Chapter 4 - The Tag Around the Neck
The sun didn't shine over Ashgrove Street the next morning; it merely turned the clouds from black to a dreary, bruised purple.
At eight o'clock, three black SUVs rolled slowly down the street, their modified exhausts rumbling like low thunder against the quiet houses. Neighbors peered through dirty blinds, instantly pulling their curtains shut when they saw the Silver Blade emblems painted on the car doors.
The lead SUV stopped directly in front of Number 42.
Marco stepped out first, wearing a black leather duster. Behind him, Gwen stepped out in her high heels, her fur coat wrapped tight, holding a silver-handled riding crop she liked to carry for show. Dragged behind them by two heavily tattooed gang members was Maya, the waitress, her face pale, her bottom lip split and bleeding.
Big Dan Dixon stood on his porch next door, his broken wrist wrapped in thick white gauze, a dark, victorious grin on his swollen face. "That's her house! Right there! The crazy widow!"
Marco walked up the pathway of Number 42, his men fanning out across the wet lawn. "Hey! Out on the porch! Now!" Marco roared, his voice echoing off the surrounding roofs. "Bring the dog out, or we burn the house with you in it!"
The front screen door opened with a slow, rusty creak.
Kayla walked out onto the porch. She was wearing a simple gray wool sweater and dark jeans. Her hair was pulled back into a neat knot. She looked like a high school librarian or an off-duty nurse.
Behind her, trotting slowly on his stiff old legs, came Milo. He sat down right beside her left shoe, leaning his heavy body against her leg, his dark eyes calmly scanning the crowd of armed men.
Gwen burst into shrill, mocking laughter. "That’s her?! That’s the monster Big Dan was whining about? She looks like she’s two days away from a nursing home!"
Gwen stepped forward, pushing Maya ahead of her so hard the young girl fell onto her hands and knees in the wet grass right at the base of Kayla’s porch steps.
"Look at this, Grandma," Gwen sneered, tapping her riding crop against her palm. "This little slut tried to cover for you last night. So I gave her a lesson. And now, I’m going to give you one."
Kayla didn't look at Gwen. She didn't look at Marco. She looked down at Maya, kneeling in the mud, weeping softly with a bruised face.
"Are you hurt, child?" Kayla asked softly.
Maya looked up through her tears, shaking her head frantically. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Miss Kayla... they forced me..."
"It's alright," Kayla said gently.
Gwen’s face flushed red with rage at being ignored. She raised her boot and kicked Maya hard in the ribs, sending the girl sprawling into the dirt. "I'm talking to you, bitch! Look at me!"
Kayla’s hands, resting at her sides, went totally, completely motionless.
Marco stepped up beside Gwen, drawing a nickel-plated pistol from his waistband. "Enough games, Gwen. Let's shoot the dog and drag the woman into the street."
Marco walked up the three porch steps, pointing the gun straight at Milo's head.
Milo didn't flinch. He merely tilted his head up, and the morning light caught the metal tag hanging from his collar.
Marco stopped. His eyes fell on the silver coin.
He took a half-step closer, his brows furrowing as he read the single word deeply engraved into the metal surface:
RICHARD
Above the name was a small, intricate crest—a double-headed raven holding an iron key in its beak. The personal seal of the Syndicate’s founder. The mark that hadn't been seen in the city since the great war ten years ago.
Marco’s hand began to shake. The nickel-plated gun suddenly felt like a block of ice in his palm.
"Where... where did you get that collar?" Marco whispered, the color draining from his face until his scarred lip looked stark and white.
May you like
Kayla looked at him. Her eyes were as gray and endless as the winter sea.
"My husband gave it to him," Kayla said quietly. "Before he died."
