My grandfather reached for the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and handed me a folded piece of paper. I took it without opening it, keeping my expression neutral.
“Jasper’s a nurse,” my grandfather said. “Used to work with premature babies. Smart. Quiet. Runs more scared than he should, but anyone would after what he’s been through.” He paused, then added, “He’s got the Arnold look—you’ll know him when you see him.”
I stood up, pulling on my jacket, and checked my watch. Just past seven. I crossed to the nightstand and retrieved my sidearm from the holster I’d set down when I came in. I checked it byhabit—magazine seated, chamber clear, safety on—then tucked it into the waistband at my hip.
“Don’t wait up,” I said.
My grandfather nodded, the fear in his eyes giving way to something that looked almost like relief. “I won’t. And Decker—“
I turned back, hand on the doorknob.
“Thank you.”
I slipped out through the back of the house without a word to anyone else. The screen door’s squeak was loud in the quiet yard, but I doubted anyone in the living room had noticed—they’d have the television on, my father with his feet up and his beer balanced on his stomach, my mother working at something in the kitchen that didn’t require her full attention.
The gravel crunched under my boots as I headed for my truck, the night air cool against my face. Overhead, stars were appearing in the darkening sky, the same stars that had watched over this place for generations. I’d gotten halfway to the truck when I heard the front door open behind me.
“Leaving already?” My mother’s voice carried across the yard, pitched just loud enough to reach me, but not loud enough to carry to the neighbors.
I turned. She stood on the porch, arms crossed over her chest, backlit by the yellow light from the house. Eight years since I’d seen her, and I still couldn’t read the expression on her face.
“I’ve got business in town,” I said.
She nodded once, a short movement that might have been acknowledgment or acceptance or neither. “Will you be back?”
It was the same question I’d asked myself a dozen times on the drive from Montana, turning it over from different angles, trying to find an answer that made sense. I still didn’t have one.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
Another nod. She stepped back, one hand on the screen door. “Your grandfather’s been asking for you,” she said. “Every day for weeks now. Even after the doctor said—“ She stopped, the words trailing off. “Anyway. Drive safe.”
The screen door closed behind her with a soft thud. I got in the truck, started the engine, and backed down the drive with my headlights off, following the familiar path by memory.
When I hit the main road, I flicked the lights on and pointed the hood toward town, the folded piece of paper burning a hole in my pocket.
I had a name, an address, and not nearly enough information. It wasn’t a plan—it was barely even a direction—but it was all I had to work with. I’d operated on less, but never by choice.
I killed my headlights half a block out from my destination, rolled the truck to the curb, and covered the last stretch on foot. The night air carried the smell of cut grass and old exhaust, a combination of scents that belonged to small-town Nebraska in summer.
I moved along the edge of the street, staying in the shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach, counting houses as I passed.
The neighborhood was flat and quiet, a row of small clapboard houses with chain-link fences and patches of dead grass struggling up through hard-packed dirt. TV lights flickered behind thin curtains.
I heard them before I rounded the corner of the side yard: four men, maybe five, their voices low and ugly with an edge that came before violence. The wet sound of boots connecting with something that didn’t fight back. A grunt, cut off before it could fully form.
I stepped sideways, putting my back to the neighbor’s garage, and did a quick scan of the area. No other movement. Novehicles that didn’t belong. Just the sounds from around the corner and the distant hum of an air conditioner kicking on.
Two options. Call the sheriff, wait for backup that would arrive too late to matter. Or go in now, with no intel and no exit strategy.
I went with option two.
I didn’t announce myself. The first man went down before any of them registered I was there—a short, controlled strike to the back of the knee, then the base of the skull, and he folded.
The second man swung wide, telegraphing the move with his entire body, and I stepped inside the arc and drove him into the chain-link fence hard enough to rattle the whole length of it. His head snapped back, connecting with metal, and he went slack.
The third and fourth men backpedaled fast when they got a look at what they were dealing with. I didn’t follow. I just gave them one long, flat stare that finished the conversation without words.
They left, dragging their friends between them, boots kicking up dust as they retreated down the street. I let them go because my attention was already on the man on the ground.
