Chapter Six
Inside the barn, the music had gone quiet—replaced by the sound of an old, dusty guitar someone had found leaning in the corner.
Syx picked it up, brushed off the grime, and plucked a few strings, tuning each until the pitch rang true. Then he started strumming a few chords of Bless the Broken Road by Rascal Flatts. His low voice carried the first verse, rough and warm.
Freedom leaned against a support beam, tapping a quiet rhythm on the wood while the others sang.
Sage’s voice slipped in next—soft but sure, steady through the next several lines.
“Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars…”
Then Micah’s voice slid in higher, threading through theirs like light through smoke.
“Pointing me on my way into your loving arms…”
The three of them harmonized through the final verse and then the chorus, their voices blending perfectly until the last note faded into silence.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the barn filled with applause and laughter.
“Damn—” Ocean started, but the word was cut short by the sharp wail of the perimeter alarm.
The sound sliced through the night—through the barn, the main house, the outbuildings beyond.
Everyone froze.
Then Boston was the first to move.
From the picnic table, he grabbed his weapon—a suppressed Walther PPK—and slid his Fairbairn–Sykes knife into the sheath on his thigh.
Something—or someone—was hitting the fence line. Last time, it had been a twelve-point buck they’d spent half an hour freeing. Gage had almost been kicked for his trouble, which had nearly given Mason a heart attack.
Maybe that was why they’d opted for the Bahamas this year.
“What is it?” Ocean asked, coming closer with Micah.
The alarm cut out as suddenly as it had started, leaving a silence that felt almost eerie.
The laughter was gone.
Boston went still, eyes adjusting as Beck killed the lights. he twinkling strands on the tree and along the ceiling threw just enough glow to catch the edges of faces, the glint of metal, and the sharp tension cutting through the room.
Aspen and Sage moved fast, tossing out coats, hats, and gloves. Freedom jumped in beside them, hauling down a box of extra gear from the shelf. Fabric rustled, zippers snapped, boots thudded against the floor as those still in socked feet shoved into the pairs lined up by the barn door.
“That is the fence alarm,” Boston said, tightening the laces on his snow boots before turning to the frosted window.
“What’s the plan?” Syx asked, zipping up his heavy winter coat and setting the guitar aside for a loaded Glock 22.
Boston’s eyes tracked the red perimeter lights flashing through the snow outside.
“We find out who—or what—is trying to ruin Christmas.”