Martin stumbled as the big burly man dragged him out of the crowd.
Not walked. Dragged.
His shoes scraped against the tiled path, the neat polished surface of the golf course giving way to rougher concrete as they moved further away from the noise, the laughter and the applause.
"Hey.....wait—what the hell are you doing?" Martin snapped, trying to twist his arm free.
It didn't budge. The man has an iron grip
He hauled Martin toward the perimeter of the parking lot, dragging his heels across the asphalt.
Pain shot up his forearm, sharp and immediate.
The farther they moved, the quieter it became. The cheers from the golf course faded into a distant hum.
The scent of freshly cut grass disappeared, replaced by something harsher—oil, dust, the faint metallic tang of parked cars baking under the sun.
They reached the back of the car park. Secluded. Empty. No witnesses.
Before Martin could react—
He was shoved Hard.
His back slammed against the wall.
