The first sign that they are here is not headlights—it’s the silence breaking. A low, distant rumble carried through the ground before it reaches the ear.
Tessa’s voice crackles in my ear through the comms. “Multiple vehicles. South ridge access road. Five… no, six. Spacing is deliberate.”
Jace answers quickly. “Copy.”
Zane checks the perimeter monitors one last time, then looks at me—no words, just that steady foreman certainty.
The ranch hands we trust are already in position, not boys playing cowboy, but Texas men who grew up with rifles the way other people grew up with baseball gloves. They aren’t looking for glory; they’re looking to protect what’s theirs. Iron Stallion has always bred tough stock, and that includes the people.
The first set of headlights crests the far fence line like a slow flood, then another, and another. They come with confidence and the arrogance of men who believe numbers win wars. But they don’t know this land, and they don’t know us.
The moment the lead vehicle hits the outer markers, Zane triggers the first trap. Floodlights explode to life across the pasture, harsh white brilliance that turns night into exposure, stripping away stealth in an instant. The attackers hesitate, but it’s too late. A sharp crack echoes, then another—the sound of tires bursting as reinforced spikes rip through rubber. The vehicle swerves, and it crashes hard into the fence line with a metallic shriek.
Gunfire answers immediately. Rounds chew into wood and dirt, snapping fence posts, kicking up dust in violent bursts.
Beck laughs once, sharp and joyless. “Welcome to Texas, motherfuckers.”
We return fire, taking strategic positions.
Jace moves like an extension of discipline, dropping two men before they even orient themselves. Beck flanks wide, reckless only in appearance, every movement calculated beneath the grin. Zane holds the center, rifle barking with brutal patience.
To me, this is all familiar, so I move without hesitation. War is an old language that I speak all too well.
Tessa’s voice crackles again, tighter now. “Ryder, two more vehicles splitting east.”
“Let them,” Dad’s voice cuts in over another channel. “We’re ready.”
Cole’s breathing is steady beside me as he fires, his jaw locked, not trying to prove anything, only protecting the family he chose. Ella’s husband, yes, but also a man built of steel when it counts.
The attackers push forward anyway, spilling out into the pasture, moving low, trying to use the terrain, but the terrain belongs to us. The ground is mapped in my head, every dip and rise already known, every blind spot accounted for.
They don’t make it far as explosives snap along the outer edge—small, brutal concussions that throw bodies sideways and shred formation. Screams rise, swallowed quickly by gunfire. This isn’t a firefight; it’s an execution of trespassers.
Tessa is in my ear again, voice slicing through chaos. “South team down to four. East team attempting entry through the stables.”
Zane’s answer is immediate. “Not happening.”
He peels off with two ranch hands, moving fast, boots pounding earth. Beck follows, but Jace stays with me, covering angles, both of us firing in alternating rhythm like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Maybe we have.
The air stinks of cordite and dust, the pasture is lit in harsh white, shadows jerking with movement, bodies dropping where they stand. Iron Stallion holds the line exactly as it was built to. And yet, something scratches at the back of my skull. There’s a wrongness in the air. This is too loud and obvious. Too many men dying too far from the house. Hassan is smarter than this.
My grip tightens on the rifle as realization hits me. This isn’t the strike—it’s the distraction.
Tessa’s voice comes through suddenly, sharp enough to cut bone. “Ryder—“
She pauses, like she’s checking three screens at once, then, deadly quiet, she whispers, “Inside. Now.”
I don’t question her. I simply move. Because if Hassan Yusuf Barre isn’t out here dying with his men, it means he’s already inside where my heart is.
The house feels wrong the second I step inside. Outside, there’s a war raging, but in here, it’s quieter in a way that sets everyinstinct I have on edge. Silence doesn’t mean safety; it means someone is hunting in close quarters.
My boots hit the hardwood with a muted thud as I move upstairs—rifle up, breath controlled. The ranch is built big, sprawling, meant for family and laughter, not clearing corners, but my mind overlays it with angles anyway.
Tessa’s voice stays in my ear. “Second floor. West wing. Movement that isn’t ours.”
That’s where my room is.Fuck! Kate, Julian, Addison.
