25. Boone
BOONE
A couple of days later, when I step out onto the front porch in the morning, something about the angle of Rhett’s Dodge looks wrong.
It’s parked nose out, like always, because some habits never die, but instead of looking ready, it looks tired.
The front tire is flat to the rim.
My hand tightens around my mug, and I don’t move for a few seconds as instincts that have nothing to do with charm shift into place.
Then I set my coffee on the porch rail, walk down the steps, and crouch beside the tire. The slash is clean, not the sort of puncture from debris, and it’s angled to ruin the sidewall and make patching impossible. This was done by someone who knew what they were doing.
The rear tire is the same, and so are the two on the other side.
“Motherfucker.” I say it low, through gritted teeth. Not loud enough to give anyone satisfaction if they’re nearby.
There are faint marks in the gravel, but nothing I can read. I leave the area undisturbed for Cade’s careful eye.
Despite the seeming lack of evidence, one message comes through loud and clear: Turner knows where we live, and he wants us to know he can get close enough to put a blade in our truck. He wants us to think about where else he could put a blade.
The front door opens, and Wren calls for me.
I get my face under control before I turn to greet her.
She steps out in jeans and an old gray sweatshirt of mine, one of the sleeves hanging loose below her hand. Sunlight catches strands of her hair, still messy from sleep. Her eyes are soft until she sees my face, then the tires, and the color drains from her cheeks.
I hate Turner so hard right now, I can taste it in my mouth.
Rhett appears at the door. “Stay on the porch,” he tells Wren.
Wren’s eyes narrow, but I cut off the argument. “For now. We need to make sure it’s safe.”
Wren’s eyes widen as she looks at me, and I realize my tone sounded nothing like it usually does. She stays on the top step as Cade comes out and moves past her, his attention already on the truck, the tire, the gravel, and the shadow beneath the truck.
She stands watching, a hand at her throat, as Rhett and Cade inspect the damage and I pull out my phone and start documenting everything.
I keep my face calm, even when Cade determines the blade that made the cuts wasn’t a random pocketknife. It was designed for the job.
“I’m calling Sentinel,” Rhett says, stepping away.
Cade looks up from where he’s inspecting the gravel. “Atlas?”
“Yeah.”
Atlas O’Connell and a couple of other former Marines run a security business out of their compound not far from here. They’re the kind of men who don’t ask unnecessary questions.
I keep taking pictures, and Wren stays on the porch until I’m done. I know she wants to come closer, and I love that she’s choosing to stay where she is. If she read my tone correctly, she understands this isn’t about control, it’s about sequence. Secure first, and explain after.
“The shipment probably cleared,” Cade says. “Now, he has time to deal with interference.”
The icy thing in my chest gets colder. He hasn’t seen what interference looks like yet.
I force my features into something at least half-pleasant and head back to the house.
“All four are flat?” Wren asks. When I nod, she says, “You think it was Turner?”
“As far as I know, we haven’t pissed off anyone else.”
She follows me into the house, closing the door gently behind her.
“The warning couldn’t be more clear if he’d strung caution tape,” I say.
Rhett comes in right behind us. He’s still on the phone, but I’ll bet he’s feeling the same need I am, to put our bodies between Wren and every line of approach to this cabin. I want her close enough that if anything goes wrong, I can have her behind me before she even draws in a breath.
Rhett ends his call and slides his phone into his pocket. “Sentinel will be coming by in an hour for a property assessment. No one’s going to get this close again without us knowing.”
“I’ll make breakfast,” I say. I don’t have an appetite, but we all need to eat. “It’ll just be eggs and toast today, because apparently some asshole interrupted my plan for pancakes.”
Rhett’s mouth twitches, and Cade looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. That's why I said it.
Anger is still sitting under my skin like rebar in concrete, but humor gives us room to breathe.
“Pancakes were the plan?” Wren asks.
“Blueberry.”
“Goddamn.” Her eyes narrow and she puts a hand on her hip. “You’re telling me Harlan Turner is making me miss out on blueberry pancakes?”
I lift a brow and nod as some of my usual grin returns. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then now it’s personal.”
As I smile at Wren’s joke, Rhett keeps his eyes on her. “It’s been personal.”
After we eat, the day is filled with focused action. Rhett calls around for new tires, Cade sketches out the property in preparation for Sentinel’s visit, and after Wren and I clean the breakfast dishes, I check our hardware supplies.
Atlas arrives with a man he introduces as a new hire. There’s a baby at Sentinel’s compound now, and the men are understandably reluctant to take work far from home, so they’re expanding their team.
When Rhett introduces the men to Wren, Atlas shakes her hand. “The biologist. Kira told us about you.”
“Kira? Oh.”
I watch understanding dawn on Wren’s face.
“Your maps are what gave DEA the pattern?” Atlas asks.
After a brief hesitation, Wren says, “Mine, plus Cade’s cache-point data.”
Atlas glances at Cade, then back at Wren. “Good work. Let’s hope we don’t have to wait on them too long. In the meantime …” Never one to waste time, Atlas tips his head toward the door, ready to get started.
While Rhett walks the perimeter with Sentinel, and Cade follows at a distance, I stay at the cabin with Wren and go over new protocols.
I move her through the space, showing her where to go if we say down, where to go if we say rear, and where to hide if we say safe room.
It’s not a true safe room, but the reinforced storage closet with one small high window and survival supplies is where she needs to be if trouble comes to us.
She memorizes everything without complaint.
By the time Atlas is ready to leave, there are new motion sensors outside and Rhett’s holding a list of recommended upgrades.
“I’ll get in touch with Brennan,” Rhett tells Atlas.
“Good. The right people in the area need to know what we’re dealing with so we can look out for unusual movement.” He shakes Rhett’s hand. “Don’t freelance, Wilder.”
Rhett’s face gives nothing away. “Wasn’t planning to.”
When Atlas looks at me, I smile, but he doesn’t buy it. “Especially you,” he says.
I press my hand to my chest. “I’m wounded.”
Atlas lifts a brow. “Not currently.”