Holding the Line (Pathfinders #3)

Prologue

The farmhouse looked like it had lost a war years ago—and no one had told it the fighting was over.

The front porch sagged like it was exhaling, tired wood groaning under its own weight.

The paint was long gone, the windows shuttered with scrap tin, and the skeletal remains of an old swing chair creaked in the wind like it still remembered being something that brought comfort.

Marsh Clarkson didn’t pause. He adjusted the grip on his rifle and kept moving.

Rain needled down in cold sheets, soaking through even the best of their gear. Mud sucked at their boots, clung to the seams of their clothes. It was the kind of miserable that clung to bone. But none of them said a word.

Anton walked behind him, limping and half-stumbling every fifth step.

He was upright by sheer spite. Dale and Hogan followed, shoulder-to-shoulder as they practically dragged Ricky between them.

Ricky—bloody, pale, but still cracking wise about how he was going to haunt the hell out of them if he bled out.

Van brought up the rear, silent and sharp-eyed, his scope sweeping the tree line even as the dark pressed in.

“Farmhouse is about 120 feet away,” Marsh called, voice steady but quiet. “We hole up, patch what we can, figure out next steps.”

“If the roof caves in,” Ricky rasped, “you better let me die. I’m not spending another night cuddled up to Dale. Guy kicks like a mule in his sleep.”

“Fuck you,” Dale said, not unkindly. “I told you to take the side by the stove.”

“And I told you I don’t like sleeping next to things that smell like regret and motor oil.”

“Children,” Anton muttered, though the word came out like it was scraped raw. He was barely holding together. Marsh knew that look. They’d all worn it more than once. Still did sometimes, when the silence got too loud.

They reached the porch. Marsh tested the boards first—then waved them forward. Ricky groaned the whole way up. The door was unlocked. Not like anyone out here needed to worry about burglars. Hell, the place was its own warning.

Inside, it smelled like rot and dust and the slow decay of things left behind.

But it was dry. Mostly. Marsh moved through, clearing each room with the methodical precision of someone who never forgot protocol, even when bone tired.

Two rooms. One with a busted bed frame and sad looking mattress, the other with space enough for the wounded.

A fireplace. Empty shelves. Enough scrap to maybe burn.

“Clear,” he said. “Set down.”

Dale helped lower Ricky to the floor. Hogan sank beside them, breathing hard through his teeth. Anton leaned against the wall, eyes closed, skin pale.

Marsh crouched by the hearth, pulling out what dry kindling he could scavenge from the corners. Van moved to help. Said nothing, as usual, but his presence anchored the room.

“We got food?” Marsh asked.

“Two MREs and a flask of something Hogan swears is whiskey,” Dale offered.

“It’s whiskey adjacent,” Hogan corrected.

Ricky groaned. “If I die, bury me somewhere that doesn’t smell like this.”

“You die, we’re using your body heat to keep warm,” Dale shot back.

Marsh tuned them out for a moment. Focused on the fire.

It caught, eventually. Weak and smoky, but heat was heat.

It might draw enemies to the door, but hypothermia was not something they should fuck with.

It was raining heavily now, and the windows of this shack were covered over. The risk was worth it.

They shared the MREs with the practiced rhythm of men used to making do.

Hogan passed the flask around once, and it had him grimacing at the taste but grateful for the burn.

Ricky drifted into a half-sleep, groaning now and then.

Dale sat with his back to the wall, eyes scanning the dark corners like they might bite.

Anton didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. When Marsh checked on him again, he was curled on his side, breathing uneven, caught somewhere between pain and exhaustion. Eventually, he went still.

Marsh took first watch.

The fire crackled low. Outside, the wind clawed at the walls. Inside, the team finally surrendered to sleep—the twitchy, fractured kind that only comes when exhaustion overrules fear.

Anton murmured something.

Marsh turned his head.

The words were soft. Half-slurred. But clear enough.

“Blake ... no, don’t—Blake, stay down ... please.”

Marsh stiffened. Watched. Listened.

“Should’ve said yes sooner,” Anton breathed. “Should’ve never... God, Blake, I loved you. I loved you so fucking much.”

Silence. Then one last whisper:

“Marrying you was the best thing I ever did.”

Marsh exhaled slowly. The fire snapped softly behind him. He looked over at Anton, whose face was twisted in pain even in sleep. No one else stirred.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wake him. Just kept watch as the night deepened, the fire burned low, and the weight of what they all carried settled a little heavier on the floorboards.

He was just about to shift position when he heard it.

A crack in the dark.

Not thunder.

Gunfire. Distant, but not distant enough.

He froze, every muscle tensing, eyes narrowing toward the broken seams of the boarded-up window.

Another burst—shouts. Harsh. Clipped. Chechen.

Marsh couldn’t translate every word, but he caught enough—“Track them ... alive if possible ... check the farmhouse.”

Fuck.

He moved fast, shaking Dale awake first, then Hogan. Pointed to the wall, two fingers up. Movement. Contact.

“Incoming,” Marsh said low. “They’re looking.”

Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside, every man was wide awake.

And the fire wasn’t the only thing burning.