I drop to one knee behind a boulder, unsling my rifle, and settle the stock against my shoulder. The scope brings them into sharp focus—one man adjusting his aim, the other scanning the property through binoculars.
They don't see me. Idiots.
I could take them both right now. Two shots, two bodies, problem solved. But I need them alive. I need them to talk.
So I’ll play with them instead.
Smiling, I shift my aim slightly and fire.
The shot cracks through the air, and the rock six inches from the first shooter's head explodes in a spray of granite.
Both men jerk upright, scrambling for cover.
"Contact!" one of them shouts into his comms. "We have contact on the ridge!"
I fire again, this time closer—close enough that they know I'm not missing by accident.
They're pinned.
I laugh—loudly, so they can hear me.
One of them tries to return fire, but his angle is wrong. He's shooting blind, his rounds hitting trees twenty yards to my left.
I move, fast and low, circling around the outcrop, using the terrain to close the distance.
They open fire, a random spray that has no rhyme or reason.
“Amateurs.” I shake my head and move again.
I come up behind them, my rifle trained on the back of the first man's head. "Drop it," I say, my voice cold and flat.
The man freezes, still on his knees.
I sigh. "I said drop it."
His rifle hits the ground.
The second man tries to spin, his hand going for a sidearm.
I put a round through his shoulder before he clears leather. He goes down screaming, clutching his arm, blood pouring between his fingers.
The first man raises his hands, his face pale. "Don't shoot."
I divest the asswipe who thought he could get a jump on me of his weapon and then take a step back, keeping them both in my sights. "Who sent you?"
The one I shot just rocks back and forth, moaning. The other one looks like he’s going to puke. "I don't know,” he manages to stutter.
I press the barrel of my rifle against his temple. "Wrong answer."
"Turner!" He gasps, life draining from his face. "Cole Turner! He paid us to hit the ranch, to scare the owner. To make her sell!"
"How many of you?"
"Three. The third guy's on the south ridge."
I glance toward the south, my jaw tight. Three shooters. Coordinated positions. This wasn't a warning—this was a siege.
Below, I hear the sound of engines—Jake and Mason arriving.