Chapter 5 - The Iron Works
The Old Iron Works sat like a rotting iron carcass along the frozen edge of the Detroit River. Rusting cranes towered over dilapidated corrugated steel warehouses, their cracked windows rattling against the howling winter wind.
Inside the main foundry floor, three halogen work lights cast long, stark shadows across grease-stained concrete. In the center of the vast room, tied to a heavy steel chair, was Naomi. Her face was bruised, her hair matted with sweat, but her jaw was set in stubborn defiance.
Standing over her was Leo Moretti, a man in his late thirties wearing an expensive leather jacket ruined by his own greasy demeanor. He held a heavy brass knuckles in one hand and a half-empty glass of whiskey in the other. Four armed guards stood around the perimeter, smoking cigarettes and laughing nervously.
"I'm going to ask you one more time, Naomi," Leo said, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. "Where did that deadbeat husband of yours hide the flash drive? My buyers are waiting. I don't have all night to sit in this freezing icebox."
Naomi spat a mixture of saliva and blood onto his leather boot. "I told you three hours ago, Leo. I don't have it. He left us with nothing. No money, no drive, nothing."
Leo wiped his boot with an oath and raised his hand to strike her again. "You're lying. You sent your kids away. Where are they? Maybe if I bring the little girl in here, she’ll be more talkative—"
Before the sentence could finish, the heavy steel double doors at the far end of the foundry didn't just open — they exploded inward.
The sound was like a cannon shot. The high-pressure hydraulic hinges ripped clear out of the brickwork as a full-sized armored SUV smashed through the barrier, spinning ninety degrees in a spray of twisted metal and shattered safety glass.
Before the dust even settled, the factory lights flickered and went entirely dark.
Shouts of panic echoed through the cavernous space. Flashlights snapped on, frantically cutting through the haze. Gunfire erupted — sharp, chaotic bursts from the guards firing blindly into the dark.
Then came the silence. Not a peaceful silence, but the suffocating darkness of a butcher's shop.
One guard screamed — a short, choked sound that ended with a heavy thud. A second flashlight hit the floor, rolling across the concrete until it illuminated a pair of polished leather boots standing motionless in the dark.
Leo backed away from Naomi, drawing a chrome pistol from his belt, his hands shaking visibly. "Who's there?! I've got ten men outside!"
"You had ten men outside," a quiet, smooth voice echoed from the gloom. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Now you have zero."
Julian Blackwood stepped into the beam of the fallen flashlight. He wasn't carrying a rifle. He wore no body armor over his dark suit. He walked through the shadows with the terrifying ease of a man visiting his own garden. Behind him, Marcus and three tactical operatives moved with silent, lethal efficiency, disarming the remaining guard in seconds without firing a single shot.
Leo’s eyes dilated in absolute terror. He recognized the scar. He recognized the eyes.
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"Blackwood..." Leo stammered, backing into a steel pillar. "This... this is a business matter! She owes us—"
"She owes you nothing," Julian said, continuing his slow walk forward until he stood three feet from Leo. "She owes me twenty. And I have come to collect."
