Chapter 4 - The SteakhouseDowntown at 11:30 PM was quiet, but The Prime Cut—Sal Vance’s upscale restaurant—was still lit up. The front doors were locked to the public, but through the tinted glass, I could see three men sitting at the horseshoe bar, drinking scotch and smoking cigars.
I parked my truck across the street, reached into the glove box, and pulled out a small, heavy black case. Inside was a tactical radio frequency jammer and a pair of reinforced Kevlar-lined gloves—gear I had kept in my garage for ten years, hoping I’d never have to see it again.
I flipped the jammer switch on. Within fifty yards, all cellular signals, Wi-Fi networks, and radio frequencies died instantly.
I walked across the street, my boots making no sound on the wet asphalt.
The back service entrance of the steakhouse was guarded by a broad-shouldered man in a tight suit with a visible shoulder holster under his jacket. He was leaning against the brick wall, staring down at his smartphone, frowning as his cell signal vanished.
"Hey, buddy," the bouncer called out as I turned into the alleyway. "Kitchen's closed. Get lost."
I didn't answer. I kept walking toward him.
"I said get lost—" He reached inside his jacket toward his holster.
Before his fingers could touch the grip of his firearm, I closed the distance. I grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, slammed his head backward into the brick wall with bone-shattering force, and caught his unconscious body before he hit the ground. I unholstered his 9mm pistol, cleared the chamber, tossed the magazine into a nearby grease dumpster, and slipped through the metal service door into the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty, stainless steel tables gleaming under fluorescent lights.
Through the double swinging doors leading to the main dining room, I heard a thick, raspy voice laughing.
"I tell you, Tommy, the kid's got potential," Sal Vance was saying. "He's got that killer instinct. Just needs to stop letting his broads talk back to him."
I pushed the swinging doors open and stepped into the dining room.
Sal Vance sat at a corner booth surrounded by three armed lieutenants. He was fifty-five, wearing a pin-striped suit, gold rings glistening on his thick fingers, holding a glass of twenty-year-old whiskey.
When he saw me standing near the kitchen entrance—a gray-bearded man in a flannel shirt with bloodstains on his boots—his laughter died.
"Who the hell let this guy in?" Sal growled, setting his glass down.
The two lieutenants beside him stood up, reaching beneath their jackets.
"Sal," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet restaurant like a gunshot. "Your nephew broke my daughter's ribs tonight."
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Sal’s eyes narrowed, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his face. "Ah. You're the girl's father. I was wondering when you'd show up. You're a little late, old man. And you walked into the wrong room."
He gestured to his men. "Take him out back. Make it slow."
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