Rook is already moving when I do, nails silent against the floor, ears forward, body coiled. He doesn’t need commands—he’s been with me long enough to read the shift in my breathing, the way my shoulders settle into something old and familiar.
I head for the armory hidden behind what looks like a decorative wall panel. Using my fingerprint and a retinal scan, the panel slides open, revealing steel racks of more than enough weapons to take down a small army.
I choose fast: plate carrier first, sliding it over my shoulders, tightening the straps with practiced efficiency. A rifle next, perfectly suppressed, its familiar weight settling into my hands like an extension of my spine. I secure a sidearm to my thigh and strap a knife beside it.
I turn to Rook, who is at my side, waiting. “Alright, same rules as always. Stay close, and don’t break unless I say so.”
His tail thumps once, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
The monitors flicker as I move toward the command station. The perimeter view fills the screens as I watch the intruders through thermal overlays, night vision, and elevation mapping. They’re good—well-trained and spacing themselves methodically—but they’re adapting to terrain they don’t know.
I do, like the back of my hand.
I kill the interior lights, and the house goes dark, glass turning into mirrors, reflecting nothing useful back at them. This way, the mountain becomes mine again. I open the rear access and step into the cold, Rook ghosting beside me. The alarms drop to a low internal hum, switched to silent mode. From here on out, noise is a liability.
I turn toward the dark mountain and the men who made the mistake of thinking this was just a house. They’ve stepped onto my land, and that’s where they lose.
The first man breaches the outer fence, and I let him. He steps into the narrow tree line where the ground dips unevenly, footing treacherous if you don’t know where to place your weight. His boot hits the wrong patch, and the trap snaps.
He doesn’t even have time to scream before the line pulls tight, yanking him off his feet and slamming him into the tree, knocking him unconscious. I end him with a silent bullet between his eyebrows.
One down, seven to go.
The others react fast, spreading and scanning, with their weapons raised.
Rook tenses, and I’m quick to calm him. “Not yet,” I whisper.
I move along the ridge line, keeping elevation and letting the terrain do the work. The second man drops when I put a round clean through his shoulder. It’s nonlethal and very intentional. He goes down screaming, drawing attention, forcing the others to break formation—a very big mistake on their end. With them scattered, I end his life with a clean shot to the back of his head.
I fire again, and the third man drops. Number four panics and fires blindly into the dark, his muzzle flash giving him away. I adjust and squeeze. Blessed silence follows.
Rook launches without a sound when I give the signal—a blur of muscle and teeth—taking the fifth man down hard with a clean cut bite to the jugular. The impact echoes, sharp and final as he goes down.
Suddenly, gunfire erupts from the left, catching me off guard. Pain explodes through my leg, the force spinning me half a step off balance. I grit my teeth and roll with it, as I quickly check the damage. Bullet through the thigh. It should be a clean pass-through if I’m lucky.
Pulling myself upright, I line up the shot and end the man who thought he had me. “Rest in hell, fucker!”
Six down, two to go.
I move faster now, adrenaline burning through pain like it’s nothing more than background noise. Blood is already soaking into my pant leg, warm and slick, but I don’t slow. Slowing gets you killed.
One of the two left makes the brave and stupid mistake of rushing towards me. I meet him head-on, my knife in hand before he realizes he’s too close. It takes one precise movement for him to meet a very quiet end.
Once the last man realizes that he’s alone, he hesitates. I see it in the way he shifts his weight, his rifle wavering. None of them expected resistance like this. They expected a cornered animal but got a hunter instead.
He fires, and since I’m already hit, I don’t move away fast enough. The impact hits my abdomen hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. White-hot pain blooms as I stagger back, breath hitching, vision narrowing.
Gritting my teeth, I raise my rifle and pull the trigger. He drops quickly, and once again, the mountain is quiet.
I stand there, chest heaving, blood seeping through my clothes. Rook returns to my side, panting, eyes searching me for damage.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though my body disagrees.
The house looms ahead, lights dark, basement sealed. Kate and Julian are safe inside, and that’s the only thing that matters.
I turn toward home and start walking. Each step back toward the house feels heavier than the last.
The adrenaline is already thinning, burning off too fast, leaving pain sharp and insistent in its wake. My leg protests first, the muscle locking up where the bullet tore through it. The wound in my stomach is worse. I can feel it every time I breathe. Blood slicks my hands when I press my palm against it, warmth seeping through my fingers, but I ignore it. I’ve walked farther on worse and finished jobs with less.
