Chapter 6 - The Trap at Elm Street
The rain started around 9:00 PM, heavy and cold, drumming against the roof of my Ford F-150.
I pulled into the parking lot behind the MMA gym on Elm Street. The neon sign was turned off, but light seeped through the frosted glass of the back entrance. They were waiting.
I checked my equipment: no firearms. Just my leather work gloves, a pair of heavy tactical boots, and forty years of muscle memory.
I pushed the back door open.
The gym was dark, except for a single overhead floodlight illuminating the central Octagon.
Inside the cage stood Dustin, his face bruised and swollen, holding an iron crowbar. Surrounding the cage were eight men in heavy coats—Sal’s enforcers. Standing near the judge’s table was Sal Vance himself, wearing a pristine long coat, holding a glass of whiskey.
"I was wondering if you'd show up, Callahan," Sal called out, his voice echoing in the hollow gym. "Or if you were just all talk."
I closed the heavy steel door behind me, letting the deadbolt click into place.
"You didn't take my deal, Sal," I said, walking slowly toward the center ring.
"Your deal?" Sal laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "You're a carpenter, old man. You hit my guy in a hospital, you made a scene, and you thought you could scare me? This is my city. You don't leave here tonight walking."
Dustin slapped the iron crowbar against his palm, a sick, twisted grin splitting his swollen lips. "I told you, Dad wouldn't let you get away with it! You're gonna watch me go back for Marcy when we're done with you!"
I stopped ten feet from the cage.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Three times.
Text messages from Ray and Ditch: River warehouse secured. Federal agents en route. Ledger obtained.
Text message from Frank: Internal Affairs just detained the three precinct officers. You're clear.
I pulled my phone out, looked at the screen, and placed it gently on a nearby bench.
"What's that, Callahan? Calling your wife to say goodbye?" Sal sneered.
"No, Sal," I said, taking off my heavy canvas jacket and folding it neatly over the cage rail. "That was your bankruptcy notice."
Sal’s forehead creased. "What?"
"Your river warehouse was just raided by twenty federal agents," I said calmly, rolling up my flannel sleeves. "They have your distribution books, your off-shore account numbers, and six million dollars in un-cut narcotics. Your three friends in the 3rd Precinct are currently sitting in handcuffs at the state trooper barracks."
Sal dropped his whiskey glass. It shattered against the concrete floor.
"You're lying," Sal stammered, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.
"Call them," I offered. "Nobody's answering."
May you like
Sal stared at his phone screen. The silence in the gym became suffocating. The eight enforcers looked at each other, sudden doubt creeping into their eyes.
"Get him!" Sal shrieked, pointing his finger at me, his voice breaking into a high-pitched panic. "Kill him! KILL HIM!"
