Page 156 of Mason

“Well,” he says, brushing his hands on a rag. “If it isn’t the boys from the city.”

Brando doesn’t answer. He moves forward and hits Sloane so hard with the butt of his shotgun that the man drops like a sack of potatoes.

We don’t say a word.

Just drag his dead weight to the center of the garage and shove him into the rusted-out chair sitting there like it’s been waiting for him. It creaks under his weight, metal groaning like it knows what’s coming.

Bolted to the concrete.

Steady.

Unforgiving.

Less a chair, more an altar.

The kind you bleed on.

The kind you confess from—right before you meet whatever hell you’ve earned.

The cockiness is gone and he’s still half-dazed when I slap him across the face to wake him up.

Isaiah groans. Blood’s already running from his mouth. One of his teeth’s cracked in half.

“Wakey, wakey,” I say coldly. “Time to answer for your sins.”

Brando pulls a length of rope from his bag and binds Sloane’s legs so tight it cuts off circulation. There’ll be no more running and no more hiding for this man.

It’s just him and us.

And pain.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

“You really think this changes anything?” he slurs. “People like me don’t die. We just get replaced.”

“Good,” I murmur, crouching in front of him. “Then I won’t feel bad making an example out of you.”

His eyes flicker with something then—doubt, maybe. Regret? Too late.

I stand, roll up my sleeves, and scan the tools Brando’s laid out like a fucking dinner spread. Crowbar. Hammer. Electrical cables. Zip ties. A welding torch. A bucket.

Salt.Of course.

“Shelby Monroe,” I say, choosing a pair of pliers, “wasn’t just someone you grabbed for leverage.”

His mouth tightens.

“She wasn’t just a girl you left bleeding under a bridge like garbage.”

Still, no response.

So I pull the trigger—thetrigger.

“She’smine.”

Brando walks behind him, slips on a pair of gloves before he grabs a cordless drill and drives a nail through Sloane’s palm into the armrest.

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