“I can build another one,” he said. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Avery looked out the window, her reflection ghosting against the glass. She wished it were that simple.
She didn’t know how she was going to stop the danger that had followed her here. The Brotherhood seemed untouchable, a force that kept rebuilding itself no matter how many times the law tried to shut it down. They had money, loyal followers, and a network that reached farther than anyone admitted.
And she couldn’t trust the Marshals, not now. Someone in that program had leaked her identity once. She wouldn’t risk giving them another chance. The idea of starting over again, of changing her name and disappearing into another fake life, made her stomach knot.
She turned toward Jackson, watching the hard line of his jaw as he drove. He was steady and silent, the only anchor she had left.
But deep down, Avery knew she couldn’t run forever.
After another thirty minutes of weaving through empty roads and rocky trails, Jackson finally slowed and turned down a narrow dirt lane that cut deep into a patch of dense cedar and oak. The road wound uphill, twisting through the trees until a small cabin came into view.
It sat back from the road, half-hidden in the brush. Weathered wood, tin roof, and a wide porch that looked out over the valley below. A pickup sat parked off to the side, covered in dust but ready to go. There was nothing fancy about the place, but Avery could tell it was built solid, meant to last.
Jackson parked in the garage and killed the engine. The silence that followed was almost too loud.
“This is one of your safe houses?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. “Yeah. I set it up a few years ago. I’ve always got backups.”
It made sense. He’d been military covert ops before joining Crossfire Ops, a man who planned for every worst-case scenario. Of course he’d have a place like this tucked away, ready for when things went to hell.
He got out first, scanning the area, then opened her door. “Come on.”
Inside, the cabin was cool and dim, the air carrying the faint scent of cedar and dust. The main room had a stone fireplace, a table, and a couch that looked barely used. A hallway led to a small kitchen and two bedrooms in the back. It wasn’t large, but it felt steady, safe in a way that eased some of the tightness in her chest.
Jackson checked the locks, then the windows, then pulled a small device from his pocket to sweep for signals. The look on his face told her everything was clear.
“It’s secure,” he said.
She nodded, but her hands were shaking. The adrenaline was wearing off, and everything she’d been holding in came rushing to the surface. Before she could stop herself, she whispered, “Jackson.”
He turned toward her, and that was all it took. Her control snapped.
She stepped forward, and he caught her, his arms wrapping around her. The feel of him, warm and solid, made the world stop spinning. For a moment she just stood there, her cheek against his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.
His hand brushed her back once before he pulled away, the space between them suddenly thick with something that had nothing to do with fear.
“Come on,” he said quietly, clearing his throat. “I need to check something.”
He led her into a small room off the kitchen. It looked like a compact operations hub, with maps pinned to the wall, a satellite phone on the table, and a laptop already set up beside a monitor.
Jackson sat down and opened the laptop. “I had security cameras at the ranch,” he said. “If I can get a feed, maybe I can see who fired those grenades. If it was Charlotte, Mick or Darian, we’ll have enough to get them arrested.”
Avery stood behind him, her pulse quickening again, part fear and part something she didn’t want to name. For the first time since she’d escaped the attack at her home near Houston, she let herself hope that maybe there was still a chance to fight back.
Jackson pulled the video feed onto the laptop screen, fast-forwarding through static until the image sharpened. Avery stood close behind him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as the familiar view of his ranch came into focus.
The footage showed the long gravel drive, the sun slanting low over the field. The Escalade appeared, gleaming black against the dust, and Avery’s stomach turned at the sight of it.
“There,” she said quietly.
Jackson slowed the footage. They watched Charlotte and Darian standing beside the vehicle, the smaller figure of Mick a few steps away. After a few minutes, they climbed back in. The SUV reversed, turned, and rolled down the drive until it vanished from view.
No other vehicles followed. No movement. Just the empty stretch of land and the stillness that came before everything blew apart.
Avery leaned forward. “There’s no one else,” she said. “No other cars, no people.”
