“Your brother runs slow.”
I hit him once.
Not in rage.
In correction.
His head snapped sideways.
Then I stood and ran for the kitchen.
The back hallway smelled like bleach and onions.
A cook pressed himself against the walk-in freezer, whispering prayers.
The back door hung open.
Rain beyond.
No Mason.
No Maddox.
No Marines.
For half a second, fear became personal.
Then my phone buzzed.
One message.
Unknown number.
GOOD BOY FOLLOWED ORDERS. NOW FOLLOW YOURS.
Below it was a live photo.
Mason kneeling on wet gravel behind the bar.
Hands zip-tied.
Maddox beside him.
Blood on Maddox’s temple.
Two masked figures standing over them.
And behind Mason’s shoulder, barely visible in the rain-dark alley, a woman in a long gray coat holding a black umbrella.
Her face was turned away from the camera.
But on her left wrist was a watch exactly like mine.
My phone buzzed again.
