Burke stepped forward, a black duffel bag in one hand. “Yes, sir,” he said, voice. “Full documentation on the individual who hired this team and his connection to the occupants of this house.”
He pulled a hard drive from the bag, followed by a two-inch-thick printed file. “Hospital board contact information, Nebraska hit teams employed on previous assignments, settlement details from four harassment cases in the past eight years, and the contract for the men currently in your custody.” He delivered it all with the matter-of-fact confidence of someone who’d done his homework and knew exactly how it should sound.
“My brother’s already arranged copies to the state police, county attorney, and federal prosecutor,” he added. “Should be landing in their inboxes by breakfast.”
Calloway took the file and flipped through the first few pages, his expression gradually shifting from neutral to something closer to controlled anger. His jaw tightened, a muscle workingat the corner of his mouth. “I see,” he said finally, voice carrying more weight than its two words should have been able to.
He turned to the deputies who had arrived in the other squad cars—three men and one woman in county uniforms, weapons holstered but ready. “Secure the prisoners,” he said. “The one with the leg gets medical attention first. I want them processed and in holding cells before lunch.”
The deputies moved with a quick efficiency of people who’d done this before—one on each shooter, checking restraints, helping to feet, guiding toward the open doors of the squad cars.
Calloway watched them work with the attention of someone who knew exactly how it should look, and then turned back to me. “This Hughs,” he said, making it not quite a question. “He’s from Nebraska?”
I nodded, keeping it simple. “Omaha,” I said. “Forty-three, owns three medical supply companies, sits on the board of three hospitals, twice divorced. Employed the security team that first located Arnold at his grandfather’s farm. Hired the men who beat him. Arranged the contract for tonight’s operation.”
Calloway’s face did something complicated—not quite anger, not quite disgust, but adjacent to both. “I’ll be calling the Omaha PD personally,” he said. “This goes beyond jurisdiction issues.”
I nodded, accepting what he’d offered. “Appreciate that.”
The last shooter was loaded into the final squad car—the one with the dislocated shoulder, her face tight with pain, but her posture still carrying the dignity of someone who’d done this before and knew exactly how it should look.
The door closed with a solid thunk, and then the cars were moving—red taillights visible through the dust, growing smaller as they made their way down the gravel road toward the highway.
Calloway stayed behind, watching them go. “You have a hell of a community here,” he said finally, not turning to look at me. “Lucky thing.”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “Yes, sir.”
He turned then, offering his hand. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Probably before lunch.”
I shook once—brief, firm, the communication of men who didn’t need to perform respect for each other’s benefit—and then Calloway was gone, walking toward his own squad car with the unhurried pace of someone who knew exactly what came next.
The dust settled in the yard, the sound of engines fading as the cars made their way down the gravel road. The ranch went quiet—not the ordinary silence of early morning, but something with more texture to it. Like a place that had handled a crisis and was now figuring out what to do with the aftermath.
I stood in the yard and felt the weight of what had happened land somewhere in my chest—not quite a physical thing, but close to it. Four shooters. One night. One man in Omaha who’d decided Jasper belonged to him and was willing to kill to make it true.
The mountain was visible through the tree line—dark and solid against the lightening sky, exactly where it had been when the first shot had come through the front window. It hadn’t moved—wouldn’t move—would go on sitting exactly where it was regardless of what happened in its shadow.
I understood, with the shooter’s blood on my hands and the quiet of the ranch around me, that we had handled this exactly the way we should have. Not dramatic, just the simple fact of a problem that needed solving and people who had the tools for it.
I turned toward the barn, where Jasper still sat with Ethan in his arms and Jojo beside him, and started walking. After escorting Jasper, Jojo, and Ethan to the house, Burke and Iheaded to the equipment barn in silence, the crunch of gravel under our boots the only sound in the yard.
Morning was still an hour away, the sky just beginning to lighten along the eastern horizon, the air carrying the chill that came before dawn.
We’d done a quick assessment of the house after Calloway left—six broken windows, the front door shot to pieces, the living room floor covered in glass—and agreed without discussing it that temporary repairs couldn’t wait until sunrise.
The equipment barn smelled of diesel and cut wood and the mustiness that came from tools stored for winter. Burke found the light switch without fumbling—he’d been on the property long enough to know exactly where everything was—and the single bulb overhead cast long shadows across the packed dirt floor.
The plywood was stacked against the east wall—rough-cut sheets in various sizes, most salvaged from other projects around the ranch. Some were warped, the edges curved from exposure to summer heat and winter cold, but they’d serve the purpose. Better to get the house secure now with imperfect materials than to wait for morning and the trip to Miller’s for new lumber.
“These three,” I said, pulling the largest pieces forward. “And the door-sized one from the back.”
Burke nodded, already reaching for the far end of the first sheet. “This one’s not square,” he said, running his hand along the edge. “Be a bitch to fit.”
“Better than a draft,” I said, keeping it practical.
We carried the plywood back to the house in two trips—the bigger sheets awkward between us, the corners catching on the gravel, the weight of the wood pressing into my palms through my work gloves.
Burke took the lead without discussion, walking backward so he could see obstacles before I hit them.
