The room explodes into motion. Drawers fly open. Weapons checked, magazines slammed home, radios clipped. Not one of them hesitates.
By the time we roll into the lot, the air’s thick with the weight of it, like the ground itself knows we’re heading into a fight. Two trucks idle, exhaust curling into the night. Carter and Calder lean against the hood, rifles slung, boots restless. Mason checks and re-checks the chamber of his sidearm while Grove keeps his jaw locked, staring straight ahead.
Hayes stands off to the side, calm as stone, his shotgun balanced easy in hands that have gutted more deer than most of us have seen. Beside him, Vance paces tight circles, shoulders twitching, a kid itching for his first real scar. Reyes lingers in the shadows, silent, scar tissue twisting up his cheek. Nobody mentions it. Nobody ever does.
Before anyone climbs in, I stop them.
“Listen,” I say, my voice carrying over the rumble. They freeze, eyes locked on me. “I won’t beat around the bush. What I’m planning—it isn’t lawful.”
No one blinks.
I let it hang for a moment, let them understand. “This isn’t about due process. This isn’t about the system. This is about Jackson Moore. About ending him. About bringing Summer back alive. That’s it.”
My throat tightens, rage pressing hot against my ribs. “If any of you can’t stomach that, say it now. Because once we get in those trucks, there’s no going back. We find him. We tear his world apart. And we put him in the fucking ground.”
Silence. Heavy. Unflinching.
Then Mason steps forward. His voice is gravel. “That bastard’sbeen in my nightmares for years. My little girl was nine, Sheriff. Nine. Bullet in her chest because of his men. You think I give a fuck about lawful?”
Grove spits into the dirt, eyes burning. “I’ll watch that fucker burn. For justice. For my daughter.”
Carter nods once, clipped. “Whatever it takes.”
Reyes cracks his knuckles. “I’m in. For your girls.” He gestures to Mason and Hayes. “And for Summer.”
One by one, heads bow in agreement. No hesitation. No dissent.
I feel something pointy twist inside me. Not relief. Not hope. Something darker.
“All right then,” I say. “Let’s hunt.”
We split, boots pounding the asphalt, loading into the trucks like wolves scenting blood. The lot fills with the growl of engines, and for the first time tonight, I feel alive.
Because this—this right here—isn’t law. It’s vengeance.
And vengeance is all I have left.
The drive out is long enough for the air in the cab to sour. No one speaks. Not Carter riding shotgun, not Mason, Hayes and Reyes who ride in the back. Every man grips steel like it’s the only thing tethering them to sanity. My own knuckles are white on the wheel. The glow of the dash paints us in sickly green, like ghosts on their way to haunt.
Calder rides tail in the second truck, headlights bobbing in my mirror. Vance rides shotgun with him and Grove rides in the back.
By the time we crawl off the highway and down into the backroads, I can smell the rot of poverty through the vents. This is the kind of place George Johnson would call home. Forgotten. Left to fester.
The house is squatting at the end of a dirt drive. Paint peeling, porch light swinging in the night wind, yard littered with old cans and tyres. A graveyard for lives long since abandoned.
I kill the engine. One by one, doors open.
Carter at my side. Mason hefting the battering ram. Grove spitting into the dirt. Reyes silent as a shadow. Calder and the others fan out from the second truck.
“Two round the back,” I order, voice low but firm. “Reyes. Hayes. Don’t let him rabbit.”
They nod, disappearing into the dark like they were born for it.
The rest of us stalk toward the porch. Masons got the ram slung like a weapon, but my blood’s running too hot for protocol. The second my boot hits that step, I don’t wait. I plant myself square at the door and drive my heel into the frame.
It explodes inward with a crack that echoes like a gunshot. The men glance at each other—one heartbeat of shock—before storming in.
The house smells like mold and piss. Hallway lined with broken picture frames. A TV still humming static in the corner. Movement at the far end. The scuffle of feet.
