On my right, Ransom and Quiad flanked me—Ransom with his smirk and his fists jammed in the pockets of a jacket he’d borrowed from a dead Marine, Quiad with his arms folded and his whole posture saying, Just give me a reason.
Left of me was Harlow, who made six-four look delicate and moved like he was afraid of stepping on the world. And my baby brother Bodean—who had shown up at the house late last night—had his hands in his hoodie, head down, but there was violence in the clench of his jaw, a restless energy that made even the breeze skirt around him.
And then there was Newt.
He stood half a pace behind me, almost close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, but not so close that it looked like he needed protection.
He was learning.
I was teaching him—by proximity, by repetition, by the way my hand rested at the small of his back, fingers splayed in silent instruction—don’t run, don’t panic, don’t look away. The trick to these standoffs was to be the wall, not the gate.
The approach of Luther and his so-called followers would’ve been comical if it weren’t so pathetic. Four men, three of them built like used car salesmen who’d failed the physical for Little League, one of them so pockmarked by bad meth and worse decisions that his skin seemed to be in a race with itself to see which layer could rot off first.
They advanced like they were filming the trailer for a regional crime drama—swaggering, muttering, half-hyped on adrenaline and the certainty that they’d never been punched by a McKenzie before.
Luther led, of course. He always did. Today he wore a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off a tan that only existed above the wrist, and his hair was styled in a way that made him look like he wanted to be cast as a young CEO in a pharmaceutical ad.
His face was stuck in the same smirk it had worn for a decade—an expression that said, I’m smarter than all of you, but also, I could kill you with my mind if I had to.
The moment Luther clocked Newt, his mouth split into a shark’s smile. He upped his stride, closed the last ten yards in three steps, and then stopped, just out of arm’s reach, hands spread wide in mock surprise.
“Well, well,” he said, voice syrupy with menace. “Look at this pathetic display. The military freak and his band of hillbilly brothers protecting my worthless little brother.”
He let the silence hang, like he thought the words alone could kill us.
Ransom cracked his knuckles. Quiad kept his eyes on the other three, gaze dead and precise. Harlow didn’t blink. Bodean, ever the wildcard, spat into the dirt, a sharp arc that landed an inch from Luther’s Italian boots.
I didn’t react. I just felt Newt go rigid behind me, the air catching in his lungs, the micro-tremor that said he wanted to run but knew it’d be the last thing he ever did.
Luther’s attention snapped from me to Newt, and in that instant, every molecule of air between them turned electric.
“Seriously, Newt?” Luther sneered, louder now, for the benefit of his own backup. “This is what you picked? Backwoods trash who think a GED and a beard is a substitute for a life?”
He glanced at me, then did a little half-circle so he could get the full audience. “I mean, you’re a disgrace to the Bridger name, but I didn’t think you’d fuck your way all the way down the food chain.”
The goons behind him snickered on cue.
I finally let myself speak, and the sound of it cut through the mist like a blade. “He belongs to me now,” I said. I let my voice go cold and flat—no anger, no boast, just a fact. “Get used to it.”
Luther’s face twitched, just a little, the skin around his left eye tightening. He stepped in, close enough that I could smell the expensive cologne and the cheap gin underneath, and I knew he was going to try it.
You could see the tension run up his neck and pool at his jaw—a lifetime of being told you’re the heir, the chosen one, and then finding out the world doesn’t give a fuck about your inheritance.
He threw a punch. Wild, desperate, aimed more at the memory of childhood grudges than my actual face. I caught it. Not the fist—he wasn’t that accurate—but the motion. The swing was telegraphed, the follow-through sloppy.
I blocked it with my left, pivoted into him, and drove my right straight into his solar plexus. The impact made a sound like a wet towel hitting a countertop, and the shock of it doubled him over, all the wind gone.
He tried to recover, but I was already moving. I grabbed the back of his neck and twisted—not enough to break anything, but enough to show him I could have. He dropped to his knees.
His friends stared. One of them made a sound, a little wheeze, then turned and started to backpedal.
I looked down at Luther, still holding his neck, and said, “You ever touch him again, I’ll bury you in a place even God can’t find.” Then I let go, stepped back, and dusted my hands.
Newt made a soft sound behind me—half terror, half awe. He was trembling, but his eyes never left Luther’s face, like he was memorizing the moment for a day he’d need it.
Ransom grinned, feral and delighted. “That’s one way to negotiate,” he said.
Harlow, always the peacemaker, moved in, picked up Luther by the scruff, and hauled him to his feet like he weighed nothing. “You lose,” he said, voice flat and empty.
