Burke’s jaw worked violently as panic bled straight through his control.
“I put her in the crosshairs because I couldn’t leave the old man’s secrets buried.” His voice cracked hard. “If Varga gets to her because of this—if he does to her what they did to Clara?—”
He dragged a shaking hand across his mouth.
“I can’t do this, Grant.”
The confession shattered straight through the cab.
“I can’t protect this county if I can’t even protect our own house.”
Grant felt the fear hit him too—hot and vicious—but the panic inside him suddenly hardened into something steady.
Controlled.
He reached across the console and locked a hard hand onto Burke’s shoulder.
“Look at me.”
Burke’s eyes flicked toward him—bloodshot, wild, terrified.
“You didn’t do this,” Grant said, his voice low and absolute. “Wade Hollis did this twenty-seven years ago. We’re the ones left to finish it.”
Burke swallowed hard.
Grant squeezed his shoulder harder.
“So drive the damn truck. We’ve got a girl to bring home.”
For one long second, Burke stared at him.
Then slowly, piece by piece, the steel slid back into his spine.
His shoulders squared.
His breathing steadied.
The Sheriff of Jackson County locked himself back behind the walls of duty.
When he spoke again, his voice was flat enough to cut glass.
“Radio Scout.”
Grant released his shoulder and grabbed the mic from the shattered bracket.
Burke never took his eyes off the mountain road.
“Tell him,” Burke said coldly, “we hit the Hollis gate in three minutes.”
* * *
Hollis Estate Gates
The gates of Hollis Ridge appeared around the bend, iron and stone rising from the mountain like the entrance to a private kingdom. Burke’s truck barely slowed until he slammed on the brakes, tires hissing over smooth black asphalt as they skidded to a halt beside the guard shack tucked near the second gate.
No gravel.
No dust.
