The cameras on the corners of the warehouse track me. I don't try to hide from them. Hartley wants to see me coming.
I walk into the loading dock area through the front roll-up door.
The dock floor is concrete. Old wool bales in the corners. The fire damage on the roof lets a column of afternoon sun down across the middle of the floor.
Hartley is standing in the column of light.
Tactical gear under a civilian jacket. His left arm hangs at his shoulder from a shot he must've took at the bunkhouse. His sidearm is at his hip but his hands are open at his sides.
The two operators are at the corners—one north, one south. Pistols holstered but ready.
Nash is in a folding chair against the back wall of the dock.
Alive. Dirty. Scared. Watching the door.
He sees me. His face breaks. "Rogue."
I keep my eyes on Hartley. My voice goes for Nash. "Hey, partner. You okay?"
Nash's voice comes back small from the back of the dock. "Yeah."
I don't turn my head. "Hartley hurt you?"
"No."
"Okay, buddy. You sit tight a minute."
Hartley smiles. The professional smile. Small. Almost warm. "You came alone, Rogue. I appreciate that."
My hand stays clear of my sidearm. "I came alone."
His eyes go to the cut on my shoulders. "You came in your colors. I figured you'd come in as Silas."
I let the cut speak for itself. "Silas died in a buildin' just like this one ten years ago. Rogue's the one you're talkin' to."
Hartley's smile pulls a little wider. "That's a good line. Welcome back to the work, Rogue."
I take one step further into the column of sunlight. "This isn't a welcome back. This is a closing of business."
His hand opens at his side. Palm out. The way a man gestures when he wants the other man to hear him out. "Hear me out."
I let him talk.
Hartley lays out the pitch. He's gone independent. Spun off from the firm. Building his own contract operation. Wants me to come run operations with him. "The firm's a paycheck. What I'm building is an empire. Ten times what insurance fraud audits and ranch work pay you, Rogue. You keep the ranch. You keep the woman. You keep the boy. The work doesn't have to take all of you. Just the parts that are still good at it."
He talks for two minutes.
I'm reading the room while he talks. The north operator's stance, the south operator's stance, the distance from me to Hartley. The line of fire from Hartley to Nash. The stacked pallets at the back of the dock where Bullseye and Longhorn are positioned. The southwest door. The roll-up door behind me.
When he's done, I let the silence sit a moment.
Then I look at him.
"You shot Marlena Lyle in the chest, Hartley. You shot Thunder and Banshee. You hit my woman in the head with a pistol. You took my boy, and shot his dog."
Hartley's smile holds but the warmth is leaking out of it. "Marlena's in surgery, isn't she? Thunder too. They're going to live. I made sure of that. I shoot to wound when it suits me. The boy is right there, untouched. I'm a professional, Rogue. I don't kill what I don't need to."
I take half a step toward him. "That isn't the work, Hartley. That's the disease. The men who go independent like you've gone don't stay good. They start killin' because they like it. You're already there. You just don't know it yet."
