Two Million on the Table

In the back of the SUV, the lead guard was biting down on a belt, his lower leg fractured from a single kick. The other 3 sat nursing bruised ribs and dislocated shoulders.

In the Ferrari, Lucas held a handkerchief to his bloody nose, his other hand resting on his lap. Aside from a straight punch and a kick to the groin before the woman took over, his injuries were mostly superficial pain and bruised pride.

"That guy..." Lucas muttered, hitting the steering wheel. "Nobody puts hands on me in this city. If this gets out, I'm done."

Through the lowered window of the Escalade, one of the guards looked over. "Mr. Vanguard... didn't you just tell him you'd drop it? That woman isn't standard security. None of us could stay on our feet."

"Shut up," Lucas snapped. "You think I'm hiring you again?"

His phone rang on the dash. It was Vinnie Corso, a local fixer who handled private muscle across the West Side.