Chapter Thirteen
Caroline was already awake—sleeping through the night was still a work in progress, even with Forge's solid warmth beside her. She heard his phone buzz, felt him tense instantly, watched him answer with the alertness of a man who never truly rested.
"Talk to me."
A pause. His jaw tightened.
"How many?"
Another pause. Then his eyes found hers in the darkness, and something cold settled in her stomach.
"We're on our way." He ended the call and was out of bed before she could ask, pulling on clothes with efficient speed. "Get dressed."
"What happened?"
"Henderson farm. The Carsons. The Mitchell property." He yanked a shirt over his head. "Three farms. Three horses. All shot tonight."
The cold in her stomach turned to ice.
"Those are my clients," she whispered. "I vaccinated the Henderson mare last spring. The Carsons' gelding—I treated his colic two months ago. Mrs. Mitchell's pony, her granddaughter rides him every weekend—"
"I know." Forge crossed to her, gripped her shoulders. "Ghost is already en route. We'll know more when we get there."
"This is Pittman."
"This is Gentry. His tracker." His voice went flat. "The man who handles disposal—dogs that lose, people who talk. Pittman sent him to make a point."
Caroline dressed without remembering the movements. Her mind was filled with images—the Henderson mare's soft nose, the Carsons' patient gelding, Mrs. Mitchell's granddaughter laughing while she groomed her pony.
Animals she'd touched. Animals she'd healed. Animals murdered because she'd dared to fight back.
The Henderson farm was closest. They arrived to find Ghost's bike already there, the former Delta operator standing beside a shape covered with a tarp in the paddock.
"Single round to the head," Ghost reported. "Clean shot. Professional."
Forge pulled back the tarp. Caroline looked anyway.
She'd known this mare for three years. Had pulled her through a difficult foaling, celebrated when the filly was born healthy. Now the mare lay in the pre-dawn darkness, eyes glassy, blood pooling beneath her ruined skull.
"The owners?" Forge asked.
"Inside. Didn't hear anything until morning when they came out to feed." Ghost's expression was stone. "Same story at the other farms. Quiet approaches, single shots, no witnesses."
"Gentry."
"Has to be. He knows these woods—grew up in them. Could move through three properties in one night without leaving a trace." Ghost paused. "Except he wanted traces. Wanted them found. This isn't disposal. This is a message."
Caroline knelt beside the mare. Her hand found the soft neck, still warm, and something inside her cracked.
Not broke. Cracked. The way steel cracks before it hardens.
"Mrs. Henderson loved this horse," she said quietly. "Her husband died six years ago, and this mare was all she had left of him. He bought her as an anniversary present the year before his heart attack. She used to bring me pictures of them riding together."
Nobody spoke.
"The Carsons saved for two years to buy their gelding.
Their son wanted to learn to ride, and they couldn't afford lessons so they figured they'd teach him themselves.
I gave them a discount on vaccinations because I knew they were stretching.
" Her voice hardened. "And Mrs. Mitchell's granddaughter?
She's eight. She calls that pony her best friend. "
She stood, hands shaking—not from fear. From rage.
"These aren't just animals to these people. They're family. They're hope. They're the thing that gets them through the day when everything else is falling apart." She turned to face Forge. "Pittman killed them to punish me. To send a message about what happens when someone stands up to him."
"I know."
"Three innocent horses. Three families devastated. Because I started asking questions about his blood sport."
"Caroline—"
"This has to stop." The words came out fierce, sharp as broken glass. "Not just contained. Not just defended against. Stopped. Permanently."
Forge's expression shifted. The man she loved disappearing behind the soldier, the weapons sergeant, the brother who handled problems with violence and precision.
"What are you asking me to do?"
"End it." She held his gaze. "Find Gentry and end him. Find Pittman and end him. Burn their whole operation to the ground so they can never hurt another animal, another family, another person who dares to care about something they consider disposable."
"That's a war."
"It's been a war since they shot my horse.
" Her voice cracked on the last word. "I've been pretending it wasn't—pretending we could just defend and survive and wait for them to give up.
But they're not going to give up, are they?
They're going to keep hurting things I care about until I break or they're dead. "
"You're not going to break."
"Then they need to be dead."
Silence fell over the paddock. Ghost stood motionless, watching. The Henderson mare lay still beneath her tarp. And Caroline felt something fundamental shift in her relationship with violence.
She'd spent her whole life healing. Fixing. Saving.
Now she was asking a man she loved to kill.
"You understand what you're asking," Forge said quietly. "This isn't defense anymore. This is hunting. Going after Gentry, tracking him through his home territory, putting him down. And then doing the same to Pittman."
"I understand."
"There's no coming back from that. For you or for me. Once we cross that line—"
"The line was crossed when they shot Bella." She stepped closer, took his face in her hands. "The line was crossed when they cut my arm and threatened my patients. When they assaulted the safehouse. When they attacked the compound. I didn't start this war, Malcolm. But I'm asking you to finish it."
His eyes searched hers. Looking for doubt, maybe. For second thoughts. For the healer who was supposed to value life above all else.
She let him see what was really there: fury, grief, and the cold certainty of someone who'd finally accepted that some problems couldn't be fixed.
Only eliminated.
"Gentry first," he said finally. "Tonight. While the trail is fresh."
"And Pittman?"
"As soon as we can find him." His hands covered hers. "But you need to understand—this is going to be ugly. Gentry's a tracker, a disposal expert. He's spent years making things disappear in these woods. Going after him means going into his territory, playing his game."
"Can you beat him?"
"I can beat anyone who threatens you." No hesitation. No doubt. "But it won't be clean. It won't be quick. And when it's done, there will be bodies that someone has to deal with."
"Then deal with them." She released his face, stepped back. "I'll stay at the compound. I'll help the families here—arrange burials, provide what comfort I can. But when you ride out tonight, I want you to know something."
"What?"
"I'm not asking you to do this because I'm scared.
I'm not asking because I want revenge for my horse or my arm or any of the things they've done to me.
" She lifted her chin. "I'm asking because somewhere in those woods, Pittman has dogs in cages.
Fighting dogs, bait dogs, animals that are suffering right now because I haven't been strong enough to stop him.
Every day he keeps breathing is another day they spend in pain. "
Ghost made a small sound. Not quite agreement—the man never showed that much—but something like it.
"You said you wanted to protect something that heals instead of destroys," Caroline continued. "Those animals need protecting. The families who lost horses tonight need protecting. And the only way to do that is to cut out the cancer. Completely. Permanently."
Forge was silent for a long moment. The eastern sky was lightening, pink threads weaving through the darkness. Dawn breaking over devastation.
"Church in three hours," he said to Ghost. "I want everyone there. Full tactical planning. We're taking Gentry tonight and Pittman within the week."
Ghost nodded and moved toward his bike.
Forge turned back to Caroline.
"This is really what you want?"
"This is what they made necessary." She stepped into him, rested her forehead against his chest. "I hate it.
I hate that I'm asking you to kill for me.
But I hate what they're doing more. I hate that animals are suffering and families are grieving and I've been too focused on survival to fight back. "
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.
"You've been fighting since the moment I met you," he said quietly. "Stitching your own arm, burying your horse, standing your ground when anyone else would have run. This isn't about being strong enough. It's about having backup."
"And I have that now."
"You have everything. Me, the brotherhood, whatever it takes." He pulled back enough to look at her. "We end this. Together. And when it's over—"
"When it's over, we build something better." She managed a smile despite the grief pressing against her chest. "Starting with a security system that makes sure this never happens again."
"That's my girl."
She wasn't sure when she'd become his girl. Somewhere between the blood and the bullets and the nights wrapped around each other like armor. But hearing him say it now, in this paddock beside a dead mare, felt like a promise.
A claim.
A vow.
"Go plan your war," she said. "I'll be here when you come back."
"Always?"
"Always."
He kissed her—quick, fierce, burning—and headed for his bike. She watched him ride away, the rumble of the engine fading into the Carolina morning.
Behind her, the Henderson mare lay still beneath her tarp.
Ahead of her, a reckoning was coming.
And Caroline found, to her own dark surprise, that she was looking forward to it.