Chapter 34 Tear Down The Gates
Tear Down The Gates
Jacob
The engines roar as both trucks tear down the road, headlights slicing through the dark. Mason’s behind the wheel of mine, his jaw set, eyes locked forward. The men in the back are quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy, like it’s bracing for impact.
My fists clench so hard I don’t feel the split until I smell it—copper in the confined cab. Blood pools in my palm, runs sticky between my fingers, drips onto the floor mat. I don’t wipe it. I don’t fucking care.
“We’ll get her back,” one of the men in the back mutters. It’s Carter. His voice is low but certain, like he believes saying it enough will make it true.
I don’t turn around. My voice cuts flat, hollow. “You can’t promise me that.” A beat of silence.
Then Carter again, quieter. “But we’ll do everything we can. They won’t know we know where they are. Killing George… was a smart move.”
Mason snorts, almost bitter, breaking the tension. “Yeah, smart move. Except now I gotta clean out my fucking woodwork shed.” His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel, but there’s no heat behind the words. Just exhaustion.
“Send me the bill,” I mutter.
Mason’s hand leaves the wheel for a second, clamping my shoulder. “I was joking, Sheriff. I don’t give a shit about the blood. But if someone else could maybe pick up the fingers for me….” He grimaces, his face twitching like he’s actually picturing it.
A laugh bursts out of me. Short. Wrong. For a half-second, it almost feels good to let it out.
Then guilt floods in like poison.
What the fuck am I laughing for when Summer’s in Jackson’s hands, probably crying, probably screaming, probably already broken? I bite down hard, swallowing it, the taste of iron and ash thick in my mouth.
I press my forehead to the window, watching the blur of trees rush by. The vibration rattles my skull. All I can see is her face when she told me she loved me. That small, fragile moment when I thought maybe I could actually be worth something to someone.
The other truck trails in the dark behind us, headlights bouncing on the bends, never too close, never too far.
A convoy without fanfare, the way it has to be.
Jackson’s men could be anywhere— posted on a ridge, hiding in the trees, watching for patterns.
And if they see us all together, it’s over before it starts.
Mason drives like the devil’s on his bumper, fists locked tight around the wheel, the veins in his forearms standing out in the glow of the dash.
The road coils and jerks, blacktop snaking through the hills, each bend more angled than the last. The truck throws us side to side, but none of the men complain.
The silence is suffocating, heavy with the weight of what we’re heading toward.
I keep my fists tight in my lap. The cuts send pulses of pain up to my wrists, but I need it. Pain keeps me steady. Pain reminds me of her.
Summer.
Christ. Her name alone feels like someone splitting me down the middle.
But Jackson doesn’t deserve my grief.
I’ve spent years cleaning up his messes.
The trafficking, the prostitution, the drugs, the murders.
The women who went missing. The women who came back broken shells.
The bodies dumped in rivers and fields. Everyone in this truck knows what he’s capable of.
Some of them have bled because of him. Some have lost family.
And if Jackson lays one fucking hand on her, I’ll—
“Boss. What you said earlier. No, I can’t promise we will get her back.” He swallows, keeps his eyes forward, the dash light painting his jaw in honed angles. “But I can promise we’ll die trying.”
I nod my head, accepting his words—knowing he means every one of them.
The rest of the drive is a coffin of silence. Tires hum over twisting roads, engines growl under the weight of every mile, but no one speaks. Words feel pointless when all I can hear is Summer’s scream echoing in my skull.
When the convoy finally slows, it’s like the world holds its breath. The house rises out of the dark, tall and looming, a shadow fortress behind wrought-iron gates. Spotlights sweep lazy arcs over the front lot, and for a heartbeat, it feels like we’ve rolled straight into Hell’s courtyard.
“Big place,” Mason mutters, his voice sandpaper as he edges the wheel, steering us to a hidden spot behind the line of trees.
“Too big,” Carter answers, his hand already brushing the grip of his sidearm.
We pull up just out of sight, engines killed, trucks cooling to silence. My fists ache from clenching the wheel. Knuckles split open again, blood sticky against the leather.
Mason exhales loudly, the sound heavy with anticipation, before unclipping his belt and pushing open the door. “Ready, Sheriff?” he asks.
I nod once.
Carter, Hayes, and Grove move with me, our doors opening in near-perfect unison. Behind us, the rumble of the second truck fades as Calder, Vance, and Reyes climb out, boots hitting the dirt almost in rhythm with ours.
We huddle around the hood, breath ghosting in the night. The air smells like pine, damp earth, and gun oil. I sketch the layout quick and hard—main gates locked, front exposure heavy. If we go loud, we need to go fast. If we try quiet, we’re fucked the second someone slips.
“We’ve got two options,” I say. “Cut through the woods and breach the back—or….” My gaze slides to Grove. “We take out the front guards and blow it wide open. Once the men hit the ground, we drive the truck through and wrench the gates open.”
Grove grins, but it never reaches his eyes. He’d served his country long before finishing his term and joining my department, a man known for his precision and calm under fire.
The trunk pops open, and he lifts out the case, snapping the latches with practiced ease. In seconds, he’s assembling the sniper rifle—each motion fluid, mechanical, familiar. The scope catches the faint wash of moonlight, a brief flash before the darkness swallows it again.
“We’ll need cover fire the second those bodies hit the dirt,” Mason says.
I nod. “Then we storm it. No hesitation. Summer’s in there. We don’t give them a chance to move her.”
Everyone murmurs agreement, low and final. The sound of safeties clicking off is louder than gunfire in the quiet.
We edge forward, trucks rolling slow until the iron gates loom just ahead. Two guards stand flanking the entrance, rifles slung casual.
“Grove,” I whisper. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The sniper barrel rests across the bonnet, his body stretched behind it, every muscle steady.
He exhales once, long and slow. The shot cracks, piercing as bone breaking.
First guard drops like a puppet cut from strings.
The second barely has time to look surprised before Grove’s finger squeezes again.
Both men crumple into the gravel.
Alarms scream to life, shrill and furious, flooding the night with chaos. Red strobes blink along the roofline. Dogs bark inside. Shouts rise from within.
No more time for planning.
“Now!” I bellow.
Metal screams as the truck tears the gate down, the whole frame shuddering under the strain. The gate buckles, hinges shrieking, chains snapping like gunfire. Steel folds in on itself until we’re able to climb through.
The air fills with sparks and dust. The gate lies mangled in the dirt, a carcass of bent metal and the road ahead yawns open.
We surge forward, guns raised, adrenaline flooding like fire through veins. The night explodes with noise—alarms, boots pounding earth, my pulse roaring in my ears.
We tear through the open yard, boots hammering the gravel, breath coming in short savage bursts. The alarms wail louder, lights flooding the grounds like daylight. From the shadows, more of Moore’s men surge forward. Gunfire cracks through the night, hot metal whistling past.
Reyes drops with a scream, clutching his side. Mason grabs his collar, drags him behind a stone planter, returning fire with a roar. My vision tunnels red. Every second wasted is a second Summer is in there, with them.
We push harder, bullets shredding air. Bodies hit the dirt. Moore’s guards fall one by one, their rifles clattering against marble steps. The rest scatter inside like cockroaches.
“Door!” I shout.
Mason, Carter, and Grove converge, shouldering the thick mahogany double doors. They don’t budge. I slam my boot into it—wood splinters, but the frame holds. Again. Again. Nothing. It’s reinforced, iron hidden beneath the finish. The fuckers have thought of everything. This is a fortress.
“Windows!” Carter yells, already pivoting toward the tall panes lining the front.
We unleash hell. Gunfire hits the glass—but when the smoke clears, it’s still intact.
The bullets sink but don’t break through. My chest heaves with rage. Bulletproof. Every inch of this fucking place is indestructible.
“Vale had too many enemies to play stupid,” Mason snarls, spitting into the dirt. “This house is a goddamn bunker.”
We spread, circling fast. The perimeter is sprawling, but we don’t have time to slow down.
“Eyes up!” someone shouts.
I jerk my head back just in time to see the muzzle flash. A sniper on the roof. The shot tears through the night—and through Calder’s chest. He goes down without a sound, blood soaking the gravel.
“Fuck!” Carter fires upward, Grove already dropping to a knee, sighting in. One pull of the trigger, and the sniper folds, tumbling off the roof like dead weight.
But my heart isn’t slowing. If Moore had one on the roof, there’ll be more. This isn’t a skirmish—it’s a goddamn gauntlet.
We push around the rear of the mansion, shadows flickering against brick and hedges. My boots hit mud, my breath tearing out of me, lungs burning. And then I hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong.
A mechanical hum, low at first. Growing. A whirr.
My blood turns to ice.
“No,” I breathe, my legs moving before my mind can catch up. “No, no, no—”
I run. Faster than I ever have. My chest feels like it’s splitting open, heart clawing at my ribs, but I don’t stop. Because I know that sound.