Chapter 6 - Inside Apex Auto
The interior of the auto body shop smelled of stale beer, motor oil, and cheap tobacco. Hydraulic lifts stood like skeletal spiders in the shadows, surrounded by disassembled engines and piles of discarded auto parts. At the far end of the workshop, underneath a flickering fluorescent fixture, four men were gathered around a workbench covered in cash counting trays, ledgers, and empty glass bottles identical to the one that had nearly killed little Toby.
At the center of the group stood Viktor—a thick-necked man in his late forties with a shaved head, a jagged scar running from his ear down his collar, and forearms covered in crude, prison-style tattoos. He was tossing a heavy brass padlock from hand to hand, his eyes cold and dead.
"You're late, Marcus," Viktor said without looking up, assuming the heavy-set figure stepping out of the shadows was his errand boy. "Did you finish the job? Did the old man and his wife see it?"
Arthur didn't stop walking until he was ten feet from the workbench. He pulled off his wet canvas cap, shaking a few drops of rain onto the concrete floor.
Viktor finally looked up, his gaze narrowing as he took in Arthur’s height, the broad, muscular build of a working man, and the cold, unblinking glare in his eyes.
"You're not Marcus," Viktor said, his hand dropping casually toward a heavy adjustable spanner resting on the table. The other three men instantly shifted, spreading out to block the exits.
"No," Arthur said, his voice level and steady, cutting through the heavy air of the garage. "Marcus is currently enjoying the hospitality of the county jail. But he sent his regards."
Viktor stared at him for a second, then let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Is that right? The little junkie actually called the cops on himself? Doesn't matter. You're alone, old man. You walked right into a meat grinder."
"I'm not alone," Arthur replied calmly.
Before Viktor could process the words, a heavy, metallic crash echoed from the front of the building as the main rolling door was blown off its tracks with a pneumatic battering ram.
"Police! Nobody move!" a voice roared through a megaphone, followed immediately by the blinding flash of tactical strobe lights flooding the workshop from every angle.
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Chaos erupted instantly. One of Viktor’s thugs lunged for a shotgun leaning against a tire rack, but before his fingers could close around the barrel, a heavy tactical shield slammed into his chest, flattening him against a stack of tires. The other two men threw their hands in the air, dropping to their knees as heavily armored SWAT operators swarmed the room with weapons drawn.
Viktor didn't surrender. With a snarl of pure rage, he grabbed the heavy adjustable spanner from the workbench and lunged directly at Arthur, aiming a vicious blow straight at the old man's head.
