Chapter 10: The Protection Racket Returns
Ben's Danger Intuition detonated at 3:17 AM like a bomb in his skull.
He jerked awake, heart hammering, the sensation so overwhelming he nearly vomited. Not the soft pulse of ambient threat. Not even the sharp spike of immediate danger. This was a full-body alarm, every nerve screaming wrongness.
The garage.
He was moving before conscious thought caught up, pulling on jeans and a jacket, grabbing the tire iron he kept by his mattress. The cold February air bit through his clothes as he ran the two blocks to his workspace.
The roll-up door was open.
Ben stopped at the corner, breathing hard. His Danger Intuition showed him what was inside before he looked: two people, armed with blunt instruments, waiting. Marcus and Ray. And they'd brought violence with them.
He could run. Leave the city, abandon everything he'd built. His Danger Intuition suggested it might be the smart choice.
But running meant leaving the Gallaghers. Mrs. Rodriguez. Kevin. Everyone he'd started to care about. And Marcus would just find new targets, would punish people for Ben's escape.
Ben walked toward the open garage, hands visible, tire iron held loose and unthreatening.
Marcus stood in the center of the workspace, illuminated by the overhead fluorescent. Around him, Ben's carefully organized tools were scattered—thrown, broken, destroyed with systematic efficiency. His workbench was overturned. Equipment smashed. The space heater kicked across the concrete floor, its housing cracked.
Ray leaned against the far wall, baseball bat resting on his shoulder, wearing a smile that promised pain.
"Ben," Marcus said calmly. "Good. Thought we might have to wait longer."
Ben's MacGyver Mind cataloged the damage automatically. Hundred fifty dollars in destroyed tools, minimum. Two hundred if the workbench was beyond repair. The heater alone was sixty bucks.
"What's this about?" Ben asked, though he knew.
"Your connections. Bridgeport crew, Matty's operation. Remember that story?"
"Yeah."
"Funny thing. I checked. Called in some favors, asked around. You know what I found?"
Ben's stomach dropped.
"Nobody knows you. Matty's never heard of you. Bridgeport crew doesn't extend protection this far north." Marcus's voice stayed calm, conversational. Almost friendly. "Which means you lied. Made me look stupid in front of my people. That's disrespectful, Ben. Costs extra."
Ben's Danger Intuition pulsed steady warnings. If he fought, he'd lose—Ray was bigger, armed, and Marcus was smart enough to have backup positioned outside. If he paid, he'd be owned forever, each payment escalating until he had nothing. If he ran, they'd target the people he cared about to make examples.
No good options. Only degrees of bad.
"How much?" Ben asked.
"Back payments. Fifty a week since you opened, that's six weeks. Three hundred. Plus interest, that's another hundred. Plus lying tax." Marcus smiled without warmth. "Call it six hundred total. Due now."
Six hundred dollars. Ben had maybe three hundred in his cash box, scraped together through two months of work. The rest would require... what? Stealing? Using his illusion power to create fake money that would revert in six hours and make this situation catastrophically worse?
"I don't have that much," Ben said.
"Then you've got a problem."
Ray pushed off from the wall, bat swinging casually. "We could take it out of your ass instead."
Ben's Silver Tongue activated, words flowing with desperate precision. "You break my hands, I can't work. Can't pay you anything. But I've got something better than money."
"Yeah?" Marcus's expression didn't change. "What's that?"
"Information. Connections. Not Bridgeport—that was bullshit, you're right. But real ones. People who want things cleaned, moved, made to disappear. I'm sitting in the middle of a neighborhood full of stolen goods, hot merchandise, things that need paperwork. You break me, you lose that resource."
"Or I just take over your shop."
"You don't have my skills. Can't fix what I can fix. Can't do what I do." Ben was improvising now, letting his power guide him. "Give me a week. Let me prove I'm worth more whole than broken. I'll pay double what I owe, plus I'll work your merchandise. Clean it, document it, make it sellable."
Marcus studied him with the cold calculation of a businessman evaluating assets. Ray looked disappointed—he'd wanted the violence.
"One week," Marcus said finally. "But not six hundred. Make it a thousand. And if you can't deliver, we don't just break your hands. We burn this place down with you in it."
The garage door rolled up further behind them.
Frank Gallagher stumbled in, drunk and loud and somehow perfectly timed.
"What the hell?" Frank's voice carried outrage and slurred indignation. "Marcus, you piece of shit, what're you doing in my partner's shop?"
Marcus's expression flickered—surprise, annoyance, recognition. "Frank. This doesn't concern you."
"Doesn't concern—" Frank laughed, the sound carrying genuine amusement despite the alcohol. "Ben here's my business partner. My associate. You're vandalizing my investment, and you think it doesn't concern me?"
"Your partner lied about connections. That's between him and us."
"Lied?" Frank approached with the shambling confidence of a chronic drunk who'd learned to weaponize his instability. "Kid's running from Chicago mob. Real ones, not nickel-and-dime protection rackets. Russian outfit out of Pilsen. You hurt him, they'll come looking. And trust me, Marcus, you don't want that kind of attention."
Ben's jaw nearly dropped. Frank was spinning the most absurd elaboration of Ben's earlier lie, adding details that were simultaneously ridiculous and convincing. Russian mob. Pilsen. It was all bullshit, but Frank sold it with the conviction of a method actor.
Marcus's expression changed. Not belief, exactly. But uncertainty. The cost-benefit analysis shifting.
"Russian mob," Marcus said flatly.
"Why you think he's hiding in South Side? Working for scraps? He's laying low. Waiting for heat to die down." Frank pointed at Ben. "Tell him. Tell him about Yuri."
Ben's Silver Tongue activated reflexively. "I'd rather not bring that up."
"See? Doesn't want to talk about it. Traumatic situation, fleeing for his life. Now you're threatening him, and his Russian friends—who are already jumpy—might decide Chicago's got too much heat." Frank leaned closer to Marcus, voice dropping to a stage whisper. "They'll burn this whole neighborhood down looking for whoever hurt their boy. Is fifty bucks a week worth that?"
The story was insane. Transparently false to anyone paying attention. But Frank delivered it with such commitment, such genuine concern, that it created doubt.
And doubt was enough.
"One week," Marcus said, stepping back. "Thousand dollars, or we revisit this conversation with permanent solutions. And Frank? If you're lying to me, you're first on my list."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Marcus and Ray left. Ben listened to their footsteps fade, the crunch of boots on frozen pavement, the slam of a car door. An engine starting. Driving away.
Silence.
Frank dropped the drunk act instantly. Studied Ben with predatory intelligence that had nothing to do with alcohol.
"So," Frank said. "Russian mob. That's what we're going with?"
"I didn't ask you to—"
"You're welcome. And now you owe me." Frank's smile was sharp. "I just saved your ass with the most ridiculous lie I could think of, and Marcus bought it because I sold it hard. That's worth something."
"What do you want?"
"Bigger cut on our merchandise partnership. Fifty-fifty instead of sixty-forty. Plus favors to be determined. Plus you help me with a thing I've got coming up."
Ben's Danger Intuition pulsed warnings. Accepting Frank's terms meant deeper involvement with someone fundamentally unreliable. But refusing meant facing Marcus alone with no backup and no believable story.
"Fine," Ben said.
"Excellent." Frank clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the big leagues, kid. Try not to die."
He left, humming something off-key, back to full drunk performance the moment he hit the street.
Ben stood in his demolished garage and tried to process what had just happened. Marcus had escalated. Frank had intervened. The lie had grown more elaborate and more dangerous.
And he now owed Frank Gallagher favors that would inevitably come due in the worst possible ways.
Footsteps approached from outside. Ben tensed, then relaxed when Kevin's head appeared in the doorway.
"Heard Marcus paid you a visit," Kevin said, surveying the damage. "You okay?"
"Define okay."
"Fair point." Kevin stepped inside, started picking up scattered tools. "I can teach you to fight. Basic self-defense. Won't help against Marcus's crew, but might make you less of an easy target."
"Appreciate that."
They worked in silence for a while, restoring order to chaos. Kevin asked no questions about what had been said, what deals had been made. Just helped clean up, solid and dependable in a way that made Ben's chest ache.
This is what friendship looks like here. Showing up at 4 AM to help clean up after your neighbor gets threatened.
When the worst of the damage was cleared, Kevin paused. "Frank vouched for you. That's... complicated. He doesn't do that for people. Must see something useful in you."
"Lucky me."
"I'm serious. Frank's a piece of shit, but he's got survival instincts. If he's protecting you, he's planning to use you. Watch your back."
"I will."
Kevin left eventually, promising to return later with breakfast. Ben finished the cleanup alone, each repaired tool a meditation on how quickly safety became an illusion.
He'd lied to Marcus. Again. And this time, Frank had made the lie bigger, more dangerous, more likely to collapse spectacularly. The Russian mob story wouldn't hold up to serious scrutiny.
Which meant Ben had one week to either find a thousand dollars or run. And running meant abandoning everyone he'd started to care about.
The sun rose over South Side, pale and cold. Ben locked the garage and walked back to his sleeping space. His hands were shaking from adrenaline crash. His head throbbed from extended Danger Intuition use. But he was alive.
For now.
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