“What about—”
“Go.”
The command cut clean and sharp.
She obeyed, slamming the door, locking it, hands shaking too badly to start the engine at first. Through the windshield, she watched Flynn crouch, checking Kerr’s breath.
A light flicked on inside the house.
Flynn lifted his head. Looked at the doorway. Then at her.
Through rain-blurred glass, he mouthed one word.
Go.
Her hand closed around the key.
The engine roared to life.
But she couldn’t leave him.
She opened the door.
The storm swallowed her scream.
Chapter 32
Heather—Present Day
He lunged before she could think of anything clever to yell.
“FLYNN! BEHIND YOU!”
The crowbar screamed against gravel as it swung. It clipped Flynn’s shoulder instead of his head, but the impact sent him staggering sideways. He snarled, teeth bared, blocking the next blow with his forearm, pain tearing a sound from his chest that wasn’t quite human.
Heather didn’t hesitate.
She grabbed the wrench that had fallen from the truck and swung with everything she had—no form, no fear, just instinct honed by a lifetime of bracing for the worst.
Metal met bone.
The man folded with a wet groan, collapsing into the mud like dropped weight.
Rain hammered the yard. Lightning split the sky, white and violent.
Flynn turned toward her, breath ragged. “Holy hell, Heath—”
“He was going to kill you,” she panted.
“Aye.” Flynn seized David Kerr by the collar and dragged him toward the porch, wincing. “Not tonight.”
Inside, Glenoran smelled of wet wool, smoke, and old stone; the kind of house that remembered more than it revealed.
Flynn shoved Kerr into the wingback by the hearth. The second man lay near the hall, groaning softly, wrists cinched tight with a ratchet strap.
Kerr sagged in the chair, blood streaking his mouth, one eye already swelling shut. He smiled anyway.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he rasped. “None of you do.”
