Chapter Eleven
~ Knox ~
If you ever want to know what eternity feels like, try waiting for someone to come at you in the dark, knowing they want blood.
I lay prone in a ditch at the east boundary of McKenzie land, my rifle snug against my shoulder, breath coiling in the frigid air. There was a trick to breathing in this kind of cold, especially if you didn't want your sight picture fogged up every time you exhaled.
I counted three breaths to every sweep of the scope, forcing the muscle memory back into place. I hadn't been this dialed in since Kandahar, and even there, at least I had the benefit of a forward observer and a drone overhead.
Out here, the best I could hope for was the shittiest cell signal west of the Cascades and a couple of brothers who still understood what "fireteam" meant.
I watched the line of trees where the neighbor’s land abutted up against ours. Fog clung to the ground, muting the fence posts and blurring the world into monochrome.
Somewhere past the tree line, I heard the faint crackle of laughter—drunk, careless, like a bunch of idiots on a camping trip. They weren't even trying to be stealthy.
It was almost insulting.
I ran a quick mental inventory. My own position was bulletproof, unless they came at me with mortars or an actual tank. The ground was soft enough to absorb sound, and the wind, when it picked up, would carry any approaching voices straight to me.
I had a clear field of fire all the way to the river. The only variable was whether the enemy would be stupid enough to come in on foot, or if they’d try to crash the old barbed-wire fence with a truck.
From what I knew of Luther Bridger, subtlety wasn’t in the playbook.
A new voice cut through the darkness—higher, whinier, and unmistakably panicked. One of Luther’s minions, or maybe just a local idiot conscripted for muscle. The sound drew closer, punctuated by thuds and curses, and then I saw the ghostly shape of a man staggering into the open.
He was maybe nineteen, already swaying, one hand clutching a baseball bat and the other glued to a cheap bottle. His eyes shone flat in the moonlight, and he looked right past me, which almost made me want to break cover just to teach him the value of a real perimeter check.
Thirty seconds later, the rest of the pack blundered into view—Luther, two more goons, and a big black dog on a chain. The dog saw me, or maybe just sensed me, because it immediately stopped, bristling, and let out a deep, guttural warning.
Luther cuffed the animal, hard, then turned his head to address the others. His voice was slurred, but not so much that I couldn't make out the words. "He’s here. He’s fucking here, I told you."
He was talking about me. Or maybe about Newt, if he'd caught wind of where the kid was hiding out. Either way, it didn't matter. The only question now was how many of them I'd have to put in the ground before they got the message. The thought didn't bother me. If anything, it calmed me down.
I tracked them as they fanned out along the fence line, each man taking up a position with all the tactical finesse of a middle school dodgeball team.
I could tell, just from the way Luther moved, that he hadn't slept in at least two days. His hands shook when he fumbled the lighter for his cigarette. His skin was gray, sallow, eyes like little black marbles. He’d been in a spiral for weeks, maybe months.
I almost pitied him.
Almost.
I fingered the safety on the rifle, toyed with the idea of sending a warning shot through the hood of their car just to see if I could make them piss themselves, but then I caught a flicker of movement to the west.
Ransom, moving in. He was all shadow, all angles, the way he'd been since we were kids stealing tools from Dad’s shed. His hair was a mess, his face striped with camo paint, and he carried his weapon in a way that said he wanted someone to try him.
I gave him a quick, two-fingered flash from my left hand—hold position—and watched as he slid into a patch of scrub, grin wide enough to split his face. He loved this shit. He lived for it.
A few seconds later, Quiad’s signal came from the other direction—a low, mournful coyote yip, then silence. The sound would have fooled anyone who hadn't slept in a tent through twenty Oregon winters.
I grinned and answered back with a barred owl call, then waited.
Within minutes, both brothers were inside the kill box, just the way we'd practiced in the barn all those years ago. Harlow was probably lurking behind the tractor shed, waiting for the order to close in.
I risked one last glance at the house. The windows were dark, but I knew Newt was in my bedroom, probably awake, probably running through his own version of a threat matrix and trying not to hyperventilate.
He was a survivor. I admired that. I liked that he could be scared and still hold himself together.
I watched the approach. Luther and his clowns were less than a hundred yards from the porch now, dog straining at the leash, the rest of them hyped up on cheap liquor and the kind of desperation that only comes from knowing you’re about to get your ass handed to you.
I didn’t envy them, but I respected their commitment to stupid decisions.
I waited until Luther stepped over the last fencepost, then sighted in on his kneecap, finger tensed on the trigger, just in case.
But the plan wasn't to start shooting, not unless they gave me a reason. The sheriff knew they were coming and the last thing I wanted was a pile of bodies drawing the state police into the mess.
No, this would be a message. A demonstration.
I gave the signal—three sharp clicks on my radio.
Within seconds, Ransom was up and moving, a blur across the yard.
Quiad flanked from the left, almost invisible, moving low and fast. I tracked them through the scope until they were both in position, then I rose from the ditch and leveled the rifle at Luther’s chest.
He saw me, or maybe just the outline, and stopped dead.
“Drop the bat,” I said, loud enough to cut through the noise.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Ransom’s voice carried from behind, all humor and threat. “You hear the man, pretty boy.”
Luther turned, eyes bugged, trying to keep all of us in his sight line. The dog lunged, but Quiad was on it in a flash, snaring the chain and twisting it so the animal yelped and crumpled to the dirt.
“Jesus Christ,” said the youngest of the group, the one with the bottle. He looked ready to bolt.
“Don’t,” I said, shifting my aim to his foot. “You’ll only make it worse.”
He stopped.
Ransom came up on Luther, grinning, weapon at the ready. “What’s the play here, Bridger? You come to apologize for being a dick or is this a suicide mission?”
Luther spat on the ground, then finally let the bat drop. “I just want my brother back. That’s all.”
The words surprised me. For a second, I almost believed him. But then I saw the way his jaw flexed, the way his hands curled into fists, and I knew it wasn’t about Newt at all. It was about losing face. About pride.
“Not happening,” I said. “He doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
Luther’s face twisted. “He doesn’t belong to you, either.”
Ransom laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong, friend. You see, McKenzies don’t lose their own.”
The three of us formed a loose triangle around the Bridger crew. Quiad had the dog neutralized, Ransom was keeping the other two in check, and I had Luther right where I wanted him.
“Turn around,” I said. “Walk back the way you came.”
Luther stood his ground. “You think this is over? You think you can just take him and—”
He didn’t finish, because at that exact moment, a sound shattered the night so violently that every hair on my body stood at attention.
It was a scream. Not the soft, movie-style one, but the real thing—a noise torn straight out of the throat, wild and broken and so full of terror that for a split second, my brain flickered to Kandahar, to the sound of mortars whistling overhead, to the way the world narrows when you know someone you love is in the crosshairs.
Newt.
I was already moving, legs in motion before the conscious part of my brain caught up. I sprinted through the yard, boots hammering the frozen mud, every muscle in my body tuned to the frequency of that scream. Ransom, Harlow, and Quiad followed, no need for orders.
Time distorted, warped by adrenaline. The world went blurry at the edges, colors leaching out until all I saw was the yellow porch light and the faint shadow at the top of the steps.
Ransom hit the southern edge of the porch first, boots slick with blood, and for a second even he—who'd seen more carnage at the Eugene motorcycle rally than most cops did in a career—looked taken aback.
Newt was standing over some kid, knife in hand, shirt torn at the collar and sleeve.
The inside of his forearm glistened red, but it wasn't his blood.
His eyes were fixed and electric, teeth bared in a way that should've looked ridiculous on someone so slight, but right then, he looked more like a wolf than any of us.
The wounded kid on the steps made a noise, a wet little whimper, and tried to scramble backward, but Newt pinned him in place with the flat of his bare foot. Blood from the guy's upper arm was pooling under the porch light, bright as fresh paint.
Nobody spoke.
I took a single step, just to put myself between Newt and the others, but it was clear he didn't need my protection. Not now. He glanced up, and the expression was all hunger, all victory.
Ransom recovered first. He let out a low whistle, grinning so wide I thought his face might break. "Christ, Bridger, remind me not to piss you off."
Quiad hung back, eyes black in the shadow, lips twisted in something like respect. Harlow was next to me, his hands loose at his sides, but the way his shoulders squared said he'd break anyone who tried to touch the kid.