This isn’t posturing. This isn’t a threat wrapped in civility. This is Turner moving into the light, using his money and connections to legitimize himself at the state level. If he wins—and with his resources, why wouldn’t he?—he’ll have institutional power. He’ll have protection. He’ll be untouchable.
I push the tablet back toward Mason. “This is a problem.”
“Yeah.” Mason crosses his arms and smiles. “Good thing I know what to do about it.”
Raising my eyebrows, I tip back in my chair. “Now you sound like me. Should I be worried?”
Mason chuckled softly.
I guess that answers my question.
31
LUKE
After helping Mason with the horses, we go back to the kitchen. He’s making breakfast. I’m stealing bacon from the plate he’s mounding it on, thinking about Harper’s tits, when our cell phones all ping at once. Mason picks up to take a look, so I just keep chewing and imagining.
“Perimeter alert.” Mason swipes across his screen. “Sensor one, the main gate.”
Jake strides into the kitchen without any visible hurry. “Hendricks is here. I’ll go meet him.”
For the record, that’s exactly how Jake looks when he’s about to kill somebody too. Considering we’re asking Hendricks for assistance, I figure maybe I should intercede here. I’m the charming one, after all. I push off the counter. “I’ll go.”
Jake studies me and then nods. “Try not to start a war before breakfast.”
“No promises.” Smirking, I head for the front door.
The truck rolling up the drive looks like it survived at least three wars and possibly started a fourth. Dust coats the sides. The engine rumbles like it’s personally offended by modern emissions standards.
It pulls to a stop behind my truck and Hendricks climbs out.
He looks like every aging ranch hand in Montana at first glance. Early forties. Dark flannel rolled to his elbows. Faded jeans. Scuffed boots.
Then he turns his head and the illusion dies fast. Men who’ve spent years hunting other men carry themselves differently, like the world is a room they’ve already cleared.
Hendricks is no different. He moves like a predator—controlled, precise, no wasted motion. His cold gray eyes catalog every threat in sight before he even shuts the door.
The first time I met him, he dragged me out of a bad situation in northern Syria.
The second time, he shot me.
Well, technically, it was friendly fire. I think.
“Jesus.” I check him out. There’s something different about him beyond his dark hair that’s grown longer than military regulation. “They let you across state lines looking like that?”
“They let you talk?” he retorts instantly, scoping out the ranch.
“Against their better judgment.” I should have thought to put Mason and his rifle on the roof to fuck with him.
“Where’s Callahan?” He turns and takes in the stables, the corral, and Mason’s horses grazing in the pastures. “I can’t believe he’s letting you make decisions.”
“Only the bad ones.”
“Explains a lot.” He finally faces me and holds out his fist.
I chuckle as I bump his.
We’ve crossed paths over the years—operations neither of us were supposed to talk about, places neither of us officially existed. He works government contracts when it suits him, private work when it doesn’t, and mostly prefers operating alone.