Luke
I'm awake instantly, my hand already reaching for the weapon on my nightstand. Harper stirs beside me, confused, still half-asleep.
Fuck.
Turner moved first.
“Fuck.” I roll out of bed and grab my tactical vest from the chair, my mind already shifting into operational mode. Threat assessment: automatic weapons mean professional shooters, not amateurs. Multiple firing positions. Coordinated assault.
This isn't intimidation. This is elimination.
Over my dead body.
Harper sits up, her eyes wide. “Luke!”
"Stay here," I order, pulling the vest over my head.
"Like hell I—"
Another burst of gunfire cuts her off—closer now, maybe two hundred yards from the main house.
"Get dressed," I snap, my voice cold and controlled. "Grab your weapon. Move."
She doesn't argue. She scrambles out of bed, pulling on jeans and strapping on her holster with shaking hands. Her training kicks in—she checks her Glock, confirms the magazine, chambers a round.
Good. She's scared but functional. That means she’ll be careful.
I pull on my own gear—vest, extra magazines, comms unit. My rifle is already loaded and ready beside the bed. I grab it and do a quick press check.
The gunfire intensifies. It’s closer—sustained bursts now, not single shots.
I move to the window and risk a quick look. Headlights up the main drive. Multiple vehicles—at least three, maybe four. Muzzle flashes from multiple positions.
At least a dozen shooters. Maybe more. Professional setup. Coordinated entry points. They're not trying to scare us—they're trying to kill us.
Harper's beside me now, fully dressed, weapon in hand. Her face is pale but her jaw is set. "Turner?"
"Yeah." He either knows we’re coming for him so he’s hitting us first, or he’s in trouble and this is a last-ditch effort to get what he wants.
Smart. Ruthless. Exactly what I would do.
But he picked the wrong ranch to fuck with.
There’s another burst of gunfire, followed by the sound of shattering glass.