Page 120 of Branded

Another text comes through, this one from an unknown number:

Unknown

Do we have a problem? I expected to hear from you before now. Do I need to start harming your wife to get anything from you, or do you not care about her at all?

A video follows. Lennox sitting on a concrete floor, bound but alive, and flipping off the camera in true Lennox fashion. She looked exhausted, scared, but unharmed.

I watch it twice, cataloging details. Concrete walls, basement, probably. Single light bulb. No windows. Her expression, defiant more than terrified. Still fighting.

Good. “Hold on, Lenny. I’m coming. And when we find you, the men who did this will regret ever being born,” I say to the phone as if she can hear me.

I forward the video to Caroline and Warren simultaneously. The convoy forms up, seven vehicles, twenty armed men, heading toward an abandoned property in the middle of nowhere, where I’m 98 percent sure I’ll find Lennox.

Thomas Marshall has made a fatal mistake. He took Lennox, thinking I’d negotiate. But he’s forgotten who he’s dealing with, and it’s time to remind this county just who we are.

We’ve been dealing with issues with legal teams and contracts for the last five years, playing it safe, protecting our reputation, but some problems can’t be solved with lawyers. Some problems require blood instead.

39

LENNOX

I don’t know how long I’ve been in the basement, but in the distance, muffled by concrete walls, I hear something. It is unmistakable.

My head snaps up from where I’ve been dozing against the cold wall, and I feel my heart start racing. Someone is here, the hum of diesel engines with loud mufflers. More than one, different than the vehicles I’ve heard for however long I’ve been here.

Then it’s something different; the vehicles stop revving their engines, and gunshots grow closer as the seconds pass. Rapid fire. Then shouting. Men’s voices, angry and panicked.

The door at the top of the stairs bursts open. Thomas Marshall appears, moving fast, a gun in his hand.

“On your feet,” he orders. “Now.”

“What’s happening?”

“Your husband’s lost his goddamn mind, that’s what’s happening.” He grabs my arm, yanks me up. My ankles are still zip-tied, and I stumble. “He brought an army. Actual fucking army. We’re moving you.”

More gunshots. An explosion, something significant, destructive. The whole house shakes.

“Jesus Christ!” One of Thomas’s men appears at the top of the stairs. “Boss, they’re everywhere! We’re surrounded!”

“How many?”

“At least forty. Maybe more. Drakes and, fuck, I don’t know who else. We gotta get out of here.”

The window above the stairs explodes inward, sending glass everywhere. Something metallic clatters down the stairs.

“Grenade!” Thomas runs to the stairs, tripping halfway up.

I throw myself into the opposite corner of the room and lie flat as the explosion rips through the basement. My ears ring. Smoke and dust fill the air. I can’t see, can’t breathe.

Then hands on me. Rough, pulling me up. I start swinging. I can’t see through all the smoke, and my ears are still ringing from the concussion. My fist catches a midsection, and I try to aim for his head, but a large fist wraps around it.

“Fuck, Len! Stop, it’s me!” Before I can register, I punch him in the stomach again. “Holy fuck, Lennox, quit hitting me.” A voice I recognize. Sebastian. “I’ve got her! Basement!” he yells.

“Get her out! Now! The place is on fire!” Nathaniel’s voice, distant but commanding.

“Sebastian?” I shout.

“Yeah, baby, it’s me. Hold still.” He cuts the zip ties on my ankles and half-carries, half-drags me toward the stairs. The basement is destroyed; the grenade has taken out the far wall, and I can see daylight through the hole.