Chapter 3 - THE SLUMLORD’S ULTIMATUM
The heavy iron crowbar slammed into the rotting wood frame of apartment 4B with a sickening crack.
Benjamin froze, his small hand still clutching the phone. On the other end of the line, Harrison heard the metallic crash and shouted, “Benjamin! What was that? Who is at your door?”
“It’s—it’s Mr. Kovacs,” Benjamin whimpered, backing away as Chloe whimpered in her sleep. “He’s here for the rent.”
“Open this door right now, you little freeloaders!” a gravelly voice roared from the hallway. Another heavy blow splintered the lock, and the door swung inward.
Victor Kovacs stepped into the freezing apartment, a thick gold chain hanging over his unbuttoned shirt, chewing on a toothpick. He looked down at the three little girls shivering under the faded yellow blanket, then glared at Benjamin.
“Where’s Sarah? Rent was due three days ago. If she thinks she can hide from me by working a double shift, she’s out of her mind. I’m throwing you all out tonight.”
“Please, Mr. Kovacs,” Benjamin pleaded, stepping in front of his sleeping sisters. “My sister Chloe is sick. Just give us until tomorrow morning. Mama will have her pay.”
“Tomorrow? Your mother’s been dodging me for weeks!” Kovacs snarled, reaching out to grab Benjamin by the collar. “I’m taking the television and whatever else isn’t nailed down to cover the back rent.”
“Get your hands off my son.”
The voice crackling through the abandoned flip phone on the floor was no longer just a voice—it was an absolute decree of destruction.
Kovacs paused, frowning down at the cheap plastic phone lying near his muddy boot. “Who the hell is that?”
Harrison Sterling’s voice echoed through the speaker, cold enough to freeze liquid nitrogen.
“My name is Harrison Sterling. You have five seconds to remove your hands from my son, and exactly two minutes to get off the property before I demolish this entire building and sue you into a lifetime of federal prison labor.”
Kovacs burst out laughing. “Harrison Sterling? Yeah, and I’m the President. What kind of a—?”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Outside the cracked window, the steady hum of heavy machinery suddenly cut through the sound of the rain. Beams of blinding white light slashed across the apartment walls. Heavy-duty tactical vehicles emblazoned with private security insignia had surrounded the tenement complex.
Before Kovacs could process the flashing lights, the apartment door was kicked completely off its remaining hinges.
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Three armed private security guards clad in tactical gear flooded the room, instantly pinning Kovacs face-down onto the dirty linoleum floor with terrifying precision.
In the doorway stood Harrison Sterling. He looked exhausted, soaked from the rain, and utterly lethal. His eyes scanned the room, bypassing the terrified slumlord entirely, and locked straight onto seven-year-old Benjamin.
