Ron Donaldo: Rise Of The Apex Don

Chapter 7: Violence of Action

The brass handle of the front door was cold under Ron’s hand. He pushed it open just an inch.

The night air rushed in. It smelled of wet asphalt and danger.

Ron didn't step out. He paused. His eyes, trained in the dark corners of the Pit, caught a flicker of movement across the street. A shadow detached itself from the black van. Then another.

Then, three small red dots appeared on the wood of the doorframe, inches from his face. Laser sights.

"Down!" Ron roared.

He spun around, grabbing The Viper by the waist and tackling her to the floor behind the thick oak bar counter.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The front window of the Velvet Lounge exploded. Glass shards sprayed across the room like diamond dust. The peaceful jazz music was replaced by the deafening sound of suppressed rifle fire. Bullets chewed up the wood where Ron had been standing a second ago.

"Professional," The Viper hissed, pulling a small silver pistol from her garter. She checked the chamber. "They are using suppressors. They don't want to wake the neighbors."

"Stay here," Ron ordered. His voice was calm. Unnaturally calm.

"You have no weapon!" she argued.

Ron looked at the rows of expensive alcohol bottles behind the bar. He grabbed a heavy, square bottle of bourbon. He didn't look like a man under siege. He looked like a man about to do work.

"I don't need a gun," Ron said. "This is my house now."

A metal canister clattered through the broken window. It rolled across the floor, hissing. thick white smoke began to fill the room.

"Breach!" a voice shouted from outside. "Go! Go! Go!"

Heavy boots crunched on the broken glass. The squad was coming in.

Ron didn't wait. He moved to the far end of the bar, near the electrical panel on the wall. He raised the heavy bourbon bottle and smashed it into the fuse box.

Spark. Pop.

The lights in the bar died instantly. The neon sign in the window flickered and went out. The room was plunged into pitch darkness, illuminated only by the faint, gray light of the streetlamps filtering through the smoke.

"Contact front!" the squad leader shouted. "Lights! Cut on the thermals!"

Six men in full tactical gear, wearing helmets and black body armor, swept into the room. They moved in a V-formation, their rifles scanning the darkness.

They were looking for a target to shoot. They didn't realize the target was already behind them.

Ron moved. He didn't run; he flowed. In prison, he had learned that noise was death. He moved on the balls of his feet, silent as a shadow.

The first mercenary was checking behind a booth. Ron stepped out from the darkness. He didn't punch the man. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle with one hand and the man’s throat with the other.

With a violent twist, Ron shoved the rifle up and the man down.

The mercenary gagged. Ron stepped in close, slamming his knee into the man’s solar plexus. The armor absorbed some of the shock, but the force was enough to empty the man’s lungs. He collapsed, gasping for air.

Ron took the man’s combat knife from his belt and vanished back into the smoke before the body even hit the floor.

"Man down!" someone screamed. "Right flank! He’s on the right!"

The squad turned, their laser sights cutting through the smoke like red lightsabers. They fired blindly into the corner. Bullets shredded a velvet sofa.

But Ron wasn't on the right anymore.

He was on top of the bar.

He launched himself into the air. He landed on the second mercenary, a giant of a man holding a shotgun. The impact knocked them both to the ground.

This was the violence of the Pit. There was no grace. There was no mercy.

Ron didn't use the knife to stab. He used the heavy pommel of the handle. He struck the man’s wrist. Crunch. The shotgun clattered away. Ron struck again—hard—against the side of the man’s helmet. The mercenary went limp instantly.

"Fire! Fire at anything that moves!" the leader screamed.

Panic was setting in. These men were soldiers. They were used to fighting wars. They were not used to fighting a ghost in a dark room.

The Viper watched from behind the bar, her pistol raised. She didn't fire. She stared, mesmerized. She had heard the rumors of the Apex, but she had never seen him fight. He wasn't fighting like a brawler. He was fighting like a machine. Every movement had a purpose. Every strike broke a bone or a joint.

Ron picked up a heavy wooden chair. He didn't swing it. He threw it with terrifying accuracy across the room.

It smashed into the third mercenary, knocking him off balance.

Ron closed the distance. He grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it behind his back until the shoulder joint popped with a sickening sound. The man screamed. Ron kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to the ground, then delivered a precise chop to the vagus nerve in the neck. The scream cut off instantly.

Three down. Three to go.

The remaining men huddled together, back to back.

"Where is he?" one whispered, his voice trembling.

"Ceiling!" the leader yelled. "Check the ceiling!"

Ron was crouched behind the piano. He picked up a half-full bottle of high-proof vodka. He took a lighter from his pocket—a cheap plastic lighter he had kept from his "bag of junk."

He lit a napkin, stuffed it in the bottle, and rolled it across the floor.

The flaming bottle stopped at their feet.

The mercenaries scrambled back, distracted by the fire.

Ron attacked.

He swept the legs of the fourth man, sending him crashing into a table. He grabbed the fifth man by the vest and threw him over the bar counter. The man landed on the glass and bottles with a massive crash.

Now, only the leader remained.

The leader was a big man. He dropped his rifle and pulled out a tactical baton. He spun it in his hand, the metal gleaming in the firelight.

"Come on!" the leader shouted at the darkness. "Face me!"

Ron stepped into the light of the burning napkin. His suit was rumpled. His knuckles were bruised. But he wasn't breathing hard. He looked bored.

"You should have brought more men," Ron said softly.

The leader roared and charged. He swung the baton at Ron’s head. It was a kill shot.

Ron didn't flinch. He caught the leader’s wrist in mid-air. The sound of flesh hitting flesh was loud.

The leader’s eyes went wide. He tried to pull back, but Ron’s grip was like an iron vice. Five years of doing pull-ups on rusted bars. Five years of strangling assassins in the showers. Ron’s grip strength was inhuman.

"My turn," Ron whispered.

He twisted the leader’s wrist. The baton fell. Ron stepped in and delivered a short, brutal punch to the man’s ribs. Crack.

The leader doubled over. Ron grabbed him by the back of his tactical vest and rammed him face-first into the grand piano. The strings hummed with a discordant note.

The leader slid to the floor, blood pouring from his broken nose. He tried to crawl away, but Ron stepped on his hand.

"Stay," Ron commanded.

The room fell silent. The smoke swirled. Six men lay on the floor. Some were groaning. Some were unconscious. None of them would be walking for a long time.

The Viper stood up slowly. She holstered her gun. She looked at the carnage.

"You didn't kill them," she said, sounding surprised.

"Dead men tell no tales," Ron said, adjusting his tie. "I need this one to tell a story."

He reached down and grabbed the leader by the collar, hauling him up to a sitting position. The man was dazed, his eyes unfocused.

Ron leaned in close. His face was a mask of cold fury.

"Look at me," Ron said.

The leader blinked, trying to focus on the man who had dismantled his squad in three minutes.

"You go back to Marcus Thorne," Ron said. "You tell him that I am not trapped in here with you. You were trapped in here with me."

The leader nodded weakly, terrified.

"Tell him," Ron continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that if he wants a war, he should wear a helmet. Because I am coming for his head."

Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

He held it up. "Smile."

Click.

The flash illuminated the broken squad. The leader, bloody and beaten. The men groaning in the background. The shattered glass.

Ron tapped the screen. He opened an encrypted email app. He typed in a private address: [e-mail].

Subject: Delivery Failed.

He hit send.

"Get out," Ron said to the leader. "Before I change my mind."

The leader scrambled to his feet, stumbling over his own men, and ran out the door into the rain.

Ron looked at The Viper. She was staring at him with a mix of fear and admiration.

"The police are coming," she said. "We need to leave."

Ron nodded. He looked at the mess. He looked at the blood on his knuckles.

"Let's go," Ron said. "I have a morning meeting."

As they exited through the back door into the alley, Ron’s phone buzzed. It was a reply from Marcus.

Ron didn't open it. He just smiled. He knew what it said. Fear.