Page 42 of Bram

The Colonel spoke first. Of course he did.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said, giving the name its full measure, like he was reading it off a contract. “I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation.”

His voice was pure performance. Each word landed slow and deliberate, the way you might talk to a child with a history of violence.

“We don’t do tea parties,” I said. “You have business, speak it.”

He nodded, as if I’d just proven a point he’d been making to someone else. His men didn’t twitch, but one of them shifted weight from left foot to right, boots crunching gravel in the dead air.

“I’m here for my daughters,” he said. “I understand you’re holding them.”

Rusty smirked at that, the smallest flex of lip before he locked it back down.

“Go fuck yourself,” Rusty said.

The Colonel smirked, and when I saw Rusty’s hand easing toward his Glock, I pulled him back.

“You need to check your minions, Bram.”

I gave a subtle signal to the other patches and twelve men sidled up next to me, fanning out.

“Julie and Emma,” the Colonel said, putting the names out in the open where they could start to rot. “You know they belong with me. I’m prepared to be reasonable.”

“Emma’s not yours,” Rusty said.

I let the silence run. The Colonel could outlast most men, but I’ve had decades more practice. He filled it, eventually, as I knew he would.

“Whatever you think you know about me, about my family—” he paused just long enough to make me want to spit—“I’m asking you, man, to man, to do the right thing. Return them to me. There will be no further escalation. This doesn’t need to go any further.”

I kept my arms crossed, left hand curled tight enough that I could feel the pulse thump in my wrist.

“No,” I said.

The Colonel didn’t flinch, not even a blink. He’d been expecting that answer. His eyes flicked to Rusty, then back to me, calculating the room, adjusting his approach like a man switching forks at a formal dinner.

“Julie is not well,” he said, voice softening. “She believes things that aren’t true. I’ve had specialists see her in the past. You must realize by now she’s not in a position to make her own decisions. I’m sure she’s told you things. Painted me as a villain. She always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“You have thirty seconds,” I said.

The Colonel held my eyes for three of those seconds, then straightened, if possible, even more. “Be careful, Bram,” he said, and for the first time it was just the two of us. No audience, no posturing. “You don’t understand what you’re stepping into.”

“I’m not stepping,” I said. “I’m standing. You’re the one at my gate.”

That smile again, just the corners of his mouth. He looked over my shoulder, surveying the compound, the men, the patched bikes and half-restored muscle cars. When he spoke again, his tone was different. Quieter, almost casual.

“I want this resolved without blood,” he said. “You can walk away. All of you. Take the club, take the money. Start over. All I ask is that you give me back my daughters.”

“And if I say no?”

He nodded, like he’d been waiting for the real negotiation to start. “Then you force my hand. And we both know what that looks like.”

I let the words hang. I could feel the yard tensing behind me: the weight of bodies, the anticipation, the cold-blooded certainty that if a single hand twitched for a gun, the whole day would go up in smoke and bone.

The Colonel finally took one step forward. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a courtesy, a signal that the conversation was over.

“I’ll expect your answer by tomorrow,” he said.

“You have it now,” I said.