Chapter Thirty-One #2
“You’re smart enough to know when you’re fucked, right?” the DA drawled. “Don’t make this worse.”
Ethan scanned left. One goon. Right. Two more.
Shit.
He raised the gun, grip light, muzzle skyward—not in threat, but surrender. “I drop it,” he said, voice even, “you don’t get twitchy.”
Houston smirked. “A gentleman criminal. How refreshing.”
Ethan slowly bent, set the weapon down on the gravel, and straightened.
“Hands.”
The zip ties bit his wrists tighter than necessary. Bastard enjoyed it.
“On your knees.”
Ethan obeyed.
Two fists under his arms hoisted him up like deadweight and half-dragged him to the waiting truck. Houston’s black Silverado. Fully tinted. Government plates long gone.
They popped the back door and shoved Ethan inside the cab like a prisoner of war. His shoulder hit the doorframe hard.
The door slammed. Lock clicked.
Outside, Houston barked orders, “Get the footage. Wipe every angle from the last two hours. Secure the cage. Move everything offsite. Tell Thetus we’ve got a leak.”
Someone muttered about deer cams. Houston swore under his breath. His mask was off now—gone was the polished DA. This was the fixer, the cleaner, the man behind the curtain.
The driver’s side opened. Houston climbed in.
But just before he keyed the ignition, he paused, glanced in the rearview and said, almost idly, “You should’ve stayed gone, Kane.” Then, voice low and final, “Now I gotta decide who’s gonna bleed for your mistake. You?” He turned the key. The engine rumbled. “Or the woman you keep running to.”
Ethan didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
But a fire lit in his chest so hot it could’ve burned the whole ridge down.
And if Houston didn’t kill him soon, he’d fucking regret it.
The tires chewed gravel. Then it turned to dirt. Then to mud.
Ethan’s body rocked with every jolt as Houston’s Silverado tore down the ridge road—straight, fast, confident. Ethan blinked, heart slowing to match the cadence of something wrong.
The truck turned, hard, to the left.
Not toward the county road. Not back to Calhoun, but into a logging trail that hadn’t seen maintenance in years.
Brush slapped the undercarriage. Branches dragged the windows like claws.
In the back seat, Ethan worked.
Quiet.
Precise.
Rule one, don’t rush.
Zip ties were a joke to a man who’d trained twelve rookies how to slip them in pitch dark during Q-course.
Palms sweaty? Good. Friction.
Arms relaxed? Better. Don’t flex. Keep slack.
He twisted, slow and casual—rolling his shoulders, grinding the edge of the plastic tie against the carbon steel blade he’d tucked in the hem of his jacket sleeve.
A gift from Sarge.
A whisper of memory.
A silent prayer.
One edge. Two.
The plastic weakened.
Snagged.
Bit.
Tore.
Still looped. But free.
He didn’t move a muscle.
Kept his hands together. Loose. Controlled.
Let the illusion stand.
Up front, Houston chuckled like they were on a damn Sunday drive.
“You know,” he said finally, “Thetus swore this place was untouchable. Said no man could find the heart of it. ‘Built this whole fucking empire out here,’ he said, ‘and not even the government knows.’”
The truck jostled over a rut. Ethan bit his tongue.
“I told him, let a guy like you loose? A guy with enough training, enough ghosts? He’ll find it. He’ll sniff it out like blood in water.” He tapped the wheel, smug. “Guess what, Kane? I won that bet.”
Ethan said nothing.
Not a goddamn word.
But inside, his pulse thundered.
They weren’t going back.
They weren’t going anywhere near law.
This wasn’t transport.
This was burial.
The truck crested a low hill and slammed to a stop in a clearing choked with fallen logs and last winter’s wreckage.
No cabins. No roads.
Just birds and decay.
Houston threw it in park and stepped out, door creaking wide. “Out.”
Ethan didn’t move.
So Houston opened the back, grabbed his arm, and yanked him out like a sack of meat. Ethan stumbled just enough to sell it.
Still played the part. Hands held. Shoulders rounded.
He stared at the moss.
Not the barrel of the gun now pointed straight at his heart.
Houston exhaled slow. “Thanks for helping me prove a point.”
Click. Safety off.
“Now,” he said, like it was a fucking thank-you note, “time to purge.”
Ethan’s breath stayed even.
But his eyes?
Locked.
Loaded.
And waiting.
Houston grinned again, adding, “Surprised you didn’t realize it was me that pulled the trigger. Too bad the bullets only hit the horse’s ass. Could have had two problems dealt with by now—”
Ethan didn’t let him finish. He moved like an animal. No thought. No hesitation.
Instinct.
He lunged forward, twisting, driving his shoulder into Houston’s chest just as the shot went off wild into the trees.
The crack of the gun echoed through the hollow like a scream, but Ethan didn’t hear it.
He was too busy breaking Houston’s wrist, prying the weapon from his hand with bone-crushing torque.
Too busy thinking about Amara.
About someone knocking on her door.
Telling her he was gone.
No. Fuck that.
Ethan slammed Houston against the nearest pine so hard the bark split.
One arm across his throat.
The other shoving the barrel of the gun right into his throat.
Close enough to kiss.
“You forget, William…” Ethan snarled. His voice was gravel and death.
“I know everyone in your family. Your mother. Your father. Your cousins. Your whole goddamn Sunday brunch table. I know where they live. Where they go to church. Where they sleep. But you? You know nothing about me. And that, that was your first mistake.”
Houston wheezed, eyes wide, neck straining against Ethan’s arm.
Ethan leaned in closer—sweat, dirt, blood, fury.
“I could kill you right here and leave your body exactly the same fucking way you planned on leaving mine. Or…I could let you go. But either way? You’re neutered.
” He pressed the gun in harder, grinding it against the man’s jugular.
“Because now you know. You know what I’m capable of.
You know how far I’ll go. You know we’re not the same.
I’ve done terrible things, things I’d do again—gladly—to you and your whole fucking family.
Just give me a reason.” His voice dropped to a whisper—lethal, “Give me a reason to scorch the goddamn earth.”
Houston whimpered.
That was all Ethan needed.
He reared back and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack.
Houston crumpled like paper, bleeding, dazed, groaning in the dirt.
Ethan stood over him, chest heaving, the gun still hot in his hand. “Leave Calhoun. Never come back.”
Then, calmly—mechanically—he stepped over him, walked to the truck, climbed in, and fired the engine.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to.
“Fuck around and find out, William,” he muttered.
Then he threw it in drive and disappeared into the trees.