Luke
Emma needs to go to the Circle H, and I volunteer Harper and myself for the job.
Jake doesn’t want Emma going places alone, and I know he’s chomping at the bit to dig into the intel Hendricks sent him.
Besides, getting out will be good for Harper, especially when she gets to spend time with a friend like Emma.
When we get there, I drop the ladies off by the foreman’s house before I do a security sweep of the property—checking fence lines, looking for signs of tampering, and generally making sure Turner's men haven't left any surprises. I joke around with a couple of the hands working the horses, what Jake calls my backwards ways of getting information. In this case, I want a sense of whether they’ve noticed anything strange.
Nothing. Everything seems calm. I help one of the hands herd a trio of horses to the corral, keeping an eye on Emma and Harper.
Emma's in the barn with one of the hands, checking on a mare that's due to foal any day now. I can see her through the open doors, her hand on the horse's neck, talking softly. I shake my head. Two months pregnant and still working like she has something to prove.
Harper’s sitting on a hay bale to their right, her feet dangling. The sun hits her just right, illuminating the gold at the edges of her curls. I stop a second.
Somewhere between sneaking into her bedroom and helping her move into mine, she stopped feeling like a possibility and started feeling like home. Watching her laugh with Emma, I know with absolute certainty that I’d blow up anything that tried to take her away from me.
I'm halfway to the corral when the first shot cracks through the air.
The sound is sharp, distant—a rifle report echoing off the hills.
A bay gelding in the near pasture drops like someone cut his strings, one second grazing, the next down, blood pooling dark in the dirt.
"Harper!" I'm moving, my hand going to the weapon at my hip.
My woman’s already in motion, grabbing Emma and ducking behind the hay, covering Emma’s body with her own.
Another shot.
I drop to the ground, rolling until I’m pressed against the bottom of a fence post, searching to sight where the shots are coming from.
A steer in the far pasture jerks and collapses, its legs folding beneath it.
Another shot echoes. The crack of the rifle is methodical and precise. Professional.
I curse as one of the horses we were moving to the corral drops, unmoving.
“Get down!” I yell at the ranch hand.
The kid is frozen, standing like a big red target in the middle of the yard, watching blood seep from the carcass.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, and I run to drag him to cover.
"Luke!” Harper screams.
"Stay down!" I bark, wrenching the lead from the kid's hand and dropping it before hauling him behind the barn wall.
Harper's already on her feet, moving with tactical precision. She grabs Emma by the arm and pulls her up. "Foreman's house. Now."
The ranch hand looks between us, terrified.
"Move!" Harper snaps at him, and he scrambles to follow.
I cover them as they run—Harper in front, Emma in the middle, the kid bringing up the rear. They cross the open yard in seconds, Harper's body angled to shield Emma the entire way.
Another shot cracks.
The bullet hits the dirt three feet from where Harper was standing.
My blood goes cold. They're shooting at my woman.
Harper shoves Emma and the ranch hand through the door of the foreman's house and disappears inside. Through the window, I see her positioning them away from the glass, low and protected.
I'm already pulling out my phone, dialing Jake as I scan the ridge to the north. The shots are coming from elevation—800 yards, maybe more. The angle, the velocity, the precision—this isn't some stupid asshole with a hunting rifle. This is a coordinated hit.
Jake answers on the first ring. "What—"
"Circle H is under fire," I say, my voice clipped and tactical. "Sniper. Multiple shooters. They're taking out livestock. Harper moved Emma to the foreman's house. They're secured for now, but they’re still shooting."
"We're ten minutes out," Jake says, and I hear the engine roar in the background. "Mason's with me. You armed?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Keep them secure. We're coming."
Another shot cracks through the air, and this time the bullet hits the barn wall—splintering wood six feet from where Harper was standing before she moved Emma. The next shot hits the front window of the foreman’s house, right where Harper’s standing. The glass shatters, exploding inward.
I’m moving toward Harper when I hear her call out, “I’m okay!”
I duck behind a trough, forcing myself to breathe. That's it. I'm done. Shoot at me, we’ll have words. Shoot at my woman, no one will ever find your body. "They just escalated," I say into the phone, my voice cold. "I'm going after them."
"Luke—"
"Warden, they shot at Harper. I'm not waiting." I hang up before he can argue.
I move to my truck, pop the lockbox in the bed, and pull out my rifle—a Remington 700 with a scope I've had since my Delta days. I grab extra mags, a tactical vest, and my comms earpiece. I'm not as good as Mason—he can shoot a gnat from two miles away—but I'm decent enough.
The comm buzzes to life.
"Riot, we're five minutes out," Mason says. "Warden says you're going after them."
"Damn right I am, Ace." I'm already moving toward the tree line, my eyes on the ridge. "They're positioned north, maybe 800 yards out. At least two shooters, possibly three. Professional setup. This isn't intimidation—this is a hit."
"You need backup?" Mason asks.
"Negative. Secure the house when you arrive. Harper’s got Emma and the ranch hand in the foreman's house. I'm going hunting."
I cut the line and disappear into the trees.
The ridge rises steep and fast, pine and scrub oak thick enough to provide cover. I move low and quiet, my rifle slung across my back, my breathing controlled.
Another shot echoes above me—closer now. I can hear the report, feel the concussion in the air.
They're still firing.
Good. That means they're focused on the ranch, not on me.
I climb fast, using the terrain to mask my approach. My boots find purchase on rock and root, my hands gripping branches to pull myself higher.
Eight hundred yards becomes 600, then 400.
I can see them now—two shooters positioned on a rocky outcrop, prone behind their rifles. They're wearing tactical gear, comms in their ears, scopes trained on the ranch below.
Professional. Coordinated.
Paid.
Turner's men or from the Reyes family?
I drop to one knee behind a boulder, unsling my rifle, and settle the stock against my shoulder. The scope brings them into sharp focus—one man adjusting his aim, the other scanning the property through binoculars.
They don't see me. Idiots.
I could take them both right now. Two shots, two bodies, problem solved. But I need them alive. I need them to talk.
So I’ll play with them instead.
Smiling, I shift my aim slightly and fire.
The shot cracks through the air, and the rock six inches from the first shooter's head explodes in a spray of granite.
Both men jerk upright, scrambling for cover.
"Contact!" one of them shouts into his comms. "We have contact on the ridge!"
I fire again, this time closer—close enough that they know I'm not missing by accident.
They're pinned.
I laugh—loudly, so they can hear me.
One of them tries to return fire, but his angle is wrong. He's shooting blind, his rounds hitting trees twenty yards to my left.
I move, fast and low, circling around the outcrop, using the terrain to close the distance.
They open fire, a random spray that has no rhyme or reason.
“Amateurs.” I shake my head and move again.
I come up behind them, my rifle trained on the back of the first man's head. "Drop it," I say, my voice cold and flat.
The man freezes, still on his knees.
I sigh. "I said drop it."
His rifle hits the ground.
The second man tries to spin, his hand going for a sidearm.
I put a round through his shoulder before he clears leather. He goes down screaming, clutching his arm, blood pouring between his fingers.
The first man raises his hands, his face pale. "Don't shoot."
I divest the asswipe who thought he could get a jump on me of his weapon and then take a step back, keeping them both in my sights. "Who sent you?"
The one I shot just rocks back and forth, moaning. The other one looks like he’s going to puke. "I don't know,” he manages to stutter.
I press the barrel of my rifle against his temple. "Wrong answer."
"Turner!" He gasps, life draining from his face. "Cole Turner! He paid us to hit the ranch, to scare the owner. To make her sell!"
"How many of you?"
"Three. The third guy's on the south ridge."
I glance toward the south, my jaw tight. Three shooters. Coordinated positions. This wasn't a warning—this was a siege.
Below, I hear the sound of engines—Jake and Mason arriving.
I look down at the man kneeling in front of me, his hands still raised, his eyes wide with fear. Taking out some zip ties from my vest, I drop them on the ground. “Tie your friend up.”
He fumbles like the amateur he is. When he finishes, I tell him to turn around and I secure him. Then I key my comms. "Warden, I’ve got two shooters secured on the north ridge. One’s bleeding. Third one's south. I'm going after him."
"Riot—"
"Emma okay? Harper?"
"Both fine. Shaken, but fine."
"Good." I'm already moving, heading south through the trees. The third shooter is mine, and when I find him, he's going to wish Turner had sent someone else.