“In a town where everyone thinks I’m dead.” Hammer’s voice carried the controlled edge that made rookie firefighters step back and listen. “Where I’ve been dead for the better part of three years.”
Mack shifted in his seat, still protecting the ribs that had been crushed in that bus rollover in Alaska six weeks ago. “Nobody’s gonna recognize you. You were eighteen when you left. You’re built different now.”
Saxon snorted. “Built different. That’s one way to put it.”
Hammer ignored the comment. Two hundred pounds of muscle earned through Delta Force training and three years of wildland firefighting wasn’t something you hid under civilian clothes. But Mack was right about one thing—the boy who’d run away after that final confrontation with his stepfather was gone. What sat in this truck was a man who’d survived things that would break most people.
“Besides,” Mack continued, “we’re not stayin’ long. Just lunch, and then I want to drive out and see Dad.”
Dad. Hammer let the word sit. Not his dad, of course. His dad was buried in a corner of land that time had forgotten. Next to his mother, but she’d come later, after he’d left Renegade.
But Mack’s dad was still alive and probably terrorizing whatever woman was unfortunate enough to be in his orbit. Except now he was Mayor Alden Jenkins, with a title and so-called respectability that made Hammer’s skin crawl.
But of course Mack wanted to see him. Because apparently Mack had a super-short memory. And a whole lot of forgiveness.
Not Hammer, thanks. “We’re not going there, Mack.”
“He’s my father.”
“He’s a monster.” The words came out flat, final. The same tone Hammer used when ordering a crew to evacuate a fire zone.
Mack’s jaw tightened. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“Because you were eight when I left. And you don’t remember the exciting parts. You remember the guy who taught you to throw a baseball and helped with homework. That’s not the guy I knew.”
He left out the rest, but it went something like, not the jerk who’d beaten Hammer bloody every time he’d gotten mouthy. Mack had been too young to understand why Hammer always had bruises, why he’d started spending so much time at the Blackwood ranch.
“Maybe he’s sorry. At least, that’s what he said to me.”
Hammer just stared at him, the words gone.
“We eating or arguing?” Saxon opened his door, letting the October air sweep through the cab. “Because I’m starving, and that place smells like bacon.”
South Eagle Police Station sat three buildings down, followed by the fire station, both modern brick structures that looked out of place among the weathered storefronts and carefully preserved historic buildings. An EMS truck was parked outside, rear doors open, paramedics unloading equipment. Hammer cataloged the scene automatically—serious call, not a routine transport. The kind of emergency that got everyone’s attention.
“Looks like excitement,” Saxon observed, following Hammer’s gaze.
“Hope everyone’s okay.” Mack’s voice carried genuine concern. He’d always been the one with the soft heart, even as a kid.
They pushed through the diner’s front door, and Hammer was immediately transported back in time. The renovation had been done with care—the original bank’s high ceilings and stone walls provided a dignified backdrop for the classic diner fixtures. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, chrome stools sat at a lunch counter that might have been salvaged from the 1950s, and the smell of coffee and grease filled the air.
“Sit anywhere you like, boys.” The voice came from behind the counter, where a woman in her sixties was refilling salt shakers. Gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, coffee-stained apron tied around a sturdy frame, hands that spoke of thirty years slinging hash and pouring coffee.
Hammer knew those hands. Knew that voice.
Dolores Simpson. Dolly to everyone who’d ever sat in one of her booths. She’d worked at the café when Hammer was in middle school, always ready with a sympathetic ear and an extra piece of pie for a kid whose home life was complicated.
“Back booth okay?” Saxon was already heading toward the corner, where they’d have a clear view of the street and multiple exits. Old habits.
Hammer followed, keeping his head down, hoping ten years and sixty pounds of additional muscle would be enough of a disguise. But when Dolly approached their table with a coffee pot and three mugs, her steps slowed.
“Heaven Almighty!” She nearly dropped the coffee pot on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Nice. Now the entire world knew about the resurrection of Rowan Wallace.
“Rowan Wallace. I thought you were dead.”
Yep, the diner went quiet. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, forks paused halfway to mouths, and every head in the place turned toward their booth.
