Deadly Secrets

Chapter 12: The Jaguars

[Revised]

Max stood motionlessly on the side of the road. His body remained frigid while his head mechanically turned from left to right, his eyes impassively scanning the passing vehicles. With a gloved thumb, he subconsciously stroked the blank screen of his phone as he waited for the buzzing of an incoming call. It was passed four in the morning, and his ride still hadn't bothered to show up, despite the fact that he had called for it a little more than a half hour ago.

Could my father's employees be any more useless? 

The nocturnal arctic breeze enveloped Max. It nipped at the parts of his flesh that weren't covered by his sweater and left behind goose-bumps across his arms and neck, which quickly propagated themselves to the rest of his body like seismic waves in an earthquake. A deep shudder soon followed the initial tremors, and he tilted his head back, his hands clenching into fists as he dug them into his pockets.

After he recomposed himself, pocketed his bandana and lifted his wrist to his gaze, with the intent to check the time. Then he remembered that he had left his Rolex back at the apartment so that it wouldn't get in the way of attacking his target.

Zara hadn't been easy to pin down, despite the information handed to Max from his father's men. In fact, he managed to get her alone just by pure luck. She was like a bar of soap, elusive and impossible to hold in place without sheer willpower and brute force. No amount of intel had helped him; knowing her parents birth and death, her workplace, and her favourite desert wasn't what led him to following her into that alley.

A nobody at school, a skilled-thief at night. Who would've fucking thought. 

"Hey, you!" A voice tore him out of his thoughts.

Max slowly turned his head towards the disturbance.

Four figures rose from the shadows, materialising into four men with buzz cuts. Max immediately associated the voice with the guy in the middle, who walked ahead of the others with an air of confidence about him. He had several drawings tattooed across his face and neck and piercings that marred his features. The ones behind him closely followed his steps like lost puppies, careful to maintain a respectful distance between themselves and their leader.

A gang.

This should be fun.

Max twisted his torso from left to right, feigning stupidity, "Who, me?" He asked, knowing very well that there was no one else besides him on that street. The man easily swallowed Max's hook, line, and sinker. As expected.

"We caught a big one, guys," he sneered, turning to his companions. They forcibly laughed at what was supposed to be a joke, flanking him when he stopped a metre away from Max.

"I'm sorry, am I missing something?" Max inquired sarcastically, wanting an excuse to beat the plebe's face into a pulp.

"Yes, you are, idiot. What are you doing in our territory?"

"Your territory? I didn't see your piss anywhere," Max countered, a smirk on his face. The man's eyes widened into golf-balls, and the other guys took a step towards Max.

"What did you say to me, punk?" He pulled out a switch-knife from his pocket, flicking the blade into view as he walked until he was just a few centimetres away from Max. The others also pulled out their toys.

The fool was considerably shorter than Max, about a head, so he had to tilt his head back to look up at him. Max was a moment away from laughing in his face at how pathetic he was being, thinking that a bunch of pocket knives would be of any threat to him, but he decided to continue playing.