's wrist before the pipe could reach me.

​The lead thug shrieked as his bones cracked under the strike, his weapon clattering harmlessly onto the wet pavement.

​Out of the darkness of the garage side door, Derrick appeared like a demon forged of grease and rage.

​His broad frame towered over the alleyway, his face pale with fury under the swinging alley light. He didn't say a word. He grabbed the lead thug by the front of his jacket with one hand and slammed him against the brick wall with enough raw force to rattle the window frames.

​"Touch her again," Derrick growled, his voice a low, terrifying vibration that vibrated through the alley, "and you won't walk out of this city."

​He threw the thug onto the ground next to his partner. The two men didn't even bother picking up their weapons—they scrambled over each other in sheer terror, slipping on the wet gasoline as they sprinted down the alley toward 4th Avenue, their frantic footsteps fading into the night.

​Silence descended over the alleyway, broken only by the steady patter of the freezing rain and the sound of my own ragged, agonizing gasps for air.

​I stayed on one knee in the puddle, clutching my shattered left arm against my ribs. Sweating profusely despite the cold, I tried to lift my head, but the pain was a crushing weight.

​A pair of heavy, oil-stained work boots stepped into my field of vision.

​Derrick stood over me, his breaker-bar hanging low in his right hand. He looked down at the shattered glass bottles on his doorstep, the smell of gasoline heavy in the air, and then at the deep, dark purple swelling already rising beneath the torn sleeve of my jacket.

​His chest heaved. The icy, bitter disgust that had filled his eyes for days was gone—replaced by a stunned, disorientedly raw expression as he stared at the woman who had just taken a heavy lead pipe to the arm to save his shop.

​"Evelyn..." Derrick whispered, his voice cracking for the first time.