Chapter Three
The sound of the engine crawled up the drive, slow and steady. Every muscle in Jackson’s body went tight, instincts kicking in before his brain caught up.
He’d spent too many years in war zones not to recognize the tone of danger. His pulse steadied, his breath slowed, and every sense sharpened at once.
“Stay put,” he told Avery, his voice low but firm.
He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed the Glock from the holster hanging by the door. The familiar weight settled into his hand as he flicked off the safety.
Through the window, sunlight caught on polished metal. The vehicle turned off the main road and came to a stop halfway down his drive. Not one of Noah’s SUVs or vans.
Jackson cracked the door open just enough to get a clear look.
A black Cadillac Escalade. Expensive, spotless, and completely out of place on a working ranch road. He leaned forward slightly, watching the people inside. Two in the front. A man and a woman.
Recognition hit like a gut punch.
Charlotte Barker sat in the passenger seat, blond hair pinned back, face composed and cold. The loyal wife of Haver Barker, still playing queen of the Brotherhood while her husband rotted in a federal prison.
Behind the wheel sat Darian Locke, the Brotherhood’s new front man. Younger than Barker but just as dangerous. Word was he ran their money now, recruiting out of old connections and pretending the Brotherhood was a law-abiding do-gooder group.
Jackson’s grip on the Glock tightened as he studied them.
Someone else sat in the back seat, half hidden in the shadowed interior. He couldn’t see who it was, but the posture was wrong for a bodyguard. Too still. Too deliberate.
He stepped back from the door, mind racing. They weren’t lost. They weren’t guessing.
They’d come for Avery.
Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them have her.
Avery’s voice came from behind him, barely more than a whisper. “Who is it?”
He didn’t look back. “Charlotte Barker and Darian Locke.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Oh God.”
He finally turned. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide with fear. It hit him like a punch, but he pushed the reaction down. This wasn’t the time.
“Listen to me,” he said, steady and low. “There’s a duffel by the couch. Take one of the guns and keep it with you. If they get in, you shoot. No hesitation.”
She shook her head. “Jackson—”
“Do it,” he cut in.
After a moment, she nodded and moved toward the bag. He watched long enough to see her unzip it and pull out a handgun. Her hands trembled slightly, but she checked the safety just like he’d taught her years ago. That gave him a small measure of comfort.
Jackson turned back to the door and threw the deadbolt.
The solid click echoed through the quiet house.
The front door was reinforced steel, the frame lined with metal.
Every window on the lower floor was bullet-resistant.
He’d made sure of it after settling here.
The ranch might look peaceful from the outside, but he’d built it like a fortress.
If Locke and Charlotte started shooting, the house would hold.
For a while.
He took one last look at Avery. “Stay down and don’t open that door for anyone but me.”
Then he moved to the back, unlocked the door, and stepped outside. He pulled the door closed and locked it behind him.
The air was dry and still. Even the horses were quiet.
Jackson moved slowly along the side of the house, keeping his body close to the wall. He scanned the tree line and the open pasture, watching for movement. If this was an ambush, he wasn’t going to get caught standing in the open.
The air had gone still, the kind of quiet that came right before trouble.
He reached the corner and eased forward just enough to look around it.
Darian Locke stood beside the Escalade, one hand resting casually on the roof like he owned the place.
He was about thirty, broad-shouldered and built like he lived in the gym.
His hair was dark and close cut, his beard trimmed neat, and his eyes carried the same sharp arrogance that Jackson remembered from the files Crossfire Ops had pulled years ago.
A soldier once, dishonorably discharged for excessive force.
The kind of man who thought rules were for other people.
Charlotte Barker stood next to him, composed and lethal in a tailored blazer, jeans, and boots.
She was in her early fifties, fit and strong, her body toned from a lifetime of control.
Her blond hair was twisted into a sleek knot, her lipstick a perfect blood red.
She looked like the kind of woman who could smile while pulling a trigger.
Jackson’s gut tightened.
The back door of the Escalade opened, and another figure stepped out. Young, tall, and cocky, with a swagger that made Jackson’s stomach turn. Mick Barker.
Charlotte and Haver’s son.
Barely legal at twenty-two and already playing the same dirty game as his parents. His jeans were dusty, his black T-shirt stretched across a chest that had seen more fights than most kids his age ever would.
No doubt like father, like son.
Jackson pulled back into cover, jaw tight, heart pounding slow and steady. Three of them. All armed. All dangerous. If they’d come here, they knew Avery was inside.
He steadied his grip on the Glock and exhaled once, quietly. Time to find out what they wanted.
The three of them started toward the house, slow and steady, like they had all the time in the world.
Jackson stepped out from behind the corner. “That’s far enough.”
His voice carried across the yard, hard and clear. He raised the Glock, sights leveled on Darian’s chest.
Darian froze midstep, his hand slipping under his coat. Jackson’s finger tightened on the trigger, ready to drop him where he stood.
“Don’t,” Jackson warned.
Charlotte reached out and caught Darian’s arm before he could draw. Her eyes never left Jackson. She said something low to him and to Mick, words Jackson couldn’t make out. But from the way both men stopped moving, he figured she told them to stand down.
Charlotte smiled, slow and deliberate. “Jackson Ward. The mighty Crossfire Ops agent and former special ops hero. I heard about that mission where you banged yourself up.”
Her gaze slid over him, assessing, calculating. She was looking for weakness, trying to decide if he could still hold them off if it came to a fight.
He held his ground, the gun steady in his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with my aim,” he said coldly. “Now tell me what the hell you want.”
Charlotte’s smile widened just a fraction, but her eyes stayed cold.
Darian opened his mouth to speak, but Charlotte lifted a hand and stopped him. The way he fell silent told Jackson everything he needed to know. She was the one in charge here, not the man pretending to be.
Charlotte took a few steps forward, careful, measured. “We’re looking for someone,” she said. “A woman who might have come this way. The same woman who had my husband locked away.”
Jackson kept the gun trained on her. “And what makes you think she’s here?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Call it a hunch.”
He didn’t move. “You won’t find her here.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But we’ll keep looking.”
“Not on my land you won’t.” Jackson’s voice dropped lower, his patience thinning. “Now get the fuck off my property. I don’t want thugs like you anywhere near it.”
That did it.
Darian’s face darkened with anger, and he took a hard step forward, his hand going back toward his weapon. Charlotte immediately stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“Enough,” she said sharply, her tone snapping like a whip. She turned back to Jackson, her expression smooth again. “The Brotherhood isn’t what it used to be. We’re a legitimate organization now. We help victims rebuild their lives. We protect people who need it.”
Jackson almost laughed. “That so?”
She ignored the edge in his voice. “You’ll see for yourself, eventually.”
Behind her, Darian’s jaw clenched, his anger still simmering.
“Let’s go,” Charlotte said, motioning toward the SUV. She opened the passenger door, and after a few seconds of glaring at Jackson, Darian followed her in.
Mick didn’t get in the SUV right away. He lingered by the open door, eyes fixed on Jackson. For a second, neither of them spoke, the only sound the low purr of the engine and the wind cutting across the yard.
Then Mick stepped closer, voice low. “If you know where Avery Hastings is, tell her to be careful.”
The words caught Jackson off guard. They didn’t sound like a threat, but coming from a Barker, they sure as hell felt like one.
He studied the kid. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three now. Old enough to know what his family really was, but young enough to still think he could fix it. Jackson couldn’t decide if Mick was trying to warn him or play the part of the reasonable one while his mother and Darian did the dirty work.
Mick’s jaw stiffened. “I get why she testified against my father,” he said quietly. “He went too far.”
Jackson’s grip on the Glock didn’t ease. “You think?”
Before Mick could answer, Charlotte’s voice cut across the yard, sharp with anger. “Mick! Get in the car.”
He flinched, glancing back at her. The expression on her face made it clear she didn’t appreciate him talking to the enemy.
Without another word, Mick climbed into the back seat and shut the door.
The SUV rolled backward, turned in the gravel drive, and disappeared down the road, sunlight glinting off its polished surface until it vanished behind the trees.
Jackson watched the dust settle on the road long after the SUV disappeared, then turned back toward the house. His pulse was still steady, but the sense of danger lingered like a storm brewing just out of sight.
He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
Avery stood near the hallway, her eyes wide, one of his pistols still in her hand. “What happened?”
“They know you’re here,” he said, crossing the room. “We’re leaving now.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
He reached for his gear, shoving extra magazines into his jacket and checking the rifle he’d left by the door. Years of habit made the motions fast, efficient, automatic. Avery hurried beside him, silent but pale.
They moved through the kitchen and down the short hall to the garage.
The black polished SUV inside was a Crossfire Ops issue, built for fieldwork and escape.
The back held tactical gear, a med kit, encrypted comms, extra fuel, and enough supplies to last a week off grid.
Reinforced steel panels lined the doors, and a mount for his rifle sat between the front seats.
He opened the driver’s side back door and tossed his pack in. Avery slid into the passenger seat.
Jackson got in and started the engine. The deep growl filled the space, solid and familiar.
He hit the garage opener, and the door lifted, flooding the space with afternoon light.
After backing out, he took one last look at the house before closing the garage door.
The place had always been his refuge, quiet and steady. Now it felt like a target.
“Let’s move,” he said, shifting into gear. “We’ve got ground to cover.”
She very much wanted that ground covered, but a thought sprang to mind. “What about your horses?” she asked. “Do you need to call someone to take care of them?”
He made a sound that could have meant anything and fired off a text. “Get down in the seat,” Jackson added. “Don’t look up until I tell you.”
She got down, no questions, no hesitation. Avery knew just how bad this could get if they didn’t leave now.
“I’m not going out to the road,” he said, checking the mirrors. “They’ll expect that. We’ll stay on the trails until I can get us clear.”
She shifted lower in the seat. “Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a place,” he said. “Safe enough for now.”
The SUV rolled out slowly at first, tires crunching over gravel as he guided it down the narrow track that cut through the back pasture. He kept one eye on the mirrors, the other on the tree line, every sense stretched thin.
The Escalade wasn’t anywhere in sight. Good. He’d take the back route, loop around, and lose anyone still watching.
They’d barely cleared thirty yards when a deep, gut-punching boom split the air.
A wall of fire erupted behind them, blasting heat across the field. The shockwave hit hard, rocking the SUV as a massive fireball tore through what used to be his house. The sound rattled his teeth, a roaring mix of flame, splintering wood, and shattering glass.
Avery gasped, ducking lower. Jackson gritted his teeth and slammed the accelerator, steering through the smoke and debris raining from the sky.
He knew that sound. The punch of the blast, the heavy whistle before impact.
Grenade launcher.
His mind locked into combat mode. He swerved around a fencepost and threw the SUV toward the tree line.
Another sharp thump split the air, closer this time.
The second grenade hit the ground just behind them, and the world exploded again.