Chapter Thirteen #2
The barn was a dark shape ahead, and I used its shadow to break the line of sight from the road.
My eyes adjusted quick, the world resolving into segments—the hard white of the snow, the black of the barn siding, the jaundiced smear of the porch light on the far side of the house.
My breath came out in short, controlled bursts, each one hanging in front of me like a warning flag.
I moved with the same rhythm I used overseas, the one that says you don’t expect trouble, but you’ll recognize it when it arrives.
My shoulder tensed as I edged along the barn wall, the cold seeping through the fabric and right down to the bone. I kept my back to the wood and made my way to the corner, then risked a quick peek at the road.
The dark sedan was parked even with the north pasture, wheels straight, nothing about it suggesting the usual panic of a stakeout.
Two men in the front seat, both facing the house.
The driver was younger, maybe thirties, a haircut that screamed “cop” even if the rest of him didn’t.
The passenger had a phone up, the glow of the screen making his face ghostly in the half-light.
They weren’t talking. They weren’t even pretending to be casual. This was a sit-and-wait.
I watched for a minute, taking in the details: the way the car was positioned to pull a fast U-turn, the subtle rhythm of the driver’s right hand tapping the steering wheel, the way the passenger’s finger hovered over the send button before he put the phone down.
Someone was getting real-time updates. That meant whoever was behind this had trust issues, or else they just didn’t believe in letting people off the leash.
I ducked back and listened. The world was silent except for the faint whine of the wind threading the gaps between boards. I moved to the east side of the barn and picked my next angle.
Then I heard it—the deliberate crunch of leather on frozen gravel.
It was the cadence that gave him away. Not the skittering panic of a trespasser or the loose-footed shuffle of a local kid. This was a slow, confident stride, boots landing heel-first, each step measured and meant to be heard.
I did a quick inventory: the SIG was in the holster, safety off but finger indexed. My jacket was zipped, gloves still in the left pocket, right hand free. I flexed my fingers once, let the blood flow, and stepped out from behind the barn.
The man was halfway up the drive, dark coat buttoned to the throat, hands in his pockets.
He was tall, with a center of gravity that made me think “varsity sports” but not the kind that lasted more than a semester or two after high school.
His hair was brown, clipped short, but long enough that the wind had started to whip it into lines across his forehead. The face was new, but the type wasn’t.
I put myself directly in his path, six yards between us, feet planted on the crusted snow. He stopped dead, and for a second we just looked at each other—both of us taking the measure, neither one flinching.
He was the first to talk.
“Mr. Hooper?” he said, voice pure mid-western, but with the courtesy tuned up just a hair too far.
I didn’t answer. I just waited.
He took a half-step forward, but kept his hands visible. “I’m here on behalf of Eleanor Peterson.”
That was a mistake. Saying the name before you’d earned the right. I let the silence stretch until I could see the discomfort start to bloom behind his eyes.
“You need to turn around,” I said.
He smiled, but it was the smile of a man who’d been told this would work. “I understand this is inconvenient. But I’d like to talk about a solution that benefits everyone. Especially your—” he hesitated, eyes flicking to the living room window, “—guest.”
I could see the sedan from where I stood, the two men inside watching us, the phone up again.
I let him talk. He did what they all do—ran through the list of threats dressed up as offers.
“The Peterson family doesn’t want conflict.”
“If you come to the table, we can avoid legal escalation.”
“I’m authorized to extend certain considerations, including relocation and a financial stipend, if Liam is returned safely and with no further trouble.”
He had the gall to say “no further trouble,” as if the past year had just been a brief mix-up at the post office.
When he finally ran out of script, I said, “You ever serve?”
It caught him off guard. “Excuse me?”
I nodded at his boots. “You’re standing like a man who’s been yelled at in formation.”
He looked down, almost smiled. “ROTC,” he said. “Didn’t stick.”
I shrugged. “That tracks.”
He took a breath. “Look, I know you have your own loyalties, but this is above your pay grade now. If you don’t comply, Ms. Peterson has the resources to make life very unpleasant for everyone on this property, including the Omega.”
He meant Liam. The way he said it was meant to sting, but it just pissed me off.
“My pay grade,” I said, “is whatever number it takes to keep my family safe.”
The word hung in the air: family.
He registered it. I could see the calculation in his jaw, the tightening at the corners of his mouth.
“We’re married,” I said. “As of yesterday. County clerk has the record. You want to escalate, you’ll need more than a sales pitch and a suit.”
He stood there, hands out of pockets now, tension in his knuckles.
“Here’s how it works,” I said, and kept my voice flat, like I was explaining how to set a pressure plate.
“Next time someone comes up this drive uninvited, they’ll find out why you don’t send Betas to do Alpha work.
You want to serve papers? Mailbox is at the end of the road.
You want to negotiate? You go through the attorney of record. ”
He stared at me. Then, like a man who’d lost the plot, he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope. Held it up between two fingers, as if the white of the paper had power.
“Consider this served,” he said, and dropped it onto the snow.
I didn’t look at it. I kept my eyes on his.
He took a half-step back. Not a retreat, but the start of one. “You don’t have to make this personal,” he said.
I smiled, and this time I let the cold show through. “It already is.”
I heard the approach before I saw it. Burke’s boots, loud and uneven, coming up the side yard with the kind of energy that says “I’m not going to throw the first punch, but if you want to dance, I’m ready.”
Macon was with him, a silent wall of muscle moving with a pace that said nothing could hurry him, not even a blizzard.
The man saw them coming. He looked back at the sedan, then at me, and for a second I could see the gears turning. This was not the scenario he’d been promised.
From the road, Rawley’s truck crested the hill, headlights on, engine loud in the morning air. It pulled up just behind the sedan, pinning it in place. The SUV from earlier sat further up, lights on now, engine revved.
For a moment, the world was nothing but the sound of engines and the cold.
The man in the suit said nothing else. He turned, gave the smallest nod to Burke and Macon, then walked back down the drive, boots making the same deliberate noise as before, but now with a new urgency.
He got into the sedan. It idled for a minute, then turned in the road and followed the SUV north, up past the county line.
I waited until the sound of their engines was gone, then let my shoulders relax for the first time in an hour.
Burke called across the yard, voice high and unrepentant: “You want me to frame that letter for you or just put it in the outhouse?”
I raised a hand, not turning around. “Just bring it in. We’ll use it for kindling.”
He laughed, the sound trailing off as he and Macon circled back to the house.
I stood there a minute longer, letting the cold bite down. Letting the adrenaline leech away. The yard was empty now, the sky brighter, the threat as distant as the sound of their engines.
I thought about going back inside, but instead I walked to the spot where the man had dropped the envelope. The paper was already soaking up the wet, edges curling, but the name on the front was still visible.
To: Tomás Hooper and Liam James
I bent down, picked it up, and wiped the snow off with the back of my hand. The envelope was thick, probably a dozen pages. I didn’t bother opening it.
Instead, I tucked it into the inside pocket of my jacket and looked back at the house, where Burke was waiting in the doorway, a shit-eating grin on his face, and where I could see, through the kitchen window, the outline of Liam, holding Emilio close, both of them watching the yard with the same worried look.
I raised a hand, palm out, just to let them know it was okay.
Then I went inside, shaking the cold off my boots, and left the morning to finish what it had started.
When I came in, the house was silent except for the tick of the wall clock and the faint, irregular protest of the radiator.
The world outside had gone fully white, the windows milked over with frost, but in here, the kitchen was the same as it ever was — light creeping in through the curtains, the faint smell of baby formula, the sense that everything important was contained within four old, battered walls.
Liam was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing my flannel from the day before.
The sleeves were too long, the hem a little ragged, but on him it looked deliberate, like the shirt had been made for that exact purpose.
Emilio was propped on his hip, wide awake and chewing at the edge of his own sleeve, his blue eyes doing a slow scan of the room.