The scarred man did not pause to see whether or not Adélard had heard. He charged forward —the serrated blade flashing a wicked silver curve through the heavy fog that blanketed the dockside.
Adélard didn't flinch. At seventeen, his body was already a map of old lessons learned in the gutters of Marseille, etched in bruises and the sharp, sudden stabs of adrenaline.
The knife sliced past Adélard's left cheek so closely that he could taste the cheap grease coating the metal. Still, he refused to step back. In the banlieues, backing away from a fight invited a violent burial. Instead, Adélard slid into motion with a speed and precision that was terrifying. He caught the man's wrist mid-air and clamped down on it as though it were a rat trapped by a steel cage. Then he brought the base of his palm smashing into the man's leading elbow.
The joint gave way with a sickening crackle, like a brittle winter branch breaking underfoot.
The man gasped for breath in shock, releasing his grip on the knife which fell to splash in a puddle of oily water. However, Adélard was still far from done. He closed in on the man until they were almost touching and delivered a fast elbow to the temple which dropped the man flat into a heap of stacked rusty shipping containers.
The other four dockworkers did not hesitate. When they saw their leader fall they immediately retreated inwardly, bellowing a chorus of boots pounding on wet concrete.
"Behind me, Leon," Adélard commanded calmly.
He quickly dispatched the first of the attackers with deadly efficiency. Wide swinging motions wasted too much energy; each strike was quick and direct — aimed squarely at breaking bones. He blocked a powerful fist with his right forearm and countered with a throat-jabbing blow that sent the attacker stumbling backward, whereupon he swung around and used the weight of the dropping attacker to deliver a sideways kick that sent the next attacker tumbling into a heap of wooden pallets.
Another heavy boot caught Adélard in the ribs from behind. Breath escaped from his lungs, filling it with a searing white-hot pain. Stumbling backward, tasting blood in his mouth, his mind however remained cool and detached. He saw another blade flashing toward him and twisted to avoid its path. Grabbing a length of discarded iron piping from the wet ground, he then spun and parried a knife thrust with the piping. Metal on metal rang loudly through the deserted shipyard. Following the block, he crushed the ribs of the attacker he'd parried. Spinning again, using his momentum, he swept the legs of the last remaining attacker. Before he could even recover from being knocked down, Adélard slammed the piping across the man's chest.
In less than five minutes, there was complete silence except for the labored breathing of the wounded men lying on the ground. Standing amidst the chaos, Adélard surveyed his surroundings. His hands were covered in blood (most of it not his). He resembled some sort of phantom from Hell — his blonde hair matted with sweat and dripping with fatigue, his eyes blazing with an unadulterated defiance bordering on insanity.
"Enough,"
Hector spoke as if a shovel was scraping gravel. The voice came from the darkness of the warehouse entrance.
A small wiry man emerged into the faint glow provided by a flickering overhead lamp. His wrinkled face seemed etched in years of worn leather and deep creases. He wore a battered hat pulled low over his eyes and a glowing cigarette hung limply from his lips.
"Hector," one of the fallen thugs muttered, his voice shaking.
Hector ignored the men scattered on the ground. He approached Adélard with deliberate slowness, examining him as if sizing up salvaged wreckage dragged from the harbor. Three feet from Adélard, Hector stopped and blew out a soft plume of smoke that drifted upward into the fog.
"Well, well...Adélard Aschemist..." Hector drawled, squinting at him. "It seems you have quite a bit of your father's fire in you — and quite a few of his brutalities."
Still wary, Adélard didn't relax his stance. Throbbing knuckles and a wavy blur danced at the edge of his vision, but he maintained his footing.
"Is my mother alive?" Adélard asked.
Hector took another long drag on his cigarette.
Hector took a long drag from his cigarette. "Adélaïde is a hard worker, but she stepped into a world that doesn't forgive mistakes. She was supposed to deliver a package for a man named Rourke. She never showed up".
"Did Rourke take her?" Leon whispered from behind Adélard, barely audible above the rhythmic lapping of waves against ships' hulls.
Hector glanced at Leon.
"Rourke doesn't just take people, little one. He takes collateral. Until that package is delivered, your mother belongs to the shadows of this port" .
Adélard felt a cold realization sink heavily onto his shoulders like lead weights. What was taking place was no longer simply searching — it was contracting. Men controlling harbors only understood two concepts — "debt" and "delivery".
"What was in the package?" Adélard demanded.
"It doesn't matter," Hector responded as he flicked ash from his cigarette onto damp stone below. "What matters is Rourke will receive a new shipment soon — and Rourke needs someone capable of moving undetected and fighting like a cornered beast."
Hector studied Adélard, a slow grin spreading along his lips as he continued: "You finish what she started. You oversee the delivery, and maybe the debt gets washed away with the tide".
Adélard looked at his hands as they quivered with increasing violence. The adrenaline was rapidly wearing off, leaving him drained. He considered all of the promises he'd made Leon regarding protection and safety...he looked at Leon — scared, shivering, and small.
"I'll do it," Adélard said, the words seeming like a death sentence.
"Brother, please…" Leon started, stepping out from the shadows.
Adélard wouldn't glance at him. If he saw terror in Leon's eyes — he would break. So instead he locked onto Hector. "Tell me about it. I am going to lose no one else to this hole."
Hector nodded curtly as if conducting business. "Inside, kid. We've got a lot to discuss before the sun goes down. And don't worry about the mess out here—my boys know the price of losing a fight."
With those final words — as Adélard led Leon into the dark depths of the warehouse filled with oil and saltwater scents — the large iron doors creaked shut behind them. The search was over. Their service to the shadows had just begun.