For a moment, all I could hear was the churn of diesel and the ragged wheeze of my own lungs.
I rolled off the kitchen tile, found Jojo still alive, still here, and hugged him so hard he yelped. “It’s over,” I whispered, my forehead pressed to his hair. “Nobody takes what’s mine.”
He said something—I think it was my name—but I could barely process the words. I just held him, and let the world tilt back into place.
Macon limped over, blood soaking the sleeve of his Carhartt, and gave me a look that was half “I told you so,” half “let’s never do that again.” He reached down, hauled me to my feet, then did the same for Jojo.
“Clean,” he said. “All clear.”
I nodded. “Let’s go see.”
We stepped onto the porch, weapons down. The air outside was sharp with cordite and burning oil, but the new team had already started to wrangle the survivors.
Jackson marched three attackers to the side of the barn, knelt them in a row, and frisked them with the efficiency of a man who’d done it a thousand times.
Hooper cuffed a fourth, then offered the guy a cigarette as if this was all just Tuesday night poker.
Burke approached, shotgun slung loose, hat pushed back on his head. He looked me up and down, then snorted. “You look like hammered shit, boss.”
“So do you,” I said, and we both laughed until it hurt.
Decker wandered over, rolling a toothpick in his mouth, and glanced at the carnage around the yard. “You owe me fifty bucks,” he said. “I said you’d hold out, but not this long.”
I flipped him off, which made him laugh harder.
Behind us, the sound of sirens. Three, maybe four, converging from town. The first to arrive was Sheriff Calloway, lights blazing, shotgun already in hand as he cleared the drive.
He took one look at the mess, at the bodies on the ground and the men lined up in zip-ties, and exhaled like he’d just put down a rabid dog. “Jesus Christ, Rawley. What the fuck happened here?”
“Home invasion,” I said, deadpan. “Think you can handle the paperwork?”
He shook his head, but his eyes were different—more respect than irritation. He started reading the attackers their rights, which felt like a sick joke, but I let him do his job.
I drifted back to the house, Jojo still glued to my side. Macon followed, moving slow. In the kitchen, Barrett had finally gotten off the floor and was trying to stop Harrison from hyperventilating.
I bent down, met my father’s eyes.
He couldn’t look at me, not at first. Then he did, and I saw something that had never been there before—not pride, exactly, but a kind of battered awe.
He tried to speak, then gave up. Just nodded, once.
Barrett managed a thin, shaken smile. “You saved our lives.”
“Just another day,” I said.
I helped Jojo to the bedroom, where the only damage was a single bullet hole in the headboard. He collapsed on the mattress, hands trembling.
I sat beside him, ran my hand through his hair until the shaking stopped.
“You did it,” he said, voice rough. “You really did.”
I kissed his temple, gentle as I could manage. “Not just me.”
He looked at the wall, at the world I’d torn apart just to keep him safe. “Do you regret it?”
“Not for a second,” I said.
There was a knock at the door—Burke, holding a whiskey bottle and two glasses. “For the trauma,” he said, pouring a finger for each of us.
