Page 50 of Rampage

"And inside?" Aiden prompts gently.

My stomach churns at the memory. "Photos. Memory cards. USB drives. He… documented everything. Said it was his insurance."

A muscle works in Reid's jaw, his hand finding mine beneath the table, squeezing gently.

"The plan is simple," Lane continues. "Reid and Lily will enter the property through the rear entrance. Mason and Christopher will maintain surveillance from vehicles positioned here and here." He points to two locations on the map. "Two more brothers will be stationed at these intersections, watching for police activity or any sign of Frank or Marlene returning."

"What about the neighbors?" I ask, remembering the nosy woman next door who seemed to watch my every move when I lived there.

"We've got that covered," Aiden assures me. "Our intel shows most of the immediate neighbors work night shifts. The woman on the eastside is the only concern, but we'll have someone watching her house specifically."

The planning is both reassuring and surreal. These men, who barely know me, are orchestrating an operation with military accuracy to help me obtain evidence against my abuser.

"Once inside, Lily will direct Reid to the evidence," Lane continues. "You retrieve the lockbox, nothing else. No detours, no revenge missions." His gaze hardens as he looks pointedly at Reid. "In and out. Ten minutes, max."

Reid nods, though I can feel the tension radiating from him. The thought of him in that house, surrounded by memories of what happened to me there, makes me nervous. His protective instincts coupled with his barely contained rage toward Frank could be volatile.

"What time do we move?" Christopher asks.

"Dusk," Lane answers. "Gives us the cover of approaching darkness but enough light to work without flashlights if necessary."

"That's in five hours," Reid says, checking his watch. "I need to reschedule my hospital orientation."

"Already handled," Aiden tells him. "I called Dr. Whitman personally. Told him you had a family emergency. He's rescheduled you for Wednesday."

Reid looks surprised but grateful. "Thank you."

five

Lily

I can feel my heartbeat thundering against his back, my fingers digging into Reid’s sides as we survey what used to be my personal hell from half a block away. The two-story colonial with its pristine white siding and perfect green lawn looks so normal, so innocuous. No one passing by would ever guess the horrors that happened behind those walls.

"You okay?" Reid asks, his voice low in my ear.

I nod against his shoulder, not trusting my voice. We're parked far enough away to avoid notice but close enough to observe the property. Mason's truck is stationed at the corner, and Christopher's at the opposite end of the street. Two more club members are positioned at strategic points around the neighborhood, all communicating via encrypted radios clipped to their belts.

"We don't have to do this," Reid says, turning slightly to see my face. "Say the word, and we drive away right now."

The concern in his eyes steadies me. This isn't Frank's house anymore, it's just a building, just walls and floors and ceilings. And I'm not the same scared teenager who fled in the night.

"I'm ready," I tell him, straightening my spine. "Let's get this over with."

Reid nods, his expression shifting from concerned to focused. He taps his radio twice, signaling the others, then kicks the motorcycle back to life. We circle the block, approaching from the rear where a small alley provides access to the backyard.

The sun has just begun to set, casting long shadows across the neighborhood. Perfect timing—enough light to see, but the gathering dusk providing some cover. Reid parks the bike behind a neighbor's shed, out of sight from the street.

"Remember the plan," he says as we dismount. "In and out. Ten minutes, max. You lead, I follow. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, we abort immediately."

I nod, reaching for his hand instinctively. His fingers entwine with mine, warm and solid.

"Stay behind me until we're sure the house is empty," he instructs, drawing a small tool from his jacket pocket. The lockpick set glints in the fading light.

We move silently along the fence line, keeping to the shadows. The back gate is locked, but Reid makes quick work of it with his tools. The hinges creak slightly as it swings open, and we both freeze, listening for any response. Nothing—just the distant sound of a dog barking several houses away.

The backyard is exactly as I remember it—meticulously maintained flower beds, a small patio with wrought iron furniture, a gas grill that Frank used for his Sunday cookouts. Images flash through my mind—standing at the kitchen window watching him entertain guests, the perfect host, while I hid the bruises under long sleeves even in the summer heat.

Reid's hand on my shoulder brings me back to the present. "Stay with me, darlin'," he murmurs. "Where's the best entry point?"

---