It was every summer he’d ever grown up in.
Same yard. Bigger then. Back when he didn’t know where it ended. Just his mother yelling from the porch, his brothers tearing across the grass like they were trying to kill each other before dinner. His father standing exactly where Law was now, watching it all the way you do when it’s yours to keep steady.
Law exhaled slowly and leaned his shoulder into the porch post.
Out beyond the lights, the darkening woods had their own soundtrack. Crickets had taken over the air now that the sun had slipped lower, the steady rhythm broken now and then by the rasp of cicadas clinging to the last of the heat.
Near the far fence line, a stack of fireworks crates sat waiting for night to settle in fully. A couple of his young nephews were already circling them like sharks.
Family. Food. Noise. Too many people talking at once.
Buckshot darted through the legs of it, weaving between boots and chairs before skidding to a stop near Sage, tail goinghard as he circled once and bumped his nose against Sage’s hand like he’d been looking for him.
And scattered through the yard like they’d always belonged there, a handful of highly trained killers trying their best to pretend this was normal.
Boots stopped beside him.
Law didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Black studied the yard the same way he had a hundred different scenes before—quiet, taking everything in at once. Lantern light caught the sharp edge of his jaw as his gaze moved across the tents, the grills, the crowd spread across the lawn.
“Quite a spread you’ve got here,” he said.
Law followed his line of sight out over the acres of lights, tents, and people filling the yard.
“Family holidays tend to get a little out of hand.”
Black’s mouth twitched once, almost a smile.
“You ever find out what that meeting was about?”
Law didn’t look at him. “Not yet.”
Black didn’t push. He didn’t need to.
Two weeks had passed since the night at the Rusty Spur, but the image hadn’t faded the way small things usually did. Sage meeting with the man in the suit. The way they’d spoken low and close, like the conversation mattered more than anyone noticing. The envelope changing hands.
Sage had never mentioned it.
Law hadn’t asked.
He’d run the man down the next day. Plates, cameras, every scrap of footage the Spur had. Nothing useful. The guy had disappeared like he’d never been there.
That bothered him more than the silence.
The noise level across the yard rose as more people drifted toward the food and lights.
Law’s brother Lincoln had claimed a spot near one of the grills, beer in hand and a grin that meant he’d already decided someone was about to become entertainment.
Boston had wandered straight into his line of fire.
Lincoln looked him up and down, clearly amused. “You’re the one who keeps mouthing off in the house, right?”
Boston spread his hands. “Depends. Was it clever?”
Micah snorted from the table beside them.
Lincoln grinned wider. “Cocky too.”
