"They're here," I whisper to Charlie, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The front door opens and Trenton bursts in, his eyes finding mine instantly across the room. Behind him, Matthew moves with purpose, his weapon drawn but held low. Several other club members follow, men I recognize from gatherings at the clubhouse.
"Status?" Trenton asks my father, though his eyes never leave me.
"Movement near the creek," my father answers. "He knows the terrain."
Matthew moves to the window, peering out. "He'll use the ridgeline. That's the approach he'd take if he's watching."
As if to confirm his words, my phone buzzes with a text from Greyson. Perimeter sweep shows tracks near east ridge. Moving to intercept.
I show Trenton the message. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"We need to move," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now."
Before I can respond, a sound from outside makes everyone freeze. A branch snapping, then another. Footsteps. Moving fast.
"He's running," Matthew says, already heading for the door. "He knows we're here."
Trenton grabs my arm, his grip firm but gentle. "Stay with your parents. Carter, Kane, secure the cabin."
"Trenton," I start, fear clutching at my chest.
"We've got him," he promises, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. "This ends tonight."
With that, he's gone, following Matthew into the darkness. I watch through the window as they disappear into the tree line, their forms swallowed by shadows within seconds.
"Come away from there," my mother says, pulling me from the window. "You don't need to see this."
But I can't move. My feet feel rooted to the floor as I strain to see what's happening beyond the cabin's walls. Charlie clings to my neck, her small arms tight around me.
Matthew
The ridge is dark and the ground is soft under my boots. Pine needles and wet earth, the kind that swallows sound if you know how to place your feet. I've known how since I was fourteen and my father took me on my first hunt. Different prey back then, same principle.
Trenton moves to my right, three meters out, his shape barely visible against the trees. We've done this before in worse places, with worse stakes, but the feeling in my chest is new. This isn't a mission. This isn't a contract. This is my family's safety and a man who put a severed deer head on my porch.
I scan the slope ahead. The quarry sits below us, a dark scar in the mountain's face, its walls catching what little moonlight filters through the clouds. If Harris came this way, he'd have to cross that open stretch between the tree line and the quarry's edge. There's no cover there. If he's smart, he'll be below us already, using the quarry's walls to mask his movement.
The three men we pulled out of our kitchen said he was jumpy. Said he drank three beers fast and kept looking over his shoulder. That's not the behavior of someone operating from a position of confidence, that's the behavior of someone running out of options and running out of time.
Good.
I signal Trenton with two fingers to my left ear. He nods and adjusts his route, angling to cut the quarry's north approach while I take the south. We split without a word. We've never needed words for this.
The ground drops away steeply as I move down the ridge. My boots find purchase on roots and rock ledges that I can't see but my body remembers from the satellite imagery I studied in the truck. The quarry is deeper than it looked from above the walls, sheer in places, crumbling in others, the floor a maze of abandoned equipment and standing water.
I pause at the tree line and listen.
Wind in the pines. The distant call of an owl. Water dripping somewhere to my left, rhythmic and steady. No footsteps. No breath that doesn't belong to the mountain.
I pull my phone and text Trenton: South approach clear to quarry edge. Moving to lower level.
His reply comes back: Copy. North approach same. Coming around east wall.
I pocket the phone and move.
The quarry floor is colder than the ridge. The stone walls trap the night air and hold it close, and my breath comes out in pale clouds that dissipate almost immediately. I keep my weapon low and ready, sweeping each section of ground before I commit to it. An overturned dump truck sits to my left, its bed rusted through and weeds growing through the floor. Beyond it, a stack of timber that's been rotting for years. The smell is mineral and wet and faintly chemical.
