Chapter 3 - The Black Rolls-Royce
The thug with the photograph waved it in the air.
“Your wife?” he mocked. “She must’ve been blind.”
His friends burst into laughter again.
Harold closed his eyes for a moment. Not because the insult hurt more than the fall, but because he could almost hear his wife’s voice telling him not to answer hate with hate.
He reached for the photograph.
The thug pulled it away.
“Say please louder.”
Harold’s fingers trembled against the pavement. His palms were scraped. His breathing had turned rough. One medicine bottle rolled toward the gutter, and a passing shoe nearly crushed it.
“Please,” Harold whispered.
“Can’t hear you.”
The leader crouched beside him and reached into Harold’s coat pocket. He pulled out a few coins, a folded receipt, and a small silver pin wrapped in cloth.
The moment Harold saw the pin in the thug’s hand, his expression changed.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
“Do not touch that,” Harold said.
The leader noticed the difference and grinned. “Oh? This important?”
He unwrapped the cloth.
Inside was a silver emblem shaped like a winged shield. It was old, scratched, and heavy, with tiny letters carved along the edge. None of the thugs understood what it meant.
But someone in the crowd did.
An elderly man near the bus stop suddenly went pale. His eyes widened as he stared at the pin.
“No way,” he whispered.
Before anyone could ask what he meant, a deep engine sound rolled through the street.
Smooth.
Expensive.
Controlled.
A sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled silently to the curb, its polished surface reflecting the shocked faces around it. Traffic seemed to slow. Conversations died. Even the four thugs turned their heads.
The rear door opened.
A tall man in a dark suit stepped out first. Then another. Both wore earpieces, both scanned the street with cold precision, and both froze when they saw Harold on the ground.
One of them spoke sharply into his sleeve.
Then the final door opened.
A man in his late forties stepped out, dressed in a tailored black coat. His face was calm, but his eyes carried the kind of authority that made people move before being told.
The crowd parted without understanding why.
The four thugs stopped laughing.
The man walked straight toward Harold.
Then he saw the silver pin in the leader’s hand.
May you like
His face hardened.
In a voice low enough to chill the entire sidewalk, he said, “Put that down before you lose the only chance I’m giving you.”
