Summer.
Christ. Her name alone feels like someone splitting me down the middle.
But Jackson doesn’t deserve my grief.
I’ve spent years cleaning up his messes. The trafficking, the prostitution, the drugs, the murders. The women who went missing. The women who came back broken shells. The bodies dumpedin rivers and fields. Everyone in this truck knows what he’s capable of. Some of them have bled because of him. Some have lost family.
And if Jackson lays one fucking hand on her, I’ll?—
“Boss. What you said earlier. No, I can’t promise we will get her back.” He swallows, keeps his eyes forward, the dash light painting his jaw in honed angles. “But I can promise we’ll die trying.”
I nod my head, accepting his words—knowing he means every one of them.
The rest of the drive is a coffin of silence. Tires hum over twisting roads, engines growl under the weight of every mile, but no one speaks. Words feel pointless when all I can hear is Summer’s scream echoing in my skull.
When the convoy finally slows, it’s like the world holds its breath. The house rises out of the dark, tall and looming, a shadow fortress behind wrought-iron gates. Spotlights sweep lazy arcs over the front lot, and for a heartbeat, it feels like we’ve rolled straight into Hell’s courtyard.
“Big place,” Mason mutters, his voice sandpaper as he edges the wheel, steering us to a hidden spot behind the line of trees.
“Too big,” Carter answers, his hand already brushing the grip of his sidearm.
We pull up just out of sight, engines killed, trucks cooling to silence. My fists ache from clenching the wheel. Knuckles split open again, blood sticky against the leather.
Mason exhales loudly, the sound heavy with anticipation, before unclipping his belt and pushing open the door. “Ready, Sheriff?” he asks.
I nod once.
Carter, Hayes, and Grove move with me, our doors opening in near-perfect unison. Behind us, the rumble of the second truck fades as Calder, Vance, and Reyes climb out, boots hitting the dirt almost in rhythm with ours.
We huddle around the hood, breath ghosting in the night. The air smells like pine, damp earth, and gun oil. I sketch the layout quick and hard—main gates locked, front exposure heavy. If we go loud,we need to go fast. If we try quiet, we’re fucked the second someone slips.
“We’ve got two options,” I say. “Cut through the woods and breach the back—or….” My gaze slides to Grove. “We take out the front guards and blow it wide open. Once the men hit the ground, we drive the truck through and wrench the gates open.”
Grove grins, but it never reaches his eyes. He’d served his country long before finishing his term and joining my department, a man known for his precision and calm under fire.
The trunk pops open, and he lifts out the case, snapping the latches with practiced ease. In seconds, he’s assembling the sniper rifle—each motion fluid, mechanical, familiar. The scope catches the faint wash of moonlight, a brief flash before the darkness swallows it again.
“We’ll need cover fire the second those bodies hit the dirt,” Mason says.
I nod. “Then we storm it. No hesitation. Summer’s in there. We don’t give them a chance to move her.”
Everyone murmurs agreement, low and final. The sound of safeties clicking off is louder than gunfire in the quiet.
We edge forward, trucks rolling slow until the iron gates loom just ahead. Two guards stand flanking the entrance, rifles slung casual.
“Grove,” I whisper. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The sniper barrel rests across the bonnet, his body stretched behind it, every muscle steady. He exhales once, long and slow. The shot cracks, piercing as bone breaking. First guard drops like a puppet cut from strings. The second barely has time to look surprised before Grove’s finger squeezes again.
Both men crumple into the gravel.
Alarms scream to life, shrill and furious, flooding the night with chaos. Red strobes blink along the roofline. Dogs bark inside. Shouts rise from within.
No more time for planning.
“Now!” I bellow.
Metal screams as the truck tears the gate down, the whole frameshuddering under the strain. The gate buckles, hinges shrieking, chains snapping like gunfire. Steel folds in on itself until we’re able to climb through.
