Because Crestwood belonged to the fucking King brothers.
We had several war rooms.Of course, one in Kenya and our shared mansion, but the bigger one wasn’t in our home.
The mansion had cameras, contractors, staff, and a world that believed we were clean. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t safe for blood.
Not real blood. The one with grenades, C4, and illegal weapons was off-property.
The real war room was under the west-side office. There, we had concrete walls, signal jammers, and a wall of screens.
Men stood, heads bowed, waiting for directions.
Joel, my head of security, had maps projected and live city feeds displayed on the flat screens around the room. Financial overlays. He had a list of names arranged like targets on a whiteboard instead of people.
Kenya would’ve appreciated the layout.
She loved it when something ugly looked organized.
I took the seat at the head of the table and didn’t speak right away.
I listened.
To the hum of machines.
To the quiet breathing of men who were ready to die for a paycheck.
I listened to the faint vibration in my bones that always came before a storm.
Then I looked at Xavier.
“You see the bigger picture?” I asked.
Xavier nodded once. “This wasn’t a kidnapping. This was bait.”
Channy crossed her arms. “He wanted us out.”
“He wanted us visible,” I corrected.
Miles pulled up a chair. “He wanted leverage. But now that she’s out?—”
I cut my eyes to him. Before today, I took him speaking up as proof he was a value to our organization, but today his ballsy move felt like treason.
“Now that she’s out, he still has leverage.”
Miles blinked. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning the law,” I said.
The word landed heavier than any gun.
Because guns were honest.
The law was theater with knives hidden in paperwork.
Xavier reached over and clicked a file open on the screen. A headline from a local blog had already started circulating with grainy footage from a traffic cam. The footage showed a black SUV and figures struggling.
People didn’t know it was Kenya.
But they knew something happened.