69. Blaze
BLAZE
The second Flick saw the photograph?—
all the color drained from her face.
“No…”
Her voice barely came out.
I grabbed the picture fast.
It was Shepherd and her dad.
Standing beside each other near some kind of military transport site.
Not friendly.
Not smiling.
But they knew each other.
That much was obvious.
Wolf swore under his breath.
Trigger leaned closer to the image. “When was this taken?”
The sheriff checked the back.
“Almost thirteen years ago.”
Flick slowly shook her head like she physically couldn’t process it.
“My father never talked about military work.”
Hersh's eyes narrowed as he studied the photograph.
“He wouldn’t. He was trying to shut this thing down.”
I looked at him sharply.
“You recognize the location?”
“Not the location.”
His jaw tightened.
“The patches.”
Everybody looked again.
Tiny black insignias barely visible on the shoulders of the men behind Shepherd.
No names.
No flags.
Just a symbol.
A hollow circle with a slash through the center.
The Hollow Men.
Jesus Christ.
Wolf leaned back slowly.
“So he also knew about the Hollow Men.”
“Yes,” I muttered.
Flick looked sick now.
“You think my father worked with them?”
“No,” I answered instantly.
Too fast.
Too certain.
Because I knew men like Felicity’s dad.
Broken men.
Men trying to fix terrible mistakes. He wasn’t one of them.
“He found out what they really were,” I said quietly. “And tried to stop it.”
Trigger nodded.
“That’s my guess too.”
Flick stared at the photograph again.
Tears filled her eyes slowly.
“All this time…” she whispered. “He was trying to protect me from something that started years ago.”
Silence settled heavily across the kitchen.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Then—
the motion alarm outside beeped once.
Every man in the room froze instantly.
Hersh was already moving before the second alert sounded.
Weapon up.
Eyes deadly.
Wolf killed the kitchen lights immediately.
Trigger moved toward the side window.
Sheriff Tate reached for his radio.
My pulse slammed hard against my ribs.
“Hersh…” I whispered. “You’re hurt.”
His hand touched my back briefly as he passed me.
Stay behind me.
Always that.
The third motion alarm suddenly screamed outside.
Front pasture.
Close.
Very close.
Wolf looked toward the security monitor near the counter.
Static flickered across the screen.
Then—
a figure appeared through the rain near the fence line.
Tall.
Still.
Watching the house.
Flick gasped softly beside me.
Because even grainy through storm interference?—
we all recognized him.
Shepherd.
He stood motionless beneath the rain in dark tactical gear.
No rifle raised.
No attempt to hide.
Just staring directly toward the ranch house.
Toward Flick.
Like he knew she was watching him.
A chill crawled violently down my spine.
Wolf muttered quietly, “That psycho came here alone?”
“No,” Hersh said coldly.
And somehow that answer scared me worse.
Because Hersh understood predators.
Understood killers.
And right now?
He looked furious enough to become one.
Shepherd slowly lifted one gloved hand.
Then pointed directly toward the house.
Toward Flick.
And dragged his thumb slowly across his throat.