My father went inside. I followed, pulled the door shut behind us with a single decisive motion, and took up position at the front window with a sightline to both the porch and the hallway.
Cruz’s gun sat in my hand, familiar weight, perfect balance. Outside, the gunfire continued in the rhythm that meant team work—controlled, fast, the kind of shooting that came from men who knew exactly what they were doing.
I listened to it with careful attention, cataloging each burst, tracking each pause, making the calculations that came with gunfire on your own property. Somewhere in the distance, a vehicle engine started—Rawley, probably, headed for whatever position would give him the cleanest shot.
Beside me, my mother stood exactly where I’d left her, the covered dish still in her hands, her face giving away nothing. The young woman—Elena—had backed into the farthest corner of the room, her carefully arranged composure completely gone.
And my father—my father stood in the center of the living room with his shoulders squared and his jaw set, watching me with an expression I couldn’t immediately place.
“You’re really going to shoot someone,” he said, not quite a question.
I nodded once, slow. “If I have to,” I said. “That’s kind of the point of the gun.”
Something moved across his face—too quick to catch, gone before I could name it.
Then the radio on my belt clicked twice—Wade’s signal for “moving to position”—and the moment broke.
“Stay behind the couch,” I said, already moving toward the hallway. “Keep Mom and Elena there. Don’t come out until I give the all-clear.”
My father nodded once, slow. .
I moved to the front door with Cruz’s gun in my hand, listening to the gunfire outside—controlled, fast, the kind that came from men who knew exactly what they were doing.
I checked the chamber by feel in the half-light—round ready, safety off, magazine full—then stepped onto the porch with careful attention, making sure nothing in my posture suggested the extra weight I was carrying.
The morning had fully arrived now—light spilling across the valley in a long sweep, turning everything gold where it touched. Somewhere in the distance, gunfire continued in a rhythm that meant team work—controlled, fast, the kind of shooting that came from men who knew exactly what they were doing.
I moved to the edge of the porch with Cruz’s gun in my hand, listening to the sound of tires on gravel that meant backup was arriving from the main house.
Then came Cruz’s voice over the radio—“Moving to position, east side”—and knowing exactly where he was, was suddenly too present to ignore.
I keyed my earpiece with my free hand. “Copy that,” I said. “I’ve got the front. Three civilians secured inside.”
Two clicks came back—acknowledgment without words, the kind of communication that happened when talking wasn’t worth the risk.
I took up position at the corner of the porch—the spot that gave me angles to both the front drive and the tree line to the east—and waited for whatever came next.
The morning stretched around me—light moving across the valley in a slow sweep, gunfire in the distance, the quiet that came after things had gone sideways, but before anyone had decided what happened next.
Somewhere in the world, a child was coming—my child, Cruz’s child, a person who would have his eyes, maybe, or my height, or some combination of features neither of us could predict. A person who would sleep in the crib I had built with my own hands, who would sit in the chair I had driven forty minutes to find, who would reach into the toy box for blocks and stuffed animals and whatever else we decided belonged there.
A person who would, in approximately two months, change everything—again—the way the positive test had changed it four months ago.
I stood at the corner of the porch with Cruz’s gun in my hand and my eyes on the tree line, and waited for whatever came next.
Chapter Fifteen
~ Cruz ~
I was off the porch before the second burst of gunfire from the east tree line had fully faded—the same tree line I’d swept and cleared earlier—and that fact landed like a cold fist in my gut.
Not suppressing fire.
Not random.
Coordinated two-position advance designed to push occupants toward the front of the house and away from the vehicles. Basic tactical maneuver from a training manual that was already ten years out of date.
I keyed my earpiece on the move. “Morales, this is Cruz. You and Diaz move to the barn flank. I’m running the center line.”
