Page 51 of Scar

That was not his place.

It never would be.

Tally belonged in the spotlight, making people happy with her food and astounding them with her abilities. Scar’s place… It was a much darker and more dangerous place, where ghosts and demons reigned. Scar’s soul was far too black to ever belong anywhere except the shadows.

It took some navigating to get up to Gordon Tremont’s office. Unfortunately, Scar did not find the man there, but a still-smoking cigar on the man’s desk hinted that he was on property. Either that, or one of his lackeys had been dipping his fingers in the boss’s supply of Cubans. From the smell, it was aCohiba 55 Aniversarioand Scar knew from Steel that those ran around three hundredpercigar. Steel had one in his office at the clubhouse that he’d never lit, a gift when he’d retired from the Marines. He still enjoyed smelling it and had offered Scar a sniff once.

Looking around the large metal building, Scar didn’t see that much activity inside. He headed out the back, thinking perhaps there was an issue with a shipment or one of the men that had pulled the boss away from his expensive cigar.

Floodlights lit up the dock area from the roof overhead. There was a loading area of about forty feet of black pavement between the warehouse and the fence line. Trees from the National Park surrounded the fence. They weren’t that far from the Chattahoochee River. If this past month in Atlanta had convinced Scar of anything, it was that he was much more comfortable in a small town like Mount Grove than he ever would be living in a city.

But Tally seemed to thrive in the city life.

Scar shook his head. Not that that mattered. Once he left Atlanta, he was never coming back and he would never see Tally Meacham again.

It didn’t take long for Scar to find Tremont. The man was wearing a three-piece suit in the middle of a warehouse loading area and lighting up another cigar. Either the one upstairs wasn’t his or he was lighting up another because he was too lazy to go back for his first.

“What’s the missus going to say ‘bout yous smokin’ again, boss?” The speaker had a very strong southern accent.

There were three men standing close to Tremont. Unlike the other workers who were wearing jumpsuits and boots, these men were in khakis and a polo. If Scar had passed them on the streets, he would have called them ‘salesmen’.

Tremont raised a trimmed eyebrow. “The day I allow a woman to rule my life is the day the universe can cut off my balls and make me the bitch in the relationship.” He hollowed his cheeks as he took a pull of the cigar. He blew the smoke up into the air. “Besides, I’m celebrating tonight.”

“Neo taking care of the restaurant?” Another man asked. He was smoking a cigarette.

Tremont nodded as he puffed on his cigar again. “I had hoped to take care of business legally, but the bitch wouldn’t relent. I was losing patience and, after my lawyers told me it wasn’t worth the hassle anymore, I told Neo to destroy the restaurant by any means.”

“You know that means he’s going to burn it to the ground?” the man with the cigarette asked. Based on body language, Scar put him as the one closest to Tremont. Not physically, but almost like a friend. He seemedcomfortablewith Tremont, despite him being the boss.

“Here’s hoping,” Tremont chuckled. Scar looked in the direction Tremont was staring off at but could only see the workers loading the trucks like bees gathering pollen. “My only regret is that he can’t burn the place down with the blind bitch inside because a murder investigation would hold up the sale even more. But fuck, that bitch was annoying.”

Scar. Saw. Red.

As the men all laughed at Tremont’s murderous remark, Scar stepped from the shadows. He drew two knives. Damn the cameras and damn the floodlights. Tremont would not be the only man to die tonight.

But he would be thelast.

Scar’s blades took out the tendons in the back of Tremont’s knees to prevent his escape. Tremont’s spilled blood and screams of pain were the first of the massacre that followed. The three lackeys who’d laughed at the prospect of Tally’s death died slow and painful deaths on the pavement, their arteries severed or lungs punctured like a child’s balloon.

Other workers heard the cries of pain and came running. Some had guns, others had tire irons, and others had no weapon but their fists. Scar took them all out. Any who came after him, any who tried to defend the man who had wished Tally harm.

He was drenched in blood, but he kept fighting, kept slaughtering.

Tremont watched it all from his place on the ground, his useless legs unable to bear his weight to take him away. When he reached for a cellphone, a throwing star pierced the screen and took off at least two fingers.

When men tried to run, Scar gave chase. Pain did not register to him. If he was injured, he did not pay attention or allow it to slow him down.

Finally, the only man left breathing was Tremont. The pitiful man spluttered and pleaded for his life as Scar approached him, stepping over the dead bodies of Tremont’s men. His words fell on deaf ears. Nothing would prevent Scar from ending this man’s life, ending this threat to Tally.

Spotting a gas tank next to the side of the building, likely to top off the delivery trucks prior to departure, Scar felt a sense of poetic justice. Scar grabbed the handle of the gas nozzle and dragged the long hose over to where Tremont was now trying to crawl away on his stomach, using just his arms.

Scar didn’t try to stop him. Instead, he pulled the lever, releasing the potent smelling gasoline. He set the trigger lock to hold the lever open and dropped the handle to the ground. The fumes were heavy in the air as the liquid pooled, gravity pulled it along the pavement towards Tremont’s expensive loafers.

Spotting the man’s cigar he’d dropped when Scar had cut the ligaments behind his knees, Scar picked it up. He waited patiently for the gasoline to touch the soles of Tremont’s shoes before he tossed the burning cigar into the gas.

The man had gotten his wish that someone would burn tonight. It just wasn’t the ‘someone’ Gordon Tremont had hoped.

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