The Counter-Strike
The office of Jim "Big Mac" Mackenzie didn't look like the chrome-and-glass towers Brandon was used to.
It was located above the hardware store, smelled of old pipe tobacco and law books, and the floorboards groaned under my boots.
Jim was a retired colonel from the Marines and had been the town's lead attorney since before Anthony and I were born.
He sat behind a desk made of solid oak, peering over his spectacles at the thick stack of papers Brandon's lawyers had sent.
Aubrey sat beside me, her hand gripped in mine. I could feel the tension in her fingers, the way she braced herself every time Jim flipped a page. I kept my thumb rubbing slow, steady circles against her skin, my eyes fixed on the man who held our future in his hands.
"Alright," Jim said, finally leaning back.
The leather chair creaked. "Here's the reality.
Sterling has deep pockets and a fancy letterhead.
He's going for the 'scorched earth' approach.
He wants a DNA test, he wants fifty-percent custody, and he's trying to argue that a house shared by two bachelor firefighters—one with an active automotive shop on site—isn't an appropriate environment for a newborn. "
"It's my home," I rasped, my voice low and dangerous. "I've lived there ten years without a single complaint or a safety issue."
"I know that, Nick. And the town knows that," Jim said, pointing a finger at me. "But to a judge in the city, or a court-appointed evaluator who's never seen a mountain, they see 'grease' and 'fire hazards.' We have to flip the script."
Jim turned his gaze to Aubrey, his expression softening just a fraction.
"Aubrey, honey, you're the key. You have no criminal record, a stable job at the library, and a rock-solid support system.
We aren't going to fight the DNA test. If we fight it, it looks like we're hiding something.
We let them have their test. We let the science prove he's the biological donor. "
"But the custody—" Aubrey started, her voice trembling.
"We counter-claim for sole physical custody," Jim interrupted, his eyes turning sharp.
"We cite the felony assault by his live-in partner, Chloe Vance.
We cite the fact that he provided the bail money for a woman who attacked the mother of his alleged child.
We argue that his home environment is the one that's unstable—physically and emotionally. "
I felt a surge of grim satisfaction. "Can we win that?"
"In this county? Absolutely," Jim said. "Judge Miller doesn't take kindly to city boys trying to lean on local families.
We're also going to request a 'Guardian Ad Litem.
' A neutral party to represent the baby's interests.
They'll visit your house, Nick. They'll see the crib you built.
They'll see the nursery. They'll see the pantry full of food and the brother living thirty feet away for security. "
Jim leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk.
"Brandon Sterling thinks this is a chess match.
He thinks he can move pieces and win a trophy.
We're going to show him it's a siege. We're going to demand a psych evaluation for him and Chloe.
We're going to demand a home study of his penthouse.
We're going to make it so expensive and so invasive that he'll realize he's better off staying in Manhattan. "
Aubrey let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "I just want her to be safe, Jim. I don't want her being a pawn."
"She won't be," Jim promised. "I'm filing the response this afternoon.
I'm also adding a provision that any visitation—if it's ever granted—must be supervised and must take place within county lines.
He wants to see her? He drives five hours and sits in a room with a social worker.
Let's see how long his 'paternal instinct' lasts then. "
I stood up, shaking Jim's hand. His grip was like a vice. "Thank you, Jim. Do whatever you have to do. Money isn't an issue. I'll work every overtime shift the department has if I have to."
"Save your money for diapers, Harrison," Jim grunted, giving me a rare, crooked smile. "The department has a legal fund for a reason. We take care of our own."
We walked out of the office and down the narrow stairs. The air outside felt different—heavier with the coming storm, but lighter in my chest.
We got into the truck, but I didn't start the engine. I turned to Aubrey, pulling her into my arms. She buried her face in my neck, her hands fisting in my shirt.
"Did you hear him?" I whispered. "We're fighting back, Aubrey. No more running. No more hiding."
"He's going to hate it," she murmured. "He's going to be so angry."
"Let him be angry," I said, pulling back to look at her. I reached down, my hand finding the warmth of her stomach. "He's fighting for an image. We're fighting for a life. He's already lost, he just hasn't realized it yet."
I started the truck, the engine roaring to life—the sound of a machine I'd built and maintained with my own two hands. We weren't the "unstable environment" Brandon thought we were. We were a fortress.
And the siege was about to begin.