Six nights later, walking back from the distribution depot in the flat gray hour before dawn, he cut down the side street he always cut down, and a dark SUV rolled up to the curb behind him.

Two men got out. They wore ski masks, and they moved fast, and before Brandon could do more than turn they had him by the arms and hauled him into the mouth of an alley between two shuttered storefronts.

He fought. It didn’t matter. They were bigger and there were two of them and they knew what they were doing. When it was over he was on the wet pavement with three cracked ribs and blood in his mouth, and one of them crouched down beside him, close, so Brandon would hear every word.

“Sign the renunciation tomorrow,” the man said, unhurried, almost bored. “Give the money back. That’s all you have to do. Sign it, walk away, and none of this happened.”

He paused. “Or next time we don’t come for you. Next time we go visit your little sister. You know the floor she’s on. We know it too. Think about that.”

Then they were up and gone, the SUV pulling away without lights, and the alley was empty and silent except for Brandon’s own breathing, which hurt.