I didn’t wait for him to come to me. That’s a defensive strategy. I was Special Forces. We don’t defend. We assault.
I got in my truck. I didn’t turn on the headlights. I knew the way to Mark’s mansion on the hill. I knew the way to hell.
Part 2: The Invitation
Mark’s house was a monstrosity of glass and steel, perched on a hill overlooking the town like a feudal castle. The lights were blazing.
I pulled my rusty Ford pickup into his pristine driveway, blocking his exit. I turned off the engine. The rain hammered against the roof.
I stepped out. I didn’t run. I walked. Slow. Deliberate. The baseball bat hung loosely at my side, hidden by the long trench coat I wore against the rain.
I walked up the stone steps to the massive oak front door. I didn’t ring the bell. I pounded on the wood with my fist—three hard, rhythmic knocks.
