CHAPTER 1 ā The Wrong Victim
The gas station sat
alone along Highway 47, surrounded by darkness so thick it swallowed everything beyond the flickering lights above the pumps.
It was nearly midnight.
The cashier inside had already begun counting the register, hoping no more customers would arrive before closing.
Outside, an aging white cargo van rolled slowly beside Pump Three.
The engine rattled.
Rust covered parts of the body.
Its headlights looked older than the station itself.
An elderly man stepped out.
His gray beard was neatly trimmed.
His worn leather jacket had faded from years of use.
Every movement was slow but controlled.
He looked like someone life had already defeated.
He quietly inserted the gas nozzle and stared into the darkness.
Then came the roar.
A black sports car screamed into the station, tires squealing across the pavement.
Music exploded from oversized speakers.
Two young men climbed out laughing.
Tyler wore a bright red baseball cap backward.
Brandon, taller and leaner, chewed gum while scanning the nearly empty station.
Then Tyler noticed the old van.
He burst out laughing.
"Man... look at this fossil."
Brandon smirked.
"That thing belongs in a museum."
Neither expected any reaction.
The old man simply continued pumping gas.
Ignoring them somehow made them even angrier.
Tyler walked closer.
"You deaf, Grandpa?"
Nothing.
"You still know how to drive?"
Silence.
Brandon grabbed a soda from the cooler outside and deliberately tossed the empty cup beside the old man's boots.
"Oops."
Still nothing.
The cashier nervously watched through the window.
Something didn't feel right.
The old man finally looked at them.
His eyes were strangely calm.
Not fearful.
Not angry.
Just... calm.
"I only came here for fuel," he said quietly.
"I suggest you enjoy your evening somewhere else."
The two friends burst into louder laughter.
Tyler shoved him lightly.
"Or what?"
No answer.
Brandon stepped beside him.
"You carrying cash?"
The old man slowly removed the gas nozzle and placed it back into the pump.
"I don't have problems."
He looked directly into both their eyes.
"But you are about to."
Something in his voice made Brandon hesitate.
Only for half a second.
Then Tyler reached into his hoodie.
A folding knife snapped open.
Its blade reflected the gas station lights.
The cashier gasped.
Every security camera pointed toward Pump Three.
"Wallet."
Tyler smiled.
"And the phone."
The old man sighed.
A tired sigh.
Almost disappointed.
"I've spent forty-two years trying to avoid hurting people."
He slowly removed an old leather wallet.
Tyler grinned.
"See? Grandpa knows how this works."
But instead of handing over the wallet...
The old man quietly placed it on the hood of the van...
...and rolled up both sleeves.
The faded scars covering his forearms instantly froze Brandon's smile.
Those weren't ordinary scars.
They looked like battlefield scars.
Before either young man understood why...
The old man's posture changed completely.
Gone was the tired grandfather.
Standing before them was someone terrifyingly disciplined.
Someone who looked decades younger.
Someone trained.
Tyler suddenly realized...
May you like
They had chosen the wrong victim.
To Be Continued...
