Nora sat beside me. She reached for my hand without looking at me, her fingers cold. “Do you think it’s the same guy?” she whispered.
I didn’t answer. The thought alone made the air thin.
Fred stayed at the window, eyes steady, breath even. Every minute or so, he adjusted his stance, just a small shift, like he’d been trained to conserve energy for when it mattered most.
The truck engine kept idling. Sometimes it revved, just slightly. It was like a taunt.
Fallon stood again and began to pace, her boots whispering against the worn rug. “This is insane,” she said under her breath. “He’s just sitting there.”
Tayla pressed a hand to the back of her neck. “Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”
“Or maybe,” I said, my voice tight, “he’s watching.”
That shut everyone up.
The quiet after that was worse. You could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen below, faint but steady. You could hear thelow hum of the refrigerator through the floorboards. You could even hear the snow sliding off the roof in heavy, wet clumps.
Every sound felt like a signal. Every minute a test.
Fred didn’t waver. He just watched.
After what felt like an hour but was probably only ten minutes, I heard it —a low, deep rumble from down the street. More trucks, not the one outside. This rumble sounded familiar.
Fred exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly. “That’ll be Linc.”
I stood before my brain caught up. My heart thudded against my ribs.
“Stay here,” Fred said, already moving for the door.
When it closed behind him, the silence he left behind felt alive.
Tayla sat on the arm of the couch, one knee bouncing. “I hate waiting,” she muttered.
Nora had her phone clutched in her hand even though Fred told us to silence them. Fallon stood by the wall, staring at the floor like she was willing it to hold steady.
The air in that small apartment felt thick enough to choke on. I tried to listen for voices, for anything at all. For a second, I thought I heard gravel shift outside, but then it stopped.
From the window, I could see Fred standing in the street. The black pickup still sat across from the café, exhaust curling into the cold air. He stood with the shotgun lowered, his body steady but ready.
Then more sound. More engines. A low, rolling growl that made the windows tremble.
Five white ranch trucks turned down Main Street, headlights blazing. The Flying Diamond Five brand on the side of each door. Not intended to intimidate, but they inadvertently did so when they traveled like this.
We all recognized them instantly. Kipp’s Ford in front, Linc’s right behind it. Ryder, Nash, and Griff followed close behind.
The black pickup hesitated. Brake lights flared red against the snow before it pulled away. Slow at first, then faster. Out past the corner, out of sight.
I pressed my hands against the table. “He’s gone,” I whispered, and we all let out a collective sigh.
Outside, the trucks lined the curb. Men climbed out, moving slowly, scanning the street. Linc was already crossing toward the café, his stride long and purposeful.
When the door opened downstairs, I didn’t wait. I ran for the stairs.
He met me halfway up, his eyes sweeping over me before I could speak. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice shaking. “Fred got us upstairs.”
Linc nodded, his jaw tight. “He did good.”
