Chapter 25
MASON
The veterinary clinic sits on the east side of Iron Ridge, a small building with a gravel parking lot and a hand-painted sign that reads IRON RIDGE ANIMAL CARE.
I'm positioned on a rooftop two blocks away, my rifle broken down and secured in its case, my spotter scope giving me a clear view of the entrance. Lily's truck is parked in the lot. She's been inside for three hours, since she had lunch with Emma.
Through the scope, I watch clients come and go—a woman with a dog, an older man carrying a cat carrier, a rancher with a horse trailer. Normal traffic. Nothing suspicious.
But I'm not watching the clients. I'm watching for threats.
To keep my mind sharp, I run scenarios automatically, the way I’ve done for almost half my life.
Vehicle approach from the north, two shooters, suppressed weapons. Response time: four seconds to acquire, five to engage.
Pedestrian approach from the west, single target, concealed carry. Response time: three seconds.
Explosive device in a vehicle—
For the first time, ever, the scenario catches me up. I’ve seen my share or IED damage, and the thought of Lily caught by one grips my chest. I force myself to breathe.
She's safe. The clinic is public, well-trafficked, low risk. There's no tactical reason for Turner's people to move on her here. It’s unlikely they’d resort to explosives, in any case.
They’d have much more vicious, personal methods.
Nothing is touching Lily.
I adjust the scope, zooming in on the clinic's front window. I can see movement inside—Lily's silhouette as she moves between exam rooms. She's working. Doing her job. Living the cover.
Except it's not a cover, is it? She's actually a vet. Actually treating animals. Actually living a life that looks normal from the outside.
So why is she here?
Why Iron Ridge? Why now? Why a woman with Turner's mark on her wrist and operator-level tradecraft working in a small-town clinic?
The pieces don't fit.
I've run her background six ways from Sunday. Lily Carter—real name, real credentials, real veterinary license. No criminal record, no red flags, nothing that screams covert operative or vendetta mission.
But I know what I saw in her eyes at the Rusty Spur. I know what I felt when she looked at Patrick Kelly.
She's hunting something.
I just don't know what.