The blade at her throat was long and thin, a fillet knife from our own kitchen block. The biker wielding it wore a red bandana, the kind that bled dye in the rain. He had eyes so pale they looked blind, but I’d bet anything he saw just fine.
Behind him, the others spread out—one with a tire iron, another with a bat, two more with fists like slabs of ham. Harley was there, of course, the only one who didn’t bother with a weapon. He just watched, arms folded, mouth curled in that dead half-smile he wore when he wanted you to think he didn’t care about a goddamn thing.
I heard Jo behind me, the hush of his breathing gone hard. “Stay here,” he said, but I wasn’t even sure he was talking to me.
At the end of the hall, Ransom and Quiad were already in motion. Knox snapped a hand signal—old military, but we all knew it: Hold. Observe. Wait for the opening. Harlow’s shape blotted out the light for a second, a giant in silhouette, then he slipped down the back stairs toward the yard.
The house smelled of burnt sugar and fear. Ma’s scream echoed in my teeth.
I felt for the nightstand by the bed, fingers closing around the first thing that felt like it might do damage. My hand came back with a hunter’s knife—gift from Uncle Cy, handle wrapped in faded blue tape, blade honed so sharp it could shave a cat.
I tucked the spine against my forearm, the way I’d seen Knox do in the barn years ago, when he taught me how to make it look like you weren’t even armed until the very last second.
I looked back at Jo. His face was set, stone-hard, but his hands trembled at the edges. “You don’t have to—” he started.
But I did.
I did.
I slipped past him, bare feet silent on the old boards. Down the hall, past the row of family photos, the smell of dust and lemon oil and something new—blood, maybe, or just the knowledge that everything you ever loved was up for grabs.
I saw the flash of Harley’s eyes, yellow and cold as a headlight. He met my gaze through the window, then gestured with a flick of his chin. One of his goons jerked Ma forward, until her knees knocked against the first porch step.
I thought about screaming, about calling out her name, but the part of me that still wanted to live kept my mouth shut. I crouched low, watching the patterns of movement—who watched the yard, who scanned the windows, who was too nervous to notice me at all.
At the foot of the stairs, the front door banged open so hard the frame shook. Knox led the charge, shotgun raised, voice booming: “Let her go.”
The biker with the knife spun, dragging Ma against his chest. Harley raised his arms, slow and casual, like he was surrendering at a high school pep rally.
“Nobody wants to get hurt,” he called, voice slicing through the cold. “But I will gut this bitch if you don’t come out, little Bo.”
He made it rhyme, the sick fuck.
Knox didn’t blink. “You take your hands off my mother or I take your head off your shoulders.”
The yard was so quiet you could hear the wind in the trees, the horses stamping in the far pasture, the crackle of a radio inHarley’s back pocket. Then Ma, voice shaking but loud as hell: “Don’t you dare, Knox McKenzie! You put that gun down before you blow your own damn foot off!”
Even now, she had to get in the last word.
The biker holding her laughed, lips peeling off his teeth. He dug the blade in just enough to draw a line of red, then looked up at the window, straight at me.
I didn’t wait to see if he’d seen me. I hit the landing, knife tight in my palm, and let the adrenaline do the rest.
Every second after that was just a stutter of color and sound.
Harlow erupting from the side door, swinging a shovel like a baseball bat.
Ransom vaulting the porch rail, landing square on the back of the guy with the tire iron, both of them going down in a tangle.
Jo, somehow ahead of me, using his bulk to drive two bikers off the steps with a roar I’d only ever heard when he came.
Ma, eyes wide but face set, slamming her heel down on the instep of her captor, making him drop just enough that the knife missed her carotid by a half-inch.
There’s a weird clarity that comes with the threat of actual violence. Not fear, not adrenaline—just this laser-bright focus where everything else drops away. All the bullshit, all the history, all the thoughts of what might happen next. It’s just you, the blade, and the son of a bitch you’re going to use it on.
I crashed through the door and into the yard and the first thing I saw was Ma, still in her house slippers, with a fresh red line beading at her throat and the kitchen knife pressed so hard against her windpipe I could see it pulse.
The second thing I saw was Harley. He stood at the center of the yard like he owned the world, not a hair out of place, hands loose at his sides while everyone else moved around him like chess pieces.
