Two days.
We rob Old Man Larson in two fucking days. This time tomorrow, we’ll be looking at our last sleep before the deed.
As if any of us will actually sleep. We’ll be moving in the early hours before daybreak.
Brett sits beside me on the split rail fence, one boot balanced on a lower rung, the other planted in dirt dry enough to crack.
He lights his cigarette without looking at me. Just flicks the Bic, the flame catching with a practiced snap, like he’s done it a thousand times. Because he has. We both have.
“I don’t like it,” I say.
Brett exhales, lets the silence stretch before he finally bites. “You don’t like a lot of things.”
“Ireallydon’t like this.”
“Which part?” he asks, turning his head. “The plan? Therisk? Or the fact that Jake’s the one itching to pull the trigger?”
I give him a look. “All of it.”
The sun’s bleeding out behind the western ridge, painting the hills in that rust-gold hue this place is famous for. Normally, it would be peaceful. A comfort. Tonight, it just feels…off.
Fuck. What’s it going to feel like tomorrow night?
“Jake’s not supposed to be all in,” I mutter. “He’s supposed to be the anchor. The guy with the conscience. The fucking brakes.”
“He still is,” Brett says, but there's something in his clipped tone that makes me pause.
I take another drag, let the burn settle in my chest before I speak. “He looked me dead in the eye this morning and said,‘I want this.’And he meant it. No hesitation. No caveats. No speech about lines and consequences.”
“So?” Brett says. “Maybe he’s tired of being the good guy. Maybe he finally realized justice doesn’t always wear a badge and carry a rulebook.”
I look over at him, searching for something beneath the mask he always wears so damned well. That’s Brett. He’s the master of pushing everything else aside and concentrating on a single task. For the life of me, I don’t know how he does it. He’s downright mechanical at times.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I finally ask.
“Should it?”
“Yes.” I toss my cigarette butt on the ground. “It should bothersomeonethat the guy who used to lecture us about moral gray areas is now the one raring to go.”
Brett shrugs. “People change.”
“Or they break.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Just smokes in silence, his profile carved sharp against the sunset.
I know Brett better than anyone. I know when he’s compartmentalizing. I know when he’s lying to others and to himself. Right now, he’s doing both.
“You’re not worried about Jake?” I press.
“I’m worried aboutyou,” Brett says. “You overthink shit when it gets close.”
I frown. “Thisisclose.”
“I know.” He flicks ash to the ground. “So stop trying to fix what isn’t broken. Jake wants this. Let him want it.”
There’s something final in his voice. Like he’s already decided the outcome, boxed up the emotion, and filed it somewhere far away where it won’t interfere with what’s coming.
I look down at my boots coated in dust, at the earth we’ve all stood on since we were kids. Jake’s justice used to be our compass. Now it’s our fuel.
