I hear footsteps behind me, but as soon as I get to my truck, I’m getting in it and blasting out of here, no matter how many people are in the truck with me or not.
I shove my gun back into its holster as I run, the snow crunching beneath my feet. When I get to the truck, I fumble with the key fob until the truck unlocks.
Maybe it’s a blessing because it gives the others the extra second they need to arrive.
“Shotgun,” Atom shouts, then nudges Jackal out of the way of the door.
“Fucker,” Jackal says. “My legs are longer than yours.”
I ignore their bickering, my only thought is for Wren and the prospects keeping watch outside. “We need to call whoever is watching Wren tonight,” I say to Atom.
He’s already lifting his phone to his ear. “On it.”
Driving in falling snow, on already snowy roads, with one hand on the wheel and one eye on my phone isn’t a clever idea, but it’s all I can do as I try to call Wren. Not sure if it was some weird kind of sixth sense that made them give me their phone number before I left the house earlier.
It rings…and rings…and rings. No voicemail, no nothing. Just rings until the call ends.
“Where the fuck are you, Wren?” I ask. Their phone is never far from sight. I call it again, and it rings out like before.
“Dice,” Atom says. “Assume a code five. I’m calling everyone in to defend the entrances to both the club and the ranch. Need extra hands around the perimeter of my old man’s house.There may be an assault coming. It’ll be a pro. Long-range rifle, possibly.”
There’s a pause, and I wish it were anyone other than Dice because he isn’t the most reliable.
“If in doubt, protect the exterior of the ranch house. He can’t be allowed to get inside.”
I should be there.
I should be there.
It’s all I can repeat to myself. Over and over as I call Wren’s phone and hang up.
“Want to keep your eyes on the road, Dale Earnhardt?” Jackal says from the back of the truck.
Shade chuckles, but I can’t seem to get a handle on the anger boiling over. I grip the steering wheel and fight back intrusive thoughts of ripping it off the column entirely.
Intermittent explosive disorder, they said when I was a child. A key factor being that the anger was a disproportionate response.
Something I wasn’t aware of until it happened.
I take the corners as if this were a NASCAR circuit and I were invincible.
I toss Shade my phone. “Keep calling Wren.”
“Brother, we aren’t gonna be able to save them if we’re already dead.” Atom reaches up to hold the grab handle above the door.
“Tell those watching the path up to the ranch that we’re coming in hot and to open the gate,” I say, the falling snow making my vision even more restricted.
“On it,” Atom says.
I don’t pay attention to who he calls; I’m going through that gate whether it’s open or not. Protecting Wren isn’t just a job. For some reason, it’s become my calling.
It takes minutes to get to the pathway to the ranch, but the gate is open, the prospects on guard standing back from the road as I almost spin taking the turn.
Normally, I like the ride up to the ranch house, trees on one side, open land on the other. And I’m not even sure what makes me take my eyes off the road for a second, but I see something move across the field. With only the reflection of moonlight on snow for light, it’s a blur. Could be a wild animal, for all I know, but I slam on the brakes. “There’s someone across the field.”
“Where?” Atom asks.
For a second, I can’t decide what to do. Keep on riding closer to Wren.
