The drive out to Stillwater was supposed to be routine, but there was nothing routine about the way I kept catching flashes of Carrie’s heart pounding against the inside of her ribs. She tried to hide it, kept her eyes on the double-yellow lines, and pretended she wasn’t about to throw up, but the bond between us had its own ideas. I could taste her fear. It coated my tongue and made my own pulse trip faster, like our bodies were running the same race at different starting guns.
The sun was gone, replaced by a swollen blue dusk that made every treeline look like a line of wolves waiting their turn. I rode shotgun, boots up on the dash, the breeze off the bourbon fields full of yeast and copper and old barrels. We didn’t talk much. Every time I tried, the bond kicked in, and her reply was already waiting at the base of my skull, fully formed and impossible to ignore.
She braked hard at the last turn, the back wheels of the Escalade biting gravel. The headlights caught the gates of thedistillery—the big cast-iron ones that her great-granddaddy had shipped in from Italy, “to keep the rascals out.” The only problem was that tonight, the rascals had brought guns.
“There,” she said, nodding at the shadow behind the guard shack.
I saw it. Crouched, not standing. Black clothes, face mask, bulge at the hip that wasn’t a phone. Two more on the loading dock, sharing a cigarette and watching the main office door with the patience of men who expected trouble but not a fight.
“How many?” Carrie asked, voice tight.
“Five I can see,” I said. “At least. Could be more inside.”
She swallowed. Her hand twitched toward her purse, where I knew she kept a little .38. She’d practiced with it, but never shot at anything alive. I reached over, covered her hand with mine, and squeezed. For a second, she let me. Then she pulled away and parked behind the grain silo, killing the lights.
I took the burner phone from the glovebox and slipped out of the car, every nerve awake and ready. I stalked the perimeter, low and fast, using the fence line as cover. The first man—bald, big, with a nose broken so many times it was mostly scar—stood watch near the rickhouse. He had the wrong stance for a pro, too much weight forward, like he was itching to charge instead of wait. I clocked the gun on his hip and the way his eyes never lingered more than a second on any one thing.
Then I made the call. It rang three times before anyone picked up. “What,” said a voice I knew, flat and unamused.
“Papa’s in the rye,” I said, slow and clear.
A pause. “How deep?”
“Deep. Bring the family.”
Another pause, then a click. That was it. In twenty minutes, maybe less, the Royal Bastards would be rolling down Route 60 like a pack of hellhounds. But until then, it was just me andCarrie, versus whoever thought they could fuck with her legacy and walk away.
I jogged back to her, moving silently. She was crouched behind the hood, scanning the warehouse windows with a look I’d only seen once before: the night she’d buried her father and never let anyone see her cry.
“Bennet,” she whispered, nodding at a third-floor window. Sure enough, a shadow moved behind the glass. Square shoulders, white hair. Bennet Shore, master distiller and the only man left alive who knew the Stillwater mash bill by heart. He stood frozen, arms raised, while a smaller figure waved a pistol in his face.
“Shit,” I said. “He’s a hostage.”
Carrie nodded, her jaw set so hard I worried she’d break a tooth.
I started to say something, but she cut me off: “If we lose Bennet, we lose the entire next decade of bourbon.” Her eyes found mine, and for a second, the bond sizzled so loud it was like a high-voltage wire between us. “We’re getting him out. Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes,” I echoed. It was the right answer, and I felt the pride in her like sunlight on black leather.
I checked the back holster, thumbed the safety off, and handed her the backup Glock. “You remember how to use it?”
“Point, shoot, don’t miss,” she said, voice dead calm.
I grinned, wolfish. “Good enough.”
The side entrance was locked, but old buildings always had their secrets. I found the loose panel in the foundation, the one that led to the barrel chiller, and yanked it free with a grunt. “Ladies first,” I said, but she didn’t take the bait.
“You’re the bullet sponge,” she whispered, so I went in, leading the way on hands and knees. It was cold inside, the air thick with old whiskey fumes and the coppery tang of raw ethanol. Wemoved up a set of iron stairs, every step a fresh chance for the floor to give us away.
At the top, I peeked through the slats. Main production floor, lights on, but only a skeleton crew. Three men, all with the same mercenary stance, all watching the office door. One of them held a walkie, another a crowbar. The third paced like a caged animal, checking his gun every thirty seconds.
“On my go,” I mouthed to Carrie. She nodded, already sighting down the Glock.
I burst through the door, aiming high, and the first man spun, gun up. I shot him in the thigh, then in the collarbone, and he dropped like a sack of wet barley. The other two ducked behind a line of bourbon barrels, firing back with wild, panicked shots. I heard a glass bottle shatter and felt a slug hiss past my ear.
Carrie was right behind me, her shots tight, controlled. She drilled one in the foot, the other in the hand, and they both screamed, more from surprise than pain. I tackled the closest, knocked the pistol away, and smashed his face into the barrel head until he stopped moving.
When I turned, Carrie already had the last man in her sights. She didn’t pull the trigger, just stared him down, daring him to try her. He dropped his gun and held up his hands, blood leaking from between his fingers.
