And immediately, all my hair stands on end.
I draw my 1911 tucked in my waistband. I keep my thumb tight on the frame, and I cross the hall in three even steps. I click the office door shut behind me. The closet is first. I pour over it, expecting something, but there’s only coats, boots, and a jumble of hardware and rags. I sweep the shelf above and run my hand behind the hanging stuff.
Nothing is obvious. But something is off.
I back away and then start the rest of the house. I clear each room, muscle memory from years of MOUT training. Right hand on the grip, left bracing the doorframe, eyes flicking corner tocorner, up and down, always a heartbeat ahead of wherever a shadow could hide.
The entire house is clear.
Until I reach the laundry room. And my adrenaline spikes.
“What the hell,” I ease toward the fucked-up window, crimson painted across the frame. I swallow hard, finish checking the room, and then peer out into the night.
Part of me wants to go hunting.
But I’m so goddamn tired.I’m too old for this shit.
I lean against the washer, zoning out as the cold penetrates my thin thermal.Cade is a disaster. Turner is a disaster. And I’m not far behind.
My eyes drop to the ground outside the window, and I click on a flashlight.
Not a single footprint.
My brain keeps chewing at that. Who would get in and out without a single footprint? They’d have to be light. Really fucking light. I should’ve fixed my motion sensors.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I nearly drop it.
Turner: We’re coming in. ETA 5
I groan, haul myself back to the living room, and stand sentry at the window. Sure enough, Turner’s truck turns up the drive, headlights cutting through the night. I watch as Turner gets out first, scanning the tree line like someone expecting snipers. Cade takes his time, hops out of the passenger, no rush, and lingers a second to kick mud off his boots.
By the time they get to the door, I’m already opening it. Turner shoves past me, a sheen of sweat on his hairline even in the cold. Cade holds back, leaning on the porch post. And I smell something off, immediately.
My eyes bounce between the two of them. “Mission accomplished?”
Turner bobs his head, but his silence is alarming.
Cade shrugs. “Well, you said we needed to handle the clean-up efficiently, so I had to torch it,” he says, voice flat. “No other way to clean up that mess.”
My vision tunnels, but I don’t blink. “You burned the whole place? After we already went through it? How are they supposed to… What about…” I can’t even keep my fucking thoughts together.
This is what I get for changing Molly’s goddamn tire.
“Just burned the living room.” His lips twitch. “Well, that’s how it started anyway. That part got a little out of hand.”
Turner gives me a look. “He had the whole place lit before I could even back the truck up to get bodies, and I mean, it wasn’t theworstway to cover the mess…”
“Sit down,” I bark, and Turner collapses into the kitchen chair. I don’t bother inviting Cade, because he strolls in anyway and takes a position by the fridge.
I grab a towel, toss it at Turner. “Clean yourself up.”
He nods, rubs the towel over his wrists and forearms, his expression emotionless.
Cade studies the room, then looks me dead in the eyes. “They would’ve found us. Better to erase the evidence than play hero for the forensics team. I don’t see why my decision was a problem. I think it was clear-headed. We made too big of a mess, so I just erased the entirety of it.”
“Except arson brings every goddamn badge in the county,” I snarl. “You ever think about that, genius? Ever consider that’syoursignature?”
He just grins. “They’re all idiots. Nobody’s gonna trace it.”
