Ransom, moving in. He was all shadow, all angles, the way he'd been since we were kids stealing tools from Dad’s shed. His hair was a mess, his face striped with camo paint, and he carried his weapon in a way that said he wanted someone to try him.
I gave him a quick, two-fingered flash from my left hand—hold position—and watched as he slid into a patch of scrub, grin wide enough to split his face. He loved this shit. He lived for it.
A few seconds later, Quiad’s signal came from the other direction—a low, mournful coyote yip, then silence. The sound would have fooled anyone who hadn't slept in a tent through twenty Oregon winters.
I grinned and answered back with a barred owl call, then waited.
Within minutes, both brothers were inside the kill box, just the way we'd practiced in the barn all those years ago. Harlow was probably lurking behind the tractor shed, waiting for the order to close in.
I risked one last glance at the house. The windows were dark, but I knew Newt was in my bedroom, probably awake, probably running through his own version of a threat matrix and trying not to hyperventilate. He was a survivor. I admired that. I liked that he could be scared and still hold himself together.
I watched the approach. Luther and his clowns were less than a hundred yards from the porch now, dog straining at the leash, the rest of them hyped up on cheap liquor and the kind ofdesperation that only comes from knowing you’re about to get your ass handed to you.
I didn’t envy them, but I respected their commitment to stupid decisions.
I waited until Luther stepped over the last fencepost, then sighted in on his kneecap, finger tensed on the trigger, just in case.
But the plan wasn't to start shooting, not unless they gave me a reason. The sheriff knew they were coming and the last thing I wanted was a pile of bodies drawing the state police into the mess.
No, this would be a message. A demonstration.
I gave the signal—three sharp clicks on my radio. Within seconds, Ransom was up and moving, a blur across the yard. Quiad flanked from the left, almost invisible, moving low and fast. I tracked them through the scope until they were both in position, then I rose from the ditch and leveled the rifle at Luther’s chest.
He saw me, or maybe just the outline, and stopped dead.
“Drop the bat,” I said, loud enough to cut through the noise.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Ransom’s voice carried from behind, all humor and threat. “You hear the man, pretty boy.”
Luther turned, eyes bugged, trying to keep all of us in his sight line. The dog lunged, but Quiad was on it in a flash, snaring the chain and twisting it so the animal yelped and crumpled to the dirt.
“Jesus Christ,” said the youngest of the group, the one with the bottle. He looked ready to bolt.
“Don’t,” I said, shifting my aim to his foot. “You’ll only make it worse.”
He stopped.
Ransom came up on Luther, grinning, weapon at the ready. “What’s the play here, Bridger? You come to apologize for being a dick or is this a suicide mission?”
Luther spat on the ground, then finally let the bat drop. “I just want my brother back. That’s all.”
The words surprised me. For a second, I almost believed him. But then I saw the way his jaw flexed, the way his hands curled into fists, and I knew it wasn’t about Newt at all. It was about losing face. About pride.
“Not happening,” I said. “He doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
Luther’s face twisted. “He doesn’t belong to you, either.”
Ransom laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong, friend. You see, McKenzies don’t lose their own.”
The three of us formed a loose triangle around the Bridger crew. Quiad had the dog neutralized, Ransom was keeping the other two in check, and I had Luther right where I wanted him.
“Turn around,” I said. “Walk back the way you came.”
Luther stood his ground. “You think this is over? You think you can just take him and—”
He didn’t finish, because at that exact moment, a sound shattered the night so violently that every hair on my body stood at attention.
