Chapter Nine
By early evening, the heat had finally started to break.
Law stepped out onto the back porch, and the first thing that hit him was the smell—charcoal, smoked meat, something sweet underneath it. Sugar glaze, maybe. It pulled straight through his chest before anything else had a chance to.
For a second, it wasn’t this night.
It was every summer he’d ever grown up in.
Same yard. Bigger then. Back when he didn’t know where it ended.
Just his mother yelling from the porch, his brothers tearing across the grass like they were trying to kill each other before dinner.
His father standing exactly where Law was now, watching it all the way you do when it’s yours to keep steady.
Law exhaled slowly and leaned his shoulder into the porch post.
Out beyond the lights, the darkening woods had their own soundtrack. Crickets had taken over the air now that the sun had slipped lower, the steady rhythm broken now and then by the rasp of cicadas clinging to the last of the heat.
Near the far fence line, a stack of fireworks crates sat waiting for night to settle in fully. A couple of his young nephews were already circling them like sharks.
Family. Food. Noise. Too many people talking at once.
Buckshot darted through the legs of it, weaving between boots and chairs before skidding to a stop near Sage, tail going hard as he circled once and bumped his nose against Sage’s hand like he’d been looking for him.
And scattered through the yard like they’d always belonged there, a handful of highly trained killers trying their best to pretend this was normal.
Boots stopped beside him.
Law didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Black studied the yard the same way he had a hundred different scenes before—quiet, taking everything in at once. Lantern light caught the sharp edge of his jaw as his gaze moved across the tents, the grills, the crowd spread across the lawn.
“Quite a spread you’ve got here,” he said.
Law followed his line of sight out over the acres of lights, tents, and people filling the yard.
“Family holidays tend to get a little out of hand.”
Black’s mouth twitched once, almost a smile.
“You ever find out what that meeting was about?”
Law didn’t look at him. “Not yet.”
Black didn’t push. He didn’t need to.
Two weeks had passed since the night at the Rusty Spur, but the image hadn’t faded the way small things usually did. Sage meeting with the man in the suit. The way they’d spoken low and close, like the conversation mattered more than anyone noticing. The envelope changing hands.
Sage had never mentioned it.
Law hadn’t asked.
He’d run the man down the next day. Plates, cameras, every scrap of footage the Spur had. Nothing useful. The guy had disappeared like he’d never been there.
That bothered him more than the silence.
The noise level across the yard rose as more people drifted toward the food and lights.
Law’s brother Lincoln had claimed a spot near one of the grills, beer in hand and a grin that meant he’d already decided someone was about to become entertainment.
Boston had wandered straight into his line of fire.
Lincoln looked him up and down, clearly amused. “You’re the one who keeps mouthing off in the house, right?”
Boston spread his hands. “Depends. Was it clever?”
Micah snorted from the table beside them.
Lincoln grinned wider. “Cocky too.”
“Not cocky,” Boston said easily. “Accurate.”
A couple of Law’s brothers nearby laughed.
Lincoln stood near the row of grills, beer in hand, poking at a line of hot dogs with a pair of tongs as he studied him like he’d just discovered a new sport. “So, what exactly do you do?”
Boston shrugged. “Mostly insult people and eat free food.”
“That a full-time job?”
“Trying to make it one.”
Micah rested his elbow on the table, watching the exchange with open amusement. “Don’t encourage him. He’s been talking all day.”
Boston pointed at him. “You invited me.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Lincoln laughed and shook his head. “Man, you’re trouble.”
Boston tapped his chest. “I’ve been called worse.”
Behind them, Winter stood with one shoulder against a post, arms folded, watching the whole exchange without moving.
“Loud one,” he said finally.
Boston glanced over. “You’ve said two words all day. I’m carrying the conversation.”
Winter’s icy gaze didn’t change. “Someone has to.”
Micah lost the fight and laughed.
Lincoln tapped the grill. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. This guy’s hilarious.”
Boston gave a small bow.
Across the yard, Rip watched the whole thing with his arms crossed.
His jaw flexed once.
Boston either didn’t notice or was enjoying the attention too much to care.
Lincoln clapped him on the shoulder. “Stick near me tonight. Anyone this entertaining deserves a beer.”
Rip’s expression darkened another shade.
A sharp whistle cut across the yard.
Law’s head turned automatically toward the fireworks crates near the fence line.
The smell of charcoal and smoked ribs still hung thick in the warm evening air, music drifting from somewhere under the tents, crickets buzzing steadily from the dark woods beyond the lights. For a split second, it all felt normal.
Then he saw what the whistle had been.
One of his teenage nephews had dragged a mortar tube out of the crate and jammed it into the grass. Another teenager crouched beside him with a lighter, the rest of the younger ones hovering too close, faces bright with the reckless excitement only teenagers managed to manufacture.
Law pushed off the porch post.
The lighter sparked.
The fuse caught.
“Hey—” Lincoln started.
The tube tipped.
Law moved at the same instant three other men did.
Buckshot barked once, sharp, before Sage hooked a hand in his collar and hauled him back.
Winter crossed the yard in three long strides and planted a boot against the base of the tube, forcing it upright just as the shell fired.
The mortar thumped skyward instead of sideways.
A deep boom cracked overhead a second later, the shell bursting high above the yard in a spray of red and gold that rattled windows and scattered sparks across the darkening sky.
Micah had already grabbed two younger kids by the backs of their shirts and hauled them several feet away.
Boston kicked the crate of fireworks farther from the cluster of teenagers, wood scraping across the grass.
Rip stepped in front of the group without a word, broad shoulders forming an instant wall between the teenagers and the rest of the yard.
The whole thing took maybe three seconds.
For a moment, the smell of burnt powder drifted down through the yard, sharp and sulfurous against the sweeter scent of barbecue.
Then Law’s brothers arrived.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Lincoln snapped, grabbing one of the boys by the shoulder and spinning him around.
“You don’t light a mortar without setting the tube first,” another brother barked.
“And you sure as hell don’t do it with half the kids in the family standing three feet away.”
The teenagers wilted under the sudden barrage.
“Sorry,” one muttered.
Lincoln pointed at the ground beside the tube. “See that? You pack it into the dirt so it doesn’t tip.”
Another brother toed soil against the base of the tube to demonstrate. “Like that. Fires straight up. Not into the crowd.”
Winter stepped back from the tube, calm as if nothing had happened, and bumped into Memphis, who’d come in a second behind him. Memphis caught him automatically, steadying him with a hand at his back before his palms brushed quickly down Winter’s sides, checking him over.
“You good?” Memphis asked.
Winter smirked. “Yeah. You need to check under my shirt too?”
“What? No.” Memphis jerked his hands away and stepped back like he’d touched a hot stove.
A few of the nearby brothers snorted.
Law pointed toward the tube. “Next one goes in the ground first.”
The teenagers nodded like they’d just been lectured by God.
Across the yard, conversations slowly started again as the moment dissolved back into the noise of the gathering.
But for a few seconds longer, several sets of experienced eyes stayed on the fireworks crates.
Law had barely turned away from the fireworks when he noticed his father standing a few yards back from the porch.
The older man had a glass of iced tea in one hand, posture relaxed, watching the yard the same way he used to—quiet, patient, missing nothing.
He’d seen the whole thing.
Law walked over.
His father’s gaze moved across the yard once more, lingering briefly where the teenagers were now packing dirt around the mortar tube under Lincoln’s supervision.
“You boys move fast,” his father said finally.
Law followed his line of sight.
Winter had already drifted back toward the edge of the lights. Micah crouched beside one of the younger kids, saying something that made the boy laugh. Boston had resumed talking—loudly—to one of Law’s brothers.
Rip still stood near the fireworks crates, arms crossed, watching.
Most of the yard had already gone back to eating and talking like nothing had happened.
“Occupational habit,” Law said.
His father took a slow sip of his tea.
“Most people freeze.”
Law glanced at him.
The older man’s eyes moved across the operators again—measuring, evaluating the way he had his entire career. After a moment, he nodded once, like he’d just confirmed something to himself.
“Is he the one?” his father asked, gesturing toward Sage.
Law followed the motion without meaning to.
Sage stood near one of the tables, head bent slightly as he listened to something Micah was saying, the lantern light catching in his hair.
“I think so, yeah.”
His father’s brow lifted slightly. “You trying to cushion it for my benefit?”
As a retired general, the man had never believed in easy answers.
Law huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, sir. He’s the one.”
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.” Law met eyes the exact shade of his own.
His father reached out and gripped his shoulder, the pressure brief but firm.
“Don’t leave it too late.”
Noise from the yard pulled his attention away, and his father turned as Law’s mother stepped out onto the porch carrying a tray of cookies.
Dinner had long since dissolved into the slow, easy rhythm of a summer night.
The grills had gone quiet. Plates had been cleared away. Somewhere near the firepit, someone had stacked driftwood and scrap logs into a bonfire that now burned bright against the dark Tennessee sky, sparks drifting upward like lazy fireflies.
Law stepped back inside the house, the screen door whispering shut behind him as he crossed the quiet kitchen and reached for the coffee pot.
Buckshot lay curled up in front of the stone fireplace, fast asleep after chasing nieces and nephews all day.
Through the open windows, he could still hear the yard.
One of his sisters had taken up the old acoustic guitar they kept by the back door. Her voice carried easily across the grass, low but steady as she worked her way through “House of the Rising Sun.”
A handful of people had drifted out onto the lawn, dancing barefoot in the warm grass under the string lights. Laughter rose and fell between verses while the steady hum of crickets filled in the spaces the music left behind.
Law poured two cups of coffee and glanced out the window toward the backyard.
The bonfire threw a wide circle of light across the yard now, the flames reflecting off the lanterns and torches scattered through the tents.
Near the edge of the firelight, Sage sat at one of the picnic tables with Law’s parents.
His mother leaned forward as she spoke, warm and animated the way she always was with new people. His father sat beside her.
Sage had one elbow resting on the table, head tilted slightly as he listened.
From inside the house, Law watched them for a moment longer than he meant to.
Sage said something that made his mother laugh, the sound drifting faintly through the open window. His father listened the way he always did—quiet, patient, studying people whether they realized it or not.
Outside, the guitar rolled into the next verse.
“Oh, mother, tell your children…”
“Not to do what I have done.” The rest of the yard joined in singing.
The bonfire popped and shifted, sparks lifting into the dark while a couple of his brothers spun their partners across the grass to the music.
Sage leaned back slightly as his mother kept talking.
His father said something in return—low, measured.
Sage’s smile faded just a fraction as he listened.
From the kitchen window, Law couldn’t hear the words.
But he recognized the moment anyway.
The moment someone realized exactly what kind of family they’d just stepped into.
And for the first time all night, Sage looked a little unsure.
“Ah, crap…” Law muttered.
Had they spilled the beans on him?
He stalked from the house.