“Sheriff’s on the way,” Ransom said, voice like sandpaper. “Harlow called from the house.”
I nodded, not taking my eyes off Gloria. She glared back, defiant, even as her voice failed. I looked down at my hands,covered in Quiad’s blood. They shook, but not from fear this time.
I stood, stepped over Gloria, and wiped my hands on the hem of my shirt. For a second, she looked up at me—not as a mark, not as a payday, but as her son. I saw the hope flare in her eyes. The hope that I’d fold, that I’d give in, that I’d crawl back to her on my knees.
“No,” I said. “You don’t get to win, not this time.”
She spat at my feet, but she was done.
I looked at the mess around me—the blood on the ground, the broken men, the gun still warm under the tire. The life I’d left behind, trying to claw its way back with teeth and bullets.
Then I looked at Quiad, holding his injured arm against his chest, eyes fixed on me like I was the only thing left that mattered. I knelt next to him, pressed my hand to his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. He winced, but didn’t push me away.
“You okay?” I said, voice barely there.
He grunted. “Had worse.”
I started to laugh, and it came out as a hiccup, raw and close to tears. I buried my face in his chest, breathing in the sweat and blood and wood smoke.
He rested his chin on top of my head, and I felt the tremor go through him, the one he tried so hard to hide from everyone else.
“I got you,” I whispered, voice thick.
He nodded, once. “Mine,” he said, and his whole body shook with it.
I clung to him, even as the sirens began to echo up the road, lights already flashing at the turnoff. I didn’t let go, not for anything. The farm was quiet, except for our breath and the distant sound of rescue.
I’d never felt more free.
It was full dark by the time the sirens lit up the yard, blue and red washing over the porch, the barn, the battered facesand bleeding bodies scattered across the drive. The world went electric: engines revving, voices shouting, radios squawking from the open doors of the sheriff’s car.
The first thing I saw was Floyd, moving like a man who’d rather be anywhere but here. He hopped the fence, boots spraying gravel, his right hand never leaving the butt of his holster.
Behind him, Deputy Dan peeled off, scanning the shadows for hidden threats, his face tight and pale in the strobe of the patrol lights.
Floyd clocked the scene in three seconds flat. Gloria and her muscle on the ground—one moaning, the other dead weight. Knox and Ransom flanking them, faces set and still. Me, crouched next to Quiad, my hands soaked red, the stink of blood and gunpowder heavy in the air.
“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND, NOW!” Floyd bellowed, voice carrying clear across the field.
Nobody moved. Knox just set his jaw, arms folded. Ransom raised his hands, palms out, the ghost of a grin flitting across his bruised mouth. Only the two thugs reacted, groaning and flinching at the command.
Gloria—her voice like broken glass—spat, “You’re too late, Sheriff. Your golden boy’s already shot somebody.”
Dan ran up on us, weapon drawn, eyes wide as he took in the blood running down Quiad’s arm. “Jesus, is he hit?”
“Bullet graze,” Quiad grunted, not looking away from Gloria. “Could use a towel, not a funeral.”
I tried to help him stand, but he shook his head. “Stay down, Sunshine. You’re a better target that way.”
Floyd holstered his gun, striding in to get a closer look. He knelt next to Quiad, then turned to me. “You alright, kid?”
I nodded, but it was a lie. My bones were vibrating, every muscle gone to mush. “Can you get her out of here?” I said, nodding at Gloria, who just glared back with murder in her eyes.
Dan took her arms, read her the rights in a voice as flat as the kitchen table. She went feral, fighting the cuffs, screaming about property and blood and how she’d sue the county for everything it was worth.
For a second, she managed to twist and look me full in the face. “You’ll pay for this,” she hissed. “You and your whole fucking bastard family.”
Ransom laughed, low and cold. “Try it, bitch. See how far you get.”
