Reckoning - 1. Chapter 1

The mixology club resided in an up-and-coming neighborhood inside a steel warehouse. The group ended with everyone sampling each other’s brew and tasting the master blends. Peter Tork put his heart and soul into his distillery. Receiving rave reviews for his beer, he named Killer cold. Once a week he held a class for the novice who wanted to start their own business or try something new. At the end of class, Peter waited for his students to leave before putting on his coat and grabbing his shoulder bag. He did a walkthrough making sure things were in place. He was aware of break-ins in the neighborhood. Confident with his security system; he shut off his equipment and turned off the lights. He moved to leave when he heard a bottle kicked across the floor echoed from behind.

“Hello?” Peter’s voice rippled through the room. A misplaced bottle fell over, or the wind caused the movement, he thought. The evening air was still, and he was sure he locked the windows. He kept a side door opened in case someone was late or had trouble finding the building. A stray might have gotten in and couldn’t find their way out. Too tired to search them out, wanting to go home. He reached into his pouch, removing water and a half-eaten chicken sandwich. He opened both and placing them on the floor, he found a bowl and emptied the water into it and placed it beside the food.

This will have to do, he figured, moving to activate the security system. He heard a door closed, breaking his progress and stopping his motion as he faced the sound. “Okay if anyone is in here I’m closing up and I need you to go now!” he yelled. No response. Fed up. Peter removed his cell phone, pressing in the password. When the light glowed, another bang occurred behind him, causing him to face it. “What the fuck!” he cried. When again another crash, this time closer to him as he felt something bounce off his pants leg. He jumped, turning and eyeing broken glass at his feet. He stepped back, glancing left and right. His heart rate doubled as he tensed for a fight. “Okay, I’m calling the police!” he barked. Peter focused on his cell when the lights came on, then shut off. Peter opened his mouth to speak when something sharp pushed into his lower back. A twisting tug dug into his torso as a blood spilled from him. He cried out as the person behind him pushed him forward. Peter stumbled, nearly dropping his phone. Panic took over as he dashed forward away from his attacker, still holding his cell. Shockwave of pain raced through his body. It was difficult to focus as he moved to the back door that was straight ahead while he dialed for the police. His leg was going numb as he reached out for the door’s push bar. The burning pain entered his body again, this time in the back of his thigh. He slumped to one knee dropping his cell trying not to fall any further.

“Please…” he begged. “I don’t want to die… take whatever you want,” he sobbed. When looking back, no one was there. He gasped and groaned out a breath and struggled to his feet clutching his cell limping towards the exit. The door bolted from the outside so all he needed to do was push it open out into the alley. He scanned his two choices to run, right to the loading docks left towards a narrow path to the main street. His head swayed from the loss of blood. He tried to dial his cell again. For the final time a cool blade touched his throat and a wet hot sensation raced down his neck. The pain and realization made him to drop his cell and stumble forward. Hands grabbed him and rushed him through the alley, slamming him into a wall. He dropped hard as his body went still.

*****

The cave closed on a high note with great profits. Not too many underage fake IDs, only two counterfeit hundred-dollar bills they caught. Jennifer Green locked up saying goodbye to her staff. She parked her motorcycle at the alley’s edge. One of her employees offered to walk her to her bike she declined. She was in her late forties but still able to defend herself should anyone get any ideas. Her father started taking her to the gym with him when she was nine years old and let her take up boxing, which she still practiced three times a week.

The crisp evening air bit at her cheeks as she turned up the collar to her leather quarter length coat and thrusting her hands into lined leather gloves. Her bike was her pride and joy, a gift from the one she loved. She turned off the alarm on her bike as she approached. The light flickering as always. She swung her leg over to mount when something caught her attention.