Page 127 of Ruthless Enforcer

“To unwrap his Christmas present,” I hear Mandy answer.

Harper laughs against my back and spanks me again.

Behind us, Blackthorn erupts into chaos again. Women. Kids. Men who somehow made it home. More babies on the way.

Once upon a time, Warden, Ace, and Riot were damn good at surviving.

Turns out, living is a hell of a lot more fun.

81

JOHN HENRY

SOME UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

The Christmas card is an ambush.

Three men. Three women. A few kids who appear to have been thrown into the photograph at the last possible second.

One kid is wearing a cowboy hat backward. Another is trying to escape. A baby is crying. Luke Bennett is laughing so hard he’s bent sideways while the woman beside him—his wife, if the rumors are correct—looks two seconds away from elbowing him in the throat.

Behind them, someone has photoshopped a ranch house until it looks like Christmas exploded all over it. Lights. Wreaths. Candy canes. An inflatable Santa on the roof.

Across the top, in enormous red letters:

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM

BLACKTHORN RANCH

And underneath:

WE MADE IT.

I stare at those three words longer than I mean to.

Bennett and I met in a place where making it meant leaving with the same number of limbs you arrived with. Neither of us talked much about what came after.

For Bennett, this came after. Women. Children. Christmas lights bright enough to guide aircraft. Men who once knew exactly how they were going to die standing together like they’d finally figured out how to live.

On the back, Bennett wrote in his chicken scratch:

Your turn, Calder.

“Not a chance,” I mutter. I turn the card face down and go back to cleaning the rifle spread across the table.

A knock sounds. A man from communications stands in the doorway, holding a folded slip of paper.

“Wire for you, Calder.”

What? Suddenly I’m Mr. Popular today? “From who?”

“Your mother.”

My hands go still. Mom has never sent me a wire. Not even when my father disappeared.

I take the paper from him and unfold it.

Three words.

COME HOME. NOW.

I read them twice.

Then I reach for my rifle and snap it back together in seconds, locking every piece into place by rote. Whatever happened back in Redemption, Texas, it can’t be good if Mom’s calling me home.

God help whoever fucked with Mercy Calder.