Page 85 of Bronson

Is sweet Ingrid behind this? It can’t be. But here, she has access to Paige.

If Ingrid or her family need money, they only need ask.

It doesn’t matter who has taken her.

They will pay. Dearly.

No one threatens the life of a Bachman and lives to speak of it.

The softness, the safeness, the beautiful hum of the everyday routine that has come over me since meeting Paige suddenly washes away.

My blood runs hot.

My blood runs Bachman.

And I’m on the hunt.

Taking the card between my fingers, I race from the room.

Half an hour later, I sit, surrounded by my most trusted men.

Together, we ten make a plan.

There will be armed men manning boats surrounding the pier.

There will be sharp shooters standing on the nearby bridge.

There will be gunmen, carrying concealed weapons, casually milling about on the pier.

I will arrive precisely at five p.m. A bulletproof vest beneath my tux. A duffle bag of cash beneath my arm.

Anticipation pulses through my body, leaving my muscles tense, my palms sweaty.

By four forty-five, every man is in place.

Dressed in my tux, bag underneath my arm, I step onto the pier.

I see the windowless black van immediately. It slows to a crawl, pulling up by the pier.

I glance around me, Bachmans everywhere. Hidden in plain sight.

The driver of one of the boats spots the van. The boat moves closer to the pier.

I’m only a few feet from the van.

My heart pounds in my chest.

Paige.

Paige.

Paige.

A middle-aged man with olive skin and dark hair comes out of the passenger side of the van. His beard is untrimmed. His clothing rumpled. He runs his hand through his tangled hair. His bloodshot eyes dart right, left.

He looks so familiar.

Do I know this man?