His son Ryan was a spoiled brute who hid behind his father’s wealth.

They thought they were untouchable in their high-walled castle.

They did not know who I was.

They only knew the quiet old man who grew vegetables and kept to himself.

The truck sped past the Fairmont city limits, the trees giving way to manicured lawns and iron fences.

I turned onto the winding, private road that led to the estate.

Up ahead, the massive iron gates of the Whitmore property loomed through the gray downpour.

They were closed and locked.

A security camera on a high pole turned its lens toward my oncoming truck.

I did not slow down.

My foot pressed harder against the accelerator.

The engine roared as the distance closed.

The heavy iron gates loomed in the headlights, thick and unyielding.

I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, locking my elbows straight.

I did not touch the brakes.

The bumper of my old pickup truck slammed into the center of the gate at forty miles an hour.

The sound was a deafening, metallic explosion.

Iron buckled and groaned under the impact.