We spread out without speaking, falling into a formation we'd never practiced but somehow knew—muscle memory from a dozen different units, a hundred different ops, all distilled into this moment.
The figure came into view at the edge of the floodlight's reach.
Male. Walking. Moving like every step cost him something he couldn't afford to pay.
"Stop right there!" I called, weapon raised, finger indexed along the frame but ready to drop to the trigger.
The figure kept coming.
Ethan moved up beside me, his massive frame blocking half my peripheral vision. "Don't take another step!"
Still walking. Closer now. Close enough to make out details in the harsh wash of light.
The clothes. The backpack gone, replaced by a dark jacket zipped to the throat. The shambling gait. The shape of the head, the slope of the shoulders.
Recognition hit like a fist to the gut.
Sam Jarrow.
But something was wrong. Not drunk-wrong or high-wrong or even crazy-wrong. He moved like a man being prodded forward by an invisible pitchfork, each step reluctant, his body language screamingI don't want to be hereeven as his feet kept carrying him closer.
"Sam, stop!" Lucas's voice cracked across the night, sharp and commanding.
Sam flinched but didn't stop. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for something but didn't dare.
"They said," he called out, voice wobbling and wet, "they said I could fix it."
Ice ran down my spine.
Behind me, I heard the front door open. Heard Hazel's footsteps on the porch, too fast, too unsteady. Heard Maude's low warning.
"Hazel, get back inside," I said, not taking my eyes off Sam. Every instinct I had was screaming at me that this was wrong, all wrong, more wrong than anything I'd faced in a decade of black ops and sanctioned kills.
Sam's gaze found her. Of course, it did. That's what he'd come for.
"Haze," he said, the nickname dripping with false affection and real desperation. "Baby girl. I knew you'd be here."
"Don't talk to her," I snapped, fury cutting through the tactical calm I was trying to maintain. "You look at me, Sam. You keep your eyes on me."
He was forty yards out now. Maybe thirty-five. Close enough that I could see the tears streaming down his face, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing words he couldn't quite spit out.
"They came to see me," he babbled, scrubbing at his face with the back of one shaking hand. "Nice suits. Smiles like knives. Said, 'Sam, old buddy, you want to make things square with your little girl? You want her taken care of?'"
His eyes darted to something behind us—the house, maybe, or Hazel on the porch—then snapped back like he'd been yanked by a leash only he could feel.
"They told me there was money," he continued, voice breaking. "A chance. A way out. They said I could help you, Haze. Fix what I broke. I just had to?—"
The words died in his throat.
"Sam!" Ethan barked. "Stop where you are."
But Sam's feet kept moving. Gravel crunched under his worn shoes, too loud in the thick night air. Thirty yards. Twenty-five.
My finger moved to the trigger. Not yet. Not until I knew what we were dealing with.
"Please," Sam whispered, and the word carried across the distance like a prayer or a curse. "They said they'd?—"
His hands moved.
