One SUV.
They stop at the edge of the clearing like they own the place.
My jaw clenches.
I hear doors open. Boots on gravel. Voices low and sharp.
A flashlight beam sweeps the porch.
Then a knock hits my front door.
Hard.
Again.
Harder.
A voice carries through the wood.
“Ruby,” a man calls. “Open up. I know you’re inside.”
Luke, or one of his men.
Rage flashes hot.
He says her name like he owns it. He doesn’t. He never did.
I take one breath and answer with silence.
A shoulder hits the door.
The frame shudders.
I move to the side, putting myself out of direct line. I keep my gun trained, finger steady, breathing controlled.
Another hit.
The door groans.
A third hit.
The door swings inward.
Luke steps in first, gun in his hand, face twisted with a grin that doesn’t belong on a human being. Two men follow him, both armed, both dressed in black like they’re trying to look professional.
They aren’t.
They’re just predators in better clothes.
Luke’s eyes sweep the room.
“Where is she?” he snaps.
One of his men moves toward the hallway.
I wait until he’s two steps in.
Then I fire.
