Whatever happened now, we wouldn’t face it alone.
We had Sterling.
And God help anyone who stood in our way.
The kitchen glowed warm under the soft under-cabinet lights, a stark contrast to the cold night outside and the colder man now standing at my counter.
I moved to the coffee maker, pouring a mug of the scalding black brew I’d made before heading out to meet Sterling. He accepted it with a nod, his eyes already scanning the room—taking in exits, sightlines, potential weapons. Old habits for operators like us. The kind that kept you alive when everything went to hell.
Sterling tilted the mug to his lips without testing the temperature first. I’d made it strong enough to stand a spoon in—just how he liked it—and his face didn’t so much as twitch as the near-boiling liquid hit his tongue.
“You want to sit?” I asked, gesturing to the kitchen table.
He shook his head. “Standing’s fine. Talk me through what we’re dealing with.”
From his spot by the refrigerator, Danny watched the exchange with careful eyes. He’d positioned himself where hecould see both the back door and the hallway leading to the rest of the house—another old habit, but born of different circumstances than Sterling’s constant vigilance.
“Dennis Jenkins,” I began, keeping my voice matter-of-fact. “Thirty-two, alpha, history of violence going back to juvie. Danny’s older brother.”
Sterling’s eyes flicked to Danny, then back to me. “The restraining order?”
“Filed and granted after the last incident.”
“What incident?” Sterling asked, the question directed at Danny rather than me.
Danny straightened slightly, meeting Sterling’s gaze despite the obvious effort it cost him. “He caught me catching a ride home with Burke,” he said, voice steady. “He beat me unconscious, broke three of my ribs.”
Something flashed in Sterling’s eyes—too quick to identify, gone before I could be sure I‘d seen it. He took another sip of coffee, expression neutral. Sterling’s face didn’t change, but I felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. “Bail conditions?”
“Ankle monitor. No contact with Danny or the ranch. Five-hundred-foot exclusion zone.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Judge set bail at fifty grand. His mother posted it the same day.”
“Security footage?” Sterling asked, already moving on to tactical considerations.
“Cameras covering all approaches to the property. Motion sensors on the perimeter. Rawley’s got the feed set up to alert our phones if anything trips.”
“Known associates?”
“Couple of local guys. Nothing organized, just drinking buddies who think he’s a hard case.” I pulled out my phone, scrolling to the photos I’d taken at the courthouse. “These three were with him when he made bail. The one in the blue jackethas a record—B&E, possession. The others are clean, far as we know.”
Sterling studied the images, memorizing faces with the efficiency that had made him invaluable on dozens of missions. “Patterns of movement?”
“Works at the lumber yard when he bothers to show up. Drinks at the Watering Hole most nights. Girlfriend’s place on Maple Street, though that changes pretty regularly.”
He nodded once, processing. “Weapons?”
“Handgun, registered to his mother. Hunting rifle, same deal. Possibly a switchblade, according to his sheet.”
The back door opened without warning, and Sterling was moving before I could blink—coffee mug set down without a sound, body angled to put the counter between himself and the entrance, right hand dropping to where a weapon would normally sit on his hip.
Rawley stepped into the kitchen, took one look at the tableau, and raised an eyebrow. “At ease, soldier,” he said dryly. “It’s just me.”
Sterling relaxed incrementally, though his eyes never left Rawley’s face. “Steele,” he acknowledged with a slight nod.
“Callahan.” Rawley moved to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. “Heard you were dropping in. Nice of you to use the front door for once.”
The corner of Sterling’s mouth quirked—almost a smile. “Had to make an impression.”
“You succeeding?” Rawley asked, glancing at Danny, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the refrigerator.
