“Count to sixty,” I said. “If you hear shooting, stay put. If you hear silence, you run for the creek and don’t look back.”
He was about to protest, but I kissed his forehead, then left before I could change my mind.
Back in the kitchen, Macon had moved to the blind spot behind the stairs, waiting for the breach. I signaled, two fingers to my eye, then pointed to the dining room.
He nodded, once.
The front door banged open, hinges screaming. Two men entered, both masked, both moving low and wide. The lead had a shotgun, the second an assault rifle. I recognized neither, but that didn’t matter.
They were dead already.
I let the first man get to the center of the room, then shot him in the knee. He folded, screaming, and the second man turned just in time to take a slug from Macon’s AR through the sternum. He flew backward, hit the wall, and slid down, painting the wood in arterial red.
The first man was still moving, clawing for his weapon, but I kicked it away and held him at gunpoint. “Who sent you?” I demanded, but the mask muffled his words and the shock was already setting in.
I stripped the mask, saw a face I didn’t know—mid-twenties, scared shitless, not a pro after all. Just a hired hand, thrown into a job he didn’t understand.
“Who’s outside?” I asked.
He gasped, “I don’t know—Vic just said get the job done—don’t kill the family, just scare them—swear to God—”
I knocked him out with the butt of the Mossberg, then rolled him onto his side.
Macon and I locked eyes. “We need to clear the back,” he said.
“On three,” I replied.
We moved as one, out the kitchen and into the mudroom. Another shadow at the back door, this one more cautious. He took a shot at us through the glass, missed by a foot, then tried to angle for the corner.
Macon got him with a burst from the AR, two to the chest, one to the head for insurance. The body thudded to the deck, bounced once, then lay still.
At the edge of my hearing, I caught another sound—a car engine, revved and coming up the drive.
“Shit,” I said. “He called for backup.”
Burke’s voice echoed from upstairs: “Sniper in the south field’s repositioning. I’ve got a shot if you want it.”
“Do it,” I said, and a split second later the report of Burke’s rifle split the air. Then silence, eerie and complete.
The car skidded to a halt outside. I edged to the front window, saw a man in a suit climb out—Hargrove himself, flanked by a driver and a third goon with a sidearm.
Hargrove had his hands raised, white flag style, but his face was twisted into a mask of hate.
I opened the door, gun at my side. “Get off my property,” I said.
He smirked, then nodded at the wounded men on my floor. “You’re crazy, you know that? You’re a fucking lunatic.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m the lunatic still standing.”
He wiped his hands, then spat in the dirt. “This isn’t over, Steele. You’re making a mistake—this could all be settled with a check and a handshake.”
I aimed the Mossberg at his chest, safety off. “My family is not for sale. You want the land, you bring an army next time. But you won’t find me unprepared.”
He held my gaze, then flicked his eyes to the window above, where he could just see Jojo’s pale face peeking through the crack.
“That little bitch in there worth dying for?” he sneered.
I didn’t answer. Just kept the barrel level.
