Page 112 of Branded Betrayal

Chapter Thirty-Four

Blaze

The drive to Birch Falls is only about half an hour from the hospital, but every minute drags on for what feels like hours. And every second that ticks past is one more that keeps Savannah in danger.

Nash’s red pickup is already parked close to the road where we’d turn in toward the warehouse. It’s the same location where I thought I’d end up in a shipping container filled with acid not too long ago.

If luck is on my side, I’ll escape that fate again today.

Judging from the number of cars parked around the perimeter, my hopes of that aren’t sky high right now.

Nash folds his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan? I already took a look inside the place. I see eight guys. At least. All armed.” His eyes hold mine for an agonizing second. “Savvie’s in there too. Tied to a chair.”

I push past him and run toward one of the windows. I scale some wooden crates to get close. My heart beats a hole through my rib cage as I peer through the dirty, smudged glass.

It’s her. Right in the middle of the sick fucks who work for Wilkerson.

I can’t see him, though. He’s got to be in there, and it’s gonna be my pleasure to kick his fucking ass once Savannah is safe and out of his line of fire.

I jump down from my spot by the window. “I’m going in alone.”

“The hell you are,” Nash says. “It’s suicide. And a shit-ass plan.”

“It’s the only plan.” I square my shoulders and look between him and Colt. “Look, they want me, not any of you guys. I’ll go in and negotiate for her release.”

“And when the negotiation fails?” Colt says.

“Then you come in. But only then. Savannah’s safety is the top priority, understand?”

They’re quiet for a minute. I glance at my father, who stands a little bit away from us. Fucking coward. He’s here to save his ass, not mine. Probably hoping Wilkerson gets taken down before anyone starts asking questions about who else has been working with him all these years because I seriously doubt it’s only been gambling debts that put them in each other’s crosshairs.

“We’ll be watching. If anything goes wrong, we’re coming in,” Colt says.

I give a swift nod.

“Don’t get her killed,” Nash says.

“I won’t.”

We creep over to another set of windows around the back.

“Hey, this spot gives a pretty good view of what’s happening inside,” Colt says, kneeling down in front of the window. Nash and I take positions on either side of him.

I peer inside. I’ve got my Glock G19 from my time in the military and a sniper rifle, but these guys have some serious shit in there. Probably from Wilkerson’s smuggled stash.

One of the guys inside, not too far from where we’re watching, shifts his position. He reaches to adjust something, and his jacket falls open.

“Holy fuck,” Nash mumbles, pressing his forehead against the glass. “Is that . . . how the hell . . . ?”

“What’s wrong?” I say, my voice low. “What do you see?”

“That guy’s tattoo.” He turns to look at me. “I’ve seen it before. The night of the explosion. The guys who showed up . . . the rivals who sabotaged the job. One of them came at me, and I shot him. When he went down, I saw his neck. Same ink. Exact same tattoo. Lightning bolt with the number 211 in the center of it.”

His voice shakes.

“They weren’t rivals, Blaze.”

“They work for Wilkerson,” I say, my stomach roiling when my mind trips back to the day I came here to pick up parts for my underground-well “repair.” That guy had the same tattoo. “They were his men.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Son of a bitch.”