Stefan Granger pulled his second Buick in two days to the curb, having ditched his other car and purchased a replacement after the brothel mission. He considered what weapons he would need for his current undertaking. After some thought, he decided on his bare fists, with the silenced Beretta in his coat as a backup. He wasn’t excited about what he was about to do, but it was a necessity. Unser had grown increasingly bolder with his threats, and now the old man had sealed his fate by sending federal agents to the cemetery. Normally, cops at the graveyard weren’t a problem for Granger, because they were either dead or grieving. It did bother him, however, to have officers hunting him down and discovering the place where he had spent half his life.
It was a rare stroke of luck that the agents hadn’t probed deeper or asked to speak with the caretaker.
Granger had once considered Leland Unser to be a friend, but now his old mentor had betrayed him to his enemies. And Father had always taught him that revenge should be swift and complete.
Stepping from the Buick and locking the old vehicle’s door manually with the key, Stefan Granger walked toward the brick-and-glass facade of Unser’s Gym. The place had undergone three makeovers since the days when he had started his training. He didn’t particularly like the new look. There was something a bit too girly and self-absorbed about it. But Granger also understood that anyone in the service industry had to adapt to the needs of their clientele.
He knew the door would be locked and the gym closed. Unser, a devout Catholic, refused access to his facilities on a Sunday to all but his chosen few.
Through the glass, Granger saw Unser and several of his guys practicing footwork. He removed his silenced Beretta and shot out the glass of the gym’s entry door. As he stepped over the broken shards, pistol still in hand, he had everyone’s attention. There were five of them, not including the old man. He recognized the group as one of Unser’s primary trainers and his four top guys.
Granger smiled as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his muscles. If he was going to murder his mentor, he might as well have some fun while doing it.
Unser stepped forward and yelled, “You crazy son of a bitch! You have some real balls busting in here. But I guess anyone can pretend to be a big man when he’s holding a gun.”
Still smiling, Granger undid the slide on the Beretta and pulled back the mechanism, essentially rendering the weapon useless until it was reassembled. Then he gently laid the gun atop one of the nearby weight benches.
Granger saw the fear in Leland Unser’s eyes. The old man had trained him during his youth and knew what he was capable of. Or, at least, the old man thought he did. In truth, Unser had only seen a fraction of the methods of destruction at Granger’s disposal.
He ran his fingers across a straight bar, which rested on the supports above the bench. It was a standard Olympic-sized bar that someone had apparently been using to bench-press. It was much like the one he had at home, except this one had started to bend slightly from neglect.
He could hear the other men scuttling about and arming themselves, but he ignored them. Unser said, “Why are you here, kid?”
“You know what you did. Don’t add insult to injury by playing dumb. Do you remember what you told me when I came to you to be trained? I could never afford your fees, but I begged you to let me work off the debt. Do you remember the warning you gave me?”
Unser looked toward the floor, regret in his eyes. Then he whispered, “I told you the thing about making a deal with the devil is that, one way or another, the devil always collects.”
Stefan laughed. “You always did have a way with words, old man.”
“And you always had a way with your fists. You’re the best fighter I’ve ever trained, and yet you’re my biggest disappointment.”
Granger had been prepared to hear something along those lines, but the insult still stung. He had once idolized the barrel-chested old boxer. But he had outgrown fighting for sport, preferring battles with higher stakes. For him, fighting wasn’t a game; it was a way of life, an existential philosophy.
Unser asked, “Who told you about the feds?”
He replied, “One of your stable of young studs informed me about the visit and the information you gave them. You really can’t trust anyone these days.”
To Unser’s credit, he didn’t try to deny the allegation. He said, “I always suspected that some kind of cop would show up asking questions about you and your Diamond Room. I think I always knew you were a monster. I just thought maybe you could be my monster. I thought maybe I could beat that out of you, show you a better way. But I made up my mind a long time ago that if anyone ever came asking about you, then I would send them out to your dad at the cemetery. I figured he would be the only one who really knew what rock you were hiding under and how to find you.”
“Why do you take such offense to my choice of profession?”
“’Profession’? You use the skills I taught you to kill people. That practically makes me an accessory.”
“You realize the consequences of your actions?” Granger looked up and saw that all of Unser’s top guys had armed themselves. One gripped a baseball bat that he must have retrieved from the back office. Another held a switchblade. Another had grabbed two thirty-five pound dumbbells, apparently planning to use them like weighted gloves. Granger recognized the final opponent as Unser’s number-one contender prospect. This last man simply cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.
Stefan Granger removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Then he stepped up to the Olympic straight bar and snatched it up one-handed. Then, to test the weight and balance of his new weapon, Granger spun the forty-five pound Olympic bar as if it was a bow staff, twirling it through the air and around his body.
After a few seconds of showing off, Granger looked at his opponents with a lopsided grin and whispered, “Get over here.”
The young prospect with the aluminum baseball bat rushed in first, ready to hit a homerun. An aluminum bat wasn’t a bad weapon, in the right hands. The thing about a bat or club was that the wielder needed lots of room for the swing, which wasn’t a problem in the open gym.
Unfortunately for him, the softball slugger had completely underestimated the speed at which Granger could wield his makeshift bow staff. What his opponents didn’t know was that, between sets, Granger would often grab a bar and spin it like a weapon. Not that he had ever intended to use one while in combat, but the heavy training increased the strength of his blows with a lighter staff.
Now, just as he had practiced so many times, he whipped up the end of the Olympic bar and connected it with the onrushing power of the baseball bat. The two metal objects collided with a resounding clang. The young man holding the bat screamed in pain as the intense vibrations traveled up the bat to the muscles in his arms. Obviously, he had forgotten how well aluminum bats transferred force.
The attacker’s arms dropped to the ground as they absorbed the vibration. But Granger wasn’t done yet. He spun on his heels and twisted the other side of the Olympic bar back to collide with his attacker’s skull. Metal connected with bone in a sickening crunch, and Granger drove the blow home, pushing the man all the way to the floor and slamming the bar flat against the concrete, crushing his opponent’s skull.
Blood spattered all over Granger’s face and torso.
Thinking of his days as the undisputed Mortal Kombat champion, he said, “Flawless victory. Who’s next?”