Chapter 27-Micah
“Motherfucking piece of shit.”
The words come out through gritted teeth as I shove the replacement circuit back into its housing.
Again.
Second one this week.
After hours of tearing apart the cryogenic control system, testing every board, every relay, every damned connection, it all comes down to one cheap-ass component that shouldn't have failed in the first place.
Nothing's built to last anymore.
Doesn't matter if it's electronics, trucks, or people's promises.
Everything's disposable.
I slam the access panel shut harder than necessary.
“I'm gonna start my own damn hardware company.”
Alex snorts from the doorway.
“You?”
“Yeah.”
“You hate people.”
“I'd only sell online.”
He laughs.
“I'm serious.”
“I know,” he says, which somehow makes it worse.
I strip off my gloves and glance at my watch.
Shit.
Sloane.
She's probably wondering where I am. I haven’t checked in and it’s almost closing time.
The thought has me reaching for my phone before I've even wiped the grease off my hands.
No signal.
I frown.
The hell?
I hold it up.
Nothing.
Not one damn bar.
I step outside.
Still nothing.
That's not right.
The ranch usually has decent coverage.
I try anyway.
Her number.
Nothing.
I try again.
Same result.
My stomach tightens.
I dial The Watering Hole's landline instead.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Come on, Princess...
Answer.
The fourth ring cuts off.
Somebody picked up.
“Sloane?”
Silence.
Then—they hang up.
The office phone inside the cryo building starts ringing.
Loud.
Urgent.
Wrong.
Every instinct I own wakes up at once.
I don't think.
I run.
Boots pounding concrete as I tear across the shop floor.
The commercial line rings again just as I snatch up the receiver.
“Sloane?”
“No, this is John.”
Unknown voice.
Male.
Breathing hard.
“Sorry, is this Jersey Iron Ranch?”
My pulse spikes.
“Yeah.”
“We just came from The Watering Hole and there's a lady there in trouble—”
I don't hear another word.
The receiver is already swinging on its cord as I drop it.
I'm moving before my brain catches up.
Truck.
Keys.
Phone.
My fingers are dialing before I'm behind the wheel.
Benji answers first.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Sloane.”
One word.
That's all it takes.
“What?”
“She's in trouble.”
The engine roars to life.
I throw the truck into reverse so hard gravel sprays across the yard.
“There's something wrong with the cell tower—”
Sawyer joins the call.
“Shit. Lightning hit the main tower. Thought you knew.”
His voice is clipped.
“Utility crews are working on it.”
Fucking hell.
Of all the days...
“Lots of service issues for the last couple hours.”
Everything clicks into place.
The failed texts.
The missed call.
Her phone.
She tried.
I know she fucking tried.
And I wasn't there.
The steering wheel groans beneath my grip.
“Meet me there.”
“We're already rolling,” Benji says.
“I'll be two minutes behind you.”
“I'll beat you both,” Sawyer growls.
I hang up.
No more talking.
Only driving.
The truck fishtails as I hit the ranch road.
Too fast.
Doesn't matter.
Every second stretches into eternity.
My mind runs scenarios.
Entrances.
Exits.
Weapons.
Civilian casualties.
Number of suspects.
She shouldn’t be alone.
She should have Joan and Milly—fuck, Milly is unreliable. I knew that. Should’ve replaced her.
Freddy probably left already.
Jesus Christ.
I should've stayed.
The thought hits like a hammer.
No.
Don't go there.
Fix the problem.
Feel guilty later.
I crest the hill overlooking Dry Creek.
Too fucking far.
I stand on the accelerator.
The Watering Hole comes into view.
Front windows shattered.
One neon sign hangs crooked, sparks spitting onto the sidewalk.
The front door is closed.
No customers outside.
No movement.
Too quiet.
Wrong.
Everything about it is wrong.
I kill the truck before it's fully stopped.
The door is already open when my boots hit the pavement.
The smell reaches me first.
Beer.
Whiskey.
Broken wood.
Fear.
Then—
A scream.
Her scream.
“SLOANE!”
I don't remember crossing the parking lot.
One second I'm outside.
The next my shoulder slams into the front door hard enough to rip it off the latch.
The music cuts out as the sound echoes through the bar.
Time slows.
Glass litters the floor.
Beer runs in sticky rivers between overturned chairs.
Liquor bottles lie shattered behind the bar.
A table burns in one corner where a candle has caught a soaked menu.
Scarface turns first.
Then everyone else.
And finally...
I see her.
Sloane.
She's backed against the bar.
White as a ghost.
Terrified.
Her shirt is torn.
There are tear stains on her cheeks.
Her face is red where someone slapped her.
The second our eyes meet...
Everything changes.
Relief floods her face so suddenly my chest physically hurts.
She knew I'd come.
Thank fuck.
She knew.
One of the men grabs her arm.
Hard.
That’s the wrong fucking move.
“Yeah, we got your bitch! What are you gonna do, motherfucker? There’s twelve of us!” Scarface sneers.
I don't yell.
I don't threaten.
I don't posture.
I simply move.
Fast.
Years of training take over before emotion ever has the chance.
The first man never sees me.
One precise strike folds him to the floor.
The second reaches inside his pocket.
I redirect his arm before whatever he's reaching for clears his jeans.
He crashes through a table instead.
Wood explodes.
Someone shouts.
Someone else runs.
I don't give a fuck.
My eyes keep finding Sloane.
Every few seconds.
Still standing.
Breath hitching, but she’s still breathing.
And that’s good.
Scarface snarls something I don't bother listening to.
He shoves Sloane toward another man.
Fucking coward.
Using her as a shield.
My heart stops.
“No.”
The word comes out colder than ice.
The room hears it.
Even the men still standing hesitate.
I close the distance.
One hand catches Sloane's wrist.
Firm.
Gentle.
“Behind me.”
She doesn't question it.
She simply moves.
Her fingers cling to the back of my shirt for one brief second before she disappears behind my shoulder.
Good girl.
Now I can work.
“You prick!”
Scarface lunges.
I sidestep.
Momentum does half my job for me.
The rest is clean.
Efficient.
He hits the floor hard enough to lose the knife he'd been hiding.
Knife.
Good.
Now I know what we're dealing with.
Someone swings a pool cue.
It splinters against a support beam instead of my head.
Another mistake.
Another man goes down.
The room grows quieter.
Not because the fight is over.
Because nobody wants to be next.
Boots thunder across the porch outside.
Sawyer.
Benji.
Right on time.
The front door flies open again.
“What the hell—”
Benji doesn't finish.
He sees Sloane.
Sees the men.
Then me.
“Take the left!” Sawyer barks.
They move without another word.
We've done this before.
Different continent.
Different enemy.
Same language.
Sawyer angles left without me saying a damn thing.
Benji breaks right.
Years of training take over.
No shouting.
No confusion.
Just instinct.
One of the bastards reaches inside his jacket.
Weapon.
Sawyer is already on him.
He catches the man's wrist before steel ever clears leather, twists, and the knife clatters across the beer-slick floor.
One hard shove sends the guy crashing into an overturned table.
Benji intercepts another one swinging a pool cue.
The cue whistles through empty air before Benji catches it with both hands, rips it free, snaps it over his knee, and drives the bigger piece across the man's chest hard enough to send him stumbling backward into two of his buddies.
“Wrong fucking bar,” Benji growls.
A third man pulls a tire iron.
Alex barrels through the front door behind Sawyer and Benji, doesn't hesitate, and shoulder-checks the guy into the jukebox before he can get the thing above his waist.
The music screeches into static.
Glass rains onto the sticky floor.
Someone else produces a switchblade.
I see the flash of metal out of the corner of my eye.
The blade never reaches me.
Sawyer kicks the man's forearm just above the wrist.
The knife spins through the air.
Benji catches it.
Looks at it. Then casually slides it across the floor to the far end of the room.
“Mine now,” he mutters.
Another idiot decides to rush me.
Big mistake.
He throws a wild punch.
I slip inside it, redirect his momentum, and he crashes face-first into the bar.
Wood splinters.
Liquor bottles explode behind him.
The smell of whiskey fills the room.
I don't even look back.
My eyes find Sloane.
Still behind me.
Still safe.
Good.
My thoughts are always on her first.
One of Scarface's crew tries circling toward her.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
I catch him before he gets within six feet of her, hook his arm, take his balance, and send him sprawling across the wet floor where he slides into three barstools hard enough to knock them over.
“You deaf?” Benji barks. “The lady said get the fuck out.”
The room erupts again.
Not with panic.
With desperation.
The men who swaggered in here ten minutes ago are no longer attacking.
They're surviving.
Trying to create space.
Trying to get to the door.
Too late.
Sawyer cuts one off before he reaches it.
Alex blocks another.
Benji plants himself between two more like a damn brick wall wearing cowboy boots.
Nobody gets past.
Scarface backs toward the broken doorway instead.
His eyes dart from me...
...to Sawyer...
...to Benji.
Finally realizing exactly who he picked a fight with.
He moves to bolt.
I intercept him before he takes two steps.
One hand on his shirt.
One hard shove.
He slams into the wall beside the exit and stays there.
Frozen.
Our eyes meet.
For the first time since he walked into The Watering Hole, he's afraid.
Not nervous.
Not angry.
Afraid.
Good.
He should be.
I step closer.
Not fast.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The kind of walk that tells a man running won't help him.
“You were told to stay away from her.”
My voice never rises.
It doesn't have to.
The room is so quiet now everyone hears every word.
“We’re owed, man!”
“I don’t give a fuck. You don't come near her.”
I glance around at the rest of his crew.
“You don't come near this bar.”
Another step.
“You don't even think about her.”
Scarface swallows.