Chapter 2 - The Redwood Directive
The heater in my old Ford F-150 didn't start blowing warm air until I reached the loop, but the cold didn't bother me. I sat behind the wheel, my left hand holding a fast-food napkin against my split lip to catch the slow leak of blood. My reflection in the rearview mirror was a mess—the left side of my face was a mottled purple bruise, the skin split near the cheekbone where his signet ring had torn the flesh. But my eyes were clear. The gray-blue irises that had looked at blueprints for half a century were entirely focused.
I drove back to my home—not a mansion in River Oaks, but a modest, single-story ranch house in Spring that I had bought in 1994. It had a gravel driveway, a three-car workshop in the back filled with old engine blocks and lathe tools, and a wrap-around porch that didn't need a landscaper to look good. It was the house Brandon had refused to visit for three years because he claimed the neighborhood was "declining."
I didn't sleep that night. I sat in my recliner in the dark study, the vintage Omega watch sitting on the side table beside a glass of straight bourbon that I didn't drink. I watched the grandfather clock in the corner cycle through the hours.
At exactly 7:30 AM, I walked out to my truck, took a fresh shirt from the laundry bag in the back, and changed. By 8:00 AM, I was parked outside the glass-and-steel monolith of the BBVA compass building on Louisiana Street in downtown Houston.
At 8:06 AM, I dialed the direct line for Arthur Vance. Arthur had been my corporate attorney since 1982. He knew where every dollar of the Reeves estate was buried, because he was the one who dug the holes.
"Franklin," Arthur’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and alert. "You’re calling early. I thought you were down in Corpus checking on that pier project."
"The pier is fine, Arthur," I said, my voice flat, the swelling in my lip making my words slightly thick. "I need you to pull the file on Redwood Capital LLC."
There was a brief pause on the line. Arthur knew that name. Redwood Capital was the single-member Texas limited liability company I had formed in 2018. It held only one asset: the deed, title, and clear insurance for the property at 1422 River Oaks Boulevard.
"I have the digital record open right now," Arthur said, the sound of keys clicking in the background. "What are we doing with it? Is Brandon finally ready to take the title out of the corporate wrapper? I told you two years ago that keeping it in the LLC was costing you an extra three grand a year in franchise taxes."
"No," I said, staring out the truck window at the morning traffic filtering into the downtown garages. "We aren't transferring it to Brandon. I want to liquidate the asset. Today."
The clicking stopped. "Franklin... what happened?"
"Brandon turned thirty yesterday, Arthur. He showed me exactly what kind of man he is. I’m closing the account."
Arthur didn't ask for details. He was a veteran of the oil booms and busts; he had seen family dynasties dissolve over less than a dinner conversation. "If you sell through standard channels, even with a premium property in River Oaks, you’re looking at thirty to sixty days for listing, escrow, and title verification. Plus, if Brandon and his wife are occupying the property without a formal lease, we’ll have to initiate eviction proceedings to deliver it vacant, which could take another month if they fight it."
"They aren't going to have a month, Arthur," I said, a cold smile touching the uninjured side of my face. "Do you remember Tariq Al-Mansoor?"
Arthur let out a low whistle. "The logistics magnate out of Dubai? The one who bought your warehouse portfolio in Katy three years ago?"
"The same," I said. "Tariq’s son started his residency at Texas Medical Center last month. Tariq called me two weeks ago asking if I knew of any off-market properties in River Oaks or West University. He wanted something fully furnished, turnkey, and he didn't care about the price as long as he could close within twenty-four hours without dealing with real estate brokers or public listings. He wants his boy moved in by the weekend."
"Tariq has a domestic trust account with Chase that holds liquid cash reserves specifically for real estate acquisitions," Arthur muttered, the keys clicking again, faster this time. "He doesn't need financing. He doesn't need an appraisal. If he wants the property, he can wire the full amount to the Redwood Capital corporate account by noon."
"Call his office in New York," I ordered. "Tell them 1422 River Oaks is available for five point eight million. That’s four hundred thousand under market value, but it includes every piece of custom Italian furniture Amber put on my credit card last year. Tell him the only condition is a hard close before twelve o'clock today, and the deed transfer will be recorded by one."
"Franklin, if he accepts, the property belongs to him the moment the wire hits. Brandon and Amber will legally be trespassers by tonight."
"That’s the idea, Arthur. Start the paperwork. I’ll be in your office by nine."
May you like
I hung up the phone and started the truck. The swelling in my eye had gone down enough for me to see clearly, but the blue-purple bruise was now vivid against my skin. As I drove up the ramp of the parking garage, I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was 8:23 AM.
The clock was ticking, and Brandon had no idea that the luxury palace he had used as a fortress to humiliate his old man was already turning into smoke beneath his feet.
