Chapter 2 - The Setup
Two days later, Briggs Leadford woke up with a pounding hangover and a pocket full of empty lottery tickets.
It was eleven in the morning. The apartment on Cullen Boulevard was stifling, the ancient window unit rattling like a tin can full of rocks. Elowen was already gone—she had managed to catch an early morning bus across town to take a double shift at a catering prep kitchen, leaving Ivy watching cartoons on a static-filled television while five-month-old Roslyn slept in a makeshift crib in the corner.
Briggs scratched his stubbled chin, cursing under his breath as he kicked a pile of laundry out of his way. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, pulled out three crumpled singles, and decided he needed a cold beer to jump-start his afternoon.
He threw on a stained gray hoodie, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.
He didn't make it to his beat-up Dodge Charger.
As he stepped off the concrete landing of the second-floor breezeway, two men in identical charcoal suits materialized from the shadows of the stairwell. They weren't loud, and they didn't draw weapons, but they moved with the absolute, terrifying coordination of apex predators.
Before Briggs could open his mouth, a heavy hand clamped over his shoulder, steering him firmly toward an idling black Escalade parked in the fire lane.
"What the hell—get your hands off me!" Briggs snapped, trying to jerk away. "I didn't do anything!"
"Shut your mouth, Leadford," Marcus muttered quietly, pressing a hard object—not a gun, but the reinforced edge of a metal briefcase—into Briggs's ribs. "Get in the back."
The door of the SUV opened smoothly. Briggs was shoved into the plush leather interior before he could yell. The door slammed shut behind him, locking automatically.
Inside, sitting in the opposite corner with a laptop resting on his knees, was Johnny Thorne.
Briggs froze. Even a low-level loser like Leadford read the Houston business section enough to recognize the face of the man who owned half the downtown high-rises and controlled the shipping conglomerates along the Houston Ship Channel.
"Mr... Mr. Thorne?" Briggs stammered, his color draining instantly. "I swear to God, I didn't know those commercial properties were yours—if it was about that parking violation or—"
"This has nothing to do with real estate, Briggs," Johnny said without looking up from his screen. His voice was dangerously calm.
"Then what is this?" Briggs demanded, trying to puff out his chest, though his knees were trembling. "You can't just snatch people off the street! I've got rights—"
"Rights," Johnny repeated, finally lifting his dark eyes. The sheer weight of his gaze made Briggs swallow his remaining words. "Interesting concept for a man who spends his days living off a woman he terrorizes and nights drinking away money meant for infant formula."
Briggs’s face flushed red with a mixture of fear and humiliation. "That's personal business! That's my family!"
"That is a liability," Johnny corrected softly. He closed his laptop with a quiet snap. "Let's talk about your portfolio, Briggs. You owe twelve thousand to a bookie named Benny Ramos. You owe eight thousand to a credit union that is currently preparing a fraud injunction against your social security number. And your landlord, a man named Henderson, is holding three fraudulent checks you wrote against the apartment account."
Briggs stared at him, terror slicing through his alcohol-fogged brain. "How do you know that?"
"I own the credit union," Johnny said smoothly. "I bought Benny Ramos's book yesterday afternoon. And Henderson is currently signing a document that evicts you from 2C within the hour."
"You can't do that!" Briggs screamed, lunging forward, but Marcus—who had slid into the front passenger seat—turned around with a cold, dead-eyed stare that stopped Briggs in his tracks.
"I can do anything I want in this city, Briggs," Johnny said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Here is your reality. Your debts are cleared—every single cent you owe has been transferred to my ledger. Which means you now answer exclusively to me."
Briggs blinked, a desperate flicker of hope crossing his face. "You... you bought my debts? You're going to clear them?"
"On two conditions," Johnny said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Name 'em! Anything! I'll do whatever you want!"
"First: You sign this quitclaim deed relinquishing any and all legal, financial, or residential ties to Elowen Pierce and her children. Effective immediately. You will never speak to her, approach her, or look in her direction again."
"And the second condition?" Briggs asked, suspicious.
"You pack what fits in a single duffel bag, you get on a Greyhound bus heading west out of Houston tonight, and if you ever set foot in Harris County again, Marcus won't just break your legs—he’ll feed you to the gators in Chambers County."
Johnny slid a single sheet of paper and a golden fountain pen across the leather console.
May you like
Briggs looked at the paper, then at Johnny’s stone-cold face. He knew he was beaten. There was no escape hatch, no bookie to bail him out, no legal loophole.
With shaking hands, Briggs picked up the pen and signed his name at the bottom of the page.
