Chapter 2 - THE COLD METAL COLLAR
"Carrie—" Marcus started, his voice a frayed wire snapping under the weight of the night. He reached out to grab her elbow, but stopped himself just short of her jacket.
He didn't want to startle the beast.
Raleigh stood rooted to the cracked concrete of their front walkway. His massive chest expanded and contracted with slow, deliberate breaths. The low rumble in his throat wasn't directed at Marcus, nor at Carrie. It was directed at the house.
"He won't come in," Carrie repeated. Her small hand slid from the dog's thick neck down to the heavy leather collar around his throat. "He smells something wrong, Marc."
"It's just our house, Care. It smells like old laundry and cheap pine cleaner," Marcus said, trying to force a reassuring tone he didn't feel. "Come on. Let's just get inside and lock the doors. We shouldn't even have this—this monster with us."
"He's not a monster," she whispered. Her fingers traced the thick leather of Raleigh's collar, stopping suddenly at a cold, hard square of metal bolted near the buckle. "Marcus. Come feel this."
Marcus stepped closer, his eyes darting down the empty, shadow-drenched street. The streetlights flickered, casting long, nervous silhouettes against the pavement. He knelt beside his sister, acutely aware of the dog's yellow eyes tracking his every micro-movement.
"Just touch right here," Carrie guided his hand.
Marcus felt the metal square. It wasn't a standard dog tag. It was thick, heavy, and completely flush against the leather. A faint, rhythmic pulse vibrated against his fingertips.
"It's a tracker," Marcus breathed, his stomach plummeting. "Of course. You really think Sean was just going to let a million dollars—and his prize fighting dog—walk away with two kids from the south side?"
"It's not just a tracker," Carrie said quietly. "It's a lock. Like the ones on the heavy doors at the bank."
Before Marcus could ask how a blind eight-year-old knew what a magnetic door lock felt like, Raleigh's ears pinned flat against his skull. The dog didn't bark. He didn't growl. He simply positioned his massive body directly between Carrie and the front door of their house.
The front door that was, Marcus suddenly realized, open just a crack.
He had locked the deadbolt. He was certain of it. He checked it three times every night since their father vanished.
"Stay behind the dog," Marcus whispered, slowly reaching into his jacket for the heavy wrench he carried when he walked home late.
"Marc, wait," Carrie said, her voice trembling for the first time. "Listen."
Marcus strained his ears. From inside the dark, quiet house, he heard it. The heavy, wet sound of someone dragging a boot across the linoleum floor. Then, a sharp, ragged intake of breath.
A shadow separated itself from the darkness of the hallway.
The front door groaned as it was pushed all the way open. A man stepped out onto the porch, clutching his side. His tailored suit was no longer pristine. The left side was stained a deep, shining crimson.
It was Sean.
The mafia boss who had stood like a king in the arena less than an hour ago was now leaning heavily against their porch railing, leaving a smear of blood on the chipped white paint. In his right hand, his gun was lowered, completely out of bullets. In his left hand, he held something small and glinting in the faint moonlight.
"I didn't come to take the dog back," Sean gasped, his voice tight with agony. He coughed, a wet, terrible sound. "I came because... they already knew."
Marcus raised the wrench, stepping in front of Carrie. "Who knew? Knew what? Get away from my sister."
Sean slid down the porch post, landing heavily on the wooden floorboards. He tossed the glinting object onto the grass at Marcus's feet.
It was a silver Zippo lighter, deeply scratched on one side.
May you like
"They knew about the whistle," Sean forced out, his eyes dimming. "Your father didn't disappear, Marcus. He was taken. And the men who took him... they just took over my syndicate."
Sean's head lolled back against the wood. "And they're coming for the girl."
