Epilogue #4
"That's impossible." But even as she said it, something cold settled in Jolene's chest. Her aunt's last years had been expensive—chemo, hospital stays, the endless parade of specialists who promised hope and delivered bills.
Jolene had handled what she could, but there had been gaps.
Months where the numbers didn't add up. Months where Aunt Marge had insisted everything was fine, that she'd worked it out.
"I have the paperwork right here, Miss Tate. Original loan amount of forty-two thousand dollars. With interest and penalties accrued over the past three years, your current balance is one hundred and twenty-six thousand, four hundred and seventeen dollars."
The number hit her like a fist to the chest. One hundred and twenty-six thousand. More than three times what any hospital bill should explain. More than the diner was worth. More than everything she'd saved in six years of eighteen-hour days.
"That's—" Her voice came out strangled. "That's not possible. Those numbers don't—"
"I understand this is difficult news." Fitch's voice dripped with false sympathy.
"Mr. Vann is a reasonable man. He's willing to discuss payment arrangements.
But I should mention that the seventy-two-hour deadline is firm.
Miss the payment, and we'll have no choice but to begin foreclosure proceedings. "
The brick. The note. Next time it won't be the window.
"Who the hell is Mr. Vann?"
"A businessman, Miss Tate. One who takes his investments very seriously." A pause. "I'll be in touch."
The line went dead.
Jolene stood frozen, phone in one hand, knife in the other, onion half-chopped on the cutting board in front of her.
The kitchen smelled like grease and coffee and the faint chemical tang of the industrial cleaner she'd used on the floor that morning.
Normal smells. Safe smells. The smells of a life she'd built from nothing, that some stranger was now threatening to take away.
One hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars.
She didn't have it. Couldn't get it. The diner ran month to month, every dollar reinvested, every profit margin razor-thin. She'd mortgaged her truck last year to fix the walk-in cooler. Her savings account held maybe three thousand dollars—enough for emergencies, not enough for ransoms.
The knife trembled in her grip.
Aunt Marge had been sick. Desperate. Scared. And someone had taken advantage of that fear, had given her money she couldn't repay and then waited—three years of waiting—for the right moment to collect.
Jolene set down the knife before she did something stupid with it. Her hands were shaking again, but not from fear this time. Rage, hot and clean, burned through her veins like whiskey on an empty stomach.
She didn't know who Curtis Vann was. Didn't know what kind of man sent thugs to threaten cooks and throw bricks through windows. But she knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She wasn't giving up her diner.
Aunt Marge had trusted her with this place.
Had spent forty years building it into something that mattered, something that fed families and gave jobs and anchored a community.
Jolene had poured six years of her life into keeping that legacy alive—every blister, every burn, every night she'd fallen into bed too exhausted to dream.
She wasn't going to let some loan shark with a fancy voice and a seventy-two-hour deadline take it from her.
The lunch rush would start in an hour. She had prep to finish, tables to set, a missing cook to somehow replace. The plywood in the window was ugly as sin and twice as obvious. Tomorrow, the note said, or the day after, someone would come for their payment.
Let them come.
Jolene picked up her knife and went back to chopping onions. Her eyes watered, but she pretended it was just the fumes.
Chapter 3
The bruise on her wrist was the shape of four fingers.
Duke had stopped by Tate's for coffee that morning on his way back from a parts run—routine, nothing special, just the pull of a place that opened early and served it strong.
But he'd walked in to find plywood where the front window should be and Jolene Tate working her grill alone with purple marks climbing out from under her sleeve.
She'd poured his coffee like nothing was wrong. Smiled that sharp smile that dared anyone to ask questions. Moved through her kitchen with the same stubborn competence she always had, except today her morning cook's station sat empty and her jaw was set tight enough to crack teeth.
Duke had asked about the window.
"Kids," she'd said. "Bored teenagers."
He'd known she was lying before the words finished leaving her mouth.
Now he stood at the head of the chapel table, eleven brothers arranged in their seats, and the image of those finger-shaped bruises burned behind his eyes like a brand.
"Church is in session." Duke didn't bang a gavel—never had, never would. His voice was enough. "Recon. What do we know about Curtis Vann?"
Barrett Shaw rose from his seat at Duke's right hand, spreading a folder of photographs and printouts across the scarred wooden table. Surveillance shots. Property records. A timeline that stretched back fifteen years and left a trail of destroyed businesses in its wake.
"Curtis Vann, fifty-one. Runs a debt recovery operation out of a warehouse on the Beaufort side of Port Royal.
" Recon's voice was flat, clinical, the voice of a man who'd delivered worse briefings in worse places.
"Started as a bail bondsman, figured out repossession paid better.
Now he buys distressed debt for pennies on the dollar, inflates the terms, and squeezes owners until they hand over deeds or cash. "
"How many businesses?" Gunny asked from halfway down the table, arms crossed over his massive chest.
"Twelve confirmed in the Low Country over the past decade.
Restaurants, auto shops, a laundromat. All small operations, all family-owned, all gone now.
" Recon tapped one of the photographs—a heavyset man with thinning hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"This is Vann. Presents himself as legitimate.
Debt recovery, property management, community investment. Underneath, he's a predator."
Duke stared at the photograph. Fifty-one years old, soft around the middle, the kind of man who'd never thrown a punch in his life because he paid other people to throw them for him. The kind of man who preyed on sick old women and their nieces.
"Enforcers?"
"Twelve that we've confirmed. Mix of ex-repo men, debt collectors, and a few with actual muscle.
" Recon pulled three more photos from the stack.
"These are his lieutenants. Ray Purcell—primary muscle, handles the rough collections.
Dale Fitch—tactical coordinator, plans operations, keeps his hands clean.
Leon Crosby—the one Vann sends when he wants someone terrified instead of beaten. "
"And they're targeting Tate's." It wasn't a question.
"Margaret Tate—Jolene's aunt—borrowed against the diner three years ago.
Cancer treatment. Vann bought the paper after she died, sat on it, let the interest compound.
" Recon's jaw tightened. "He's done this before.
Waits until the original borrower is dead, then comes after the survivor with numbers that don't match anything legitimate. "
Tarmac leaned forward, grease still embedded in his knuckles from the morning's work in the garage. "How much is he claiming she owes?"
"Over a hundred and twenty thousand. Original loan was forty-two."
Curses rippled around the table. Blueprint shook his head slowly, already running numbers in his head. Marksman sat silent and still at the far end, watching everything with those sniper's eyes that never stopped calculating angles.
Duke let the anger settle in his chest, cold and controlled.
This was his territory. Every street between Parris Island and Port Royal, every business that fed Marine families, every woman who worked eighteen-hour days to keep a legacy alive.
Curtis Vann had walked into that territory, put his hands on someone under Duke's protection, and thought he could walk out again.
He was wrong.
"Tate's is under club protection," Duke said. "Effective immediately."
"On what grounds?" The question came from one of the newer patches—a kid named Wheeler who'd earned his place six months ago and still hadn't learned when to keep his mouth shut.
Duke turned his gaze on the younger man, and Wheeler flinched like he'd been slapped. Twenty-four years of breaking recruits had given Duke a look that could strip paint off walls. He used it now, let it settle, let the silence stretch until Wheeler's face went pale.
"On the grounds that I said so." Duke's voice dropped to something quiet and infinitely more dangerous than shouting.
"Jolene Tate feeds Marine families in our territory.
She employs veterans. She keeps her doors open eighteen hours a day and never once has she looked at a cut and flinched.
" He leaned forward, palms flat on the table.
"Someone put hands on her. Someone threatened her cook.
Someone threw a brick through her window and left a note promising worse. In our territory."
Wheeler swallowed hard. "Understood, President."
"Anyone else have questions about grounds?"
Silence.
"Good." Duke straightened, rolling his shoulders like a fighter stepping into the ring.
"Recon, I want eyes on Vann's operation.
Where he works, where he lives, where his people go when they're not collecting.
Blueprint, start mapping his properties—every building he owns, every route his crews take.
Gunny, make sure the armory's ready. We're not starting a war tonight, but when Vann pushes back, I want us ready to push harder. "