Luke
Sheriff Garrett’s body is barely cold when the next wave hits—three more vehicles screaming up the drive, automatic weapons already firing before they even stop moving.
"Contact, north perimeter," Mason's voice crackles over comms. "Multiple shooters, AR platforms, moving to flank."
I'm already repositioning, my rifle up, scanning for targets through the shattered window. I glance at Harper. She’s still on the floor with her father's body. "Harper, get to cover."
She doesn't move.
Fuck.
I drop two shooters advancing on the barn, then pivot and put three rounds through the windshield of an approaching truck. The driver slumps, and the vehicle veers off into a fence post.
"Luke, they're pushing hard on the south side," Jake calls out. "At least eight shooters, coordinated movement. These aren't amateurs."
No shit. Turner sent professionals this time—ex-military, probably mercs. This is night and day compared to the novices he sent to attack the Circle H.
"Mason, status?" I call into comms.
"Holding the stable, but they're trying to flank through the equipment shed. I need support on the west side."
"Copy. Jake, you got the east?"
"Yeah. Go."
I grab Harper’s shoulder before I go. "Harper, I need you functional. Now."
Her head snaps up, and I see it—the grief, the devastation, and the rage. But beneath all that, there's determination.
Good enough. I motion for her to follow me. I move fast, staying low, reloading as I cross the kitchen and go down the hallway. Glass crunches under my boots, and I hear Harper’s footsteps behind me.
The next wave hits before we reach the living room.
Sustained automatic fire rakes the side of the house, punching through walls, shattering what's left of the windows. I drop flat, and Harper hits the floor beside me. I crane to check on Emma and Lily, relieved to see them huddled where Jake told them to stay.
“Ammo check," Jake says through the comms.
"Seventy percent," I respond.
"Sixty," Mason says. "They're not letting up."
“I’m almost out,” Harper says, her voice low and raspy.
I risk a look through the window. Four shooters advancing on the stable, using the barn as cover. Two more moving toward the main house from the north. Another truck pulling up behind them.
This is bad.
We're good—Delta Force good—but we're three operators defending a massive property against a never-ending stream of attackers with unlimited ammunition and zero concern for casualties.
“Mandy? Hendricks?” I look out the window. “If you guys are out there, we could use the help.”
Mandy’s voice came through with a crackle. “Hendricks is probably getting a pedi, but I’m here. I’m working on something.”
“Can you work on it faster?” Jake asks dryly.
"Luke." Harper's voice is steady beside me. "Give me a weapon."
I glance at her. Her face is pale and her jaw set, but her eyes are clear.
"Harper—"
"Give me a weapon." She holds a bloody hand out. "I'm not sitting this out."
I reach for the spare rifle I grabbed from the ops room and hand it to her. "Here, sunshine."
She takes it, checks the magazine, and chambers a round.
"Stay with me," I say. "Follow my lead. Don't be a hero."
"Too late for that," she mutters as she moves to the window beside me.
We fire together.
Harper's good—better than I expected. She's trained, and she's angry. Every shot is controlled and deliberate. She drops a shooter advancing on the barn, then pivots and takes out another trying to flank Mason's position.
"Nice shot," I say.
"Shut up and get this done," she replies.
“Yes, ma’am.” I grin despite everything and put three rounds into the engine block of an approaching truck. It grinds to a halt, smoke pouring from under the hood.
"Contact, east side!" Jake's voice is sharp over comms. "They're pushing hard. I'm falling back to the kitchen."
Shit. "Mason, can you hold the stable?"
"For now. But they're probing for weak points. They know what they're doing."
We're running out of time.
"Luke, we have a problem," Mason says over comms. "They're setting up a heavy weapon on the ridge. Looks like a .50 cal."
Fuck. If they get that thing operational, they'll tear through the house like it’s paper. "Jake, can you get eyes on it?"
"Negative. I'm pinned down."
I watch through the window as more vehicles pull up. More shooters dismount. They're regrouping, preparing for a coordinated assault.
We're good. But we're not invincible, and if they hit us all at once, from all sides, with overwhelming numbers, we're going to lose.
"Luke." Jake's voice is calm, but I hear the edge in it. "We need to consider fallback. Get Emma and Lily to the storm shelter, barricade, and hold until Hendricks arrives with backup."
He's right. I hate it, but he's right.
"Copy," I say into comms. "Prepare to fall back on my—"
The sound of engines cuts me off.
Not from the direction of Turner's reinforcements.
From the main road.
I move to the window and look out.
Four—no, six—black vehicles are screaming up the drive. Bulletproof SUVs, moving fast, headlights off.
"Contact, main road," Mason calls out. "Unknown vehicles approaching."
My first thought: Hendricks. Maybe he pulled in federal assets faster than expected.
But something feels off. These vehicles aren't moving like law enforcement. They're moving like operators.
The lead vehicle skids to a stop fifty yards from the main house, and the doors open.
Men pour out—armed, tactical gear, moving with the kind of precision that gives me a special ops stiffy.
And they're not aiming at us—they're aiming at Turner's men.
Mandy’s voice comes back on. “This is what I was working on.”
The fight shifts instantly. Turner's shooters pivot, trying to engage the new threat, but they're outmatched. The newcomers move like a machine—coordinated, lethal, and overwhelming.
Turner's men go down fast.
Harper and I watch from the window, weapons still raised, trying to process what we're seeing.
"Who the hell are they?" Harper breathes.
"I don't know." But I have a bad feeling.
It’s over in two minutes. Turner's remaining shooters are dead or fleeing. The black SUVs hold their positions, engines still running.
And then the door of the lead vehicle opens, and a man steps out.
He's tall, lean, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that somehow doesn't have a single wrinkle despite everything. Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of face that belongs on a magazine cover.
Or a cartel wanted poster.
He surveys the scene with cold, clinical precision—taking in the bodies, the wreckage, the burning vehicles.
Then his eyes shift to the main house.
To me.
He smiles—not friendly or threatening, just knowing.
"Fuck," I breathe.
Harper looks at me. "What? Who is that?"
I lower my rifle slowly, my mind racing through every briefing, every intelligence report, every whispered rumor from Hendricks about the Reyes family. "I think that’s Gabriel Reyes."
Just then the comms hiss, and Hendricks’s voice comes through, low but clear. “I know where Turner is. It’s now or never.”