Avery’s voice came from behind him, barely more than a whisper. “Who is it?”
He didn’t look back. “Charlotte Barker and Darian Locke.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Oh God.”
He finally turned. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide with fear. It hit him like a punch, but he pushed the reaction down. This wasn’t the time.
“Listen to me,” he said, steady and low. “There’s a duffel by the couch. Take one of the guns and keep it with you. If they get in, you shoot. No hesitation.”
She shook her head. “Jackson—”
“Do it,” he cut in.
After a moment, she nodded and moved toward the bag. He watched long enough to see her unzip it and pull out a handgun. Her hands trembled slightly, but she checked the safety just like he’d taught her years ago. That gave him a small measure of comfort.
Jackson turned back to the door and threw the deadbolt. The solid click echoed through the quiet house. The front door was reinforced steel, the frame lined with metal. Every window on the lower floor was bullet-resistant. He’d made sure of it after settling here. The ranch might look peaceful from the outside, but he’d built it like a fortress.
If Locke and Charlotte started shooting, the house would hold.
For a while.
He took one last look at Avery. “Stay down and don’t open that door for anyone but me.”
Then he moved to the back, unlocked the door, and stepped outside. He pulled the door closed and locked it behind him.
The air was dry and still. Even the horses were quiet.
Jackson moved slowly along the side of the house, keeping his body close to the wall. He scanned the tree line and the open pasture, watching for movement. If this was an ambush, he wasn’t going to get caught standing in the open.
The air had gone still, the kind of quiet that came right before trouble.
He reached the corner and eased forward just enough to look around it.
Darian Locke stood beside the Escalade, one hand resting casually on the roof like he owned the place. He was about thirty, broad-shouldered and built like he lived in the gym. His hair was dark and close cut, his beard trimmed neat, and his eyes carried the same sharp arrogance that Jackson remembered from the files Crossfire Ops had pulled years ago. A soldier once, dishonorably discharged for excessive force. The kind of man who thought rules were for other people.
Charlotte Barker stood next to him, composed and lethal in a tailored blazer, jeans, and boots. She was in her early fifties, fit and strong, her body toned from a lifetime of control. Her blond hair was twisted into a sleek knot, her lipstick a perfect blood red. She looked like the kind of woman who could smile while pulling a trigger.
Jackson’s gut tightened.
The back door of the Escalade opened, and another figure stepped out. Young, tall, and cocky, with a swagger that made Jackson’s stomach turn. Mick Barker.
Charlotte and Haver’s son.
Barely legal at twenty-two and already playing the same dirty game as his parents. His jeans were dusty, his black T-shirt stretched across a chest that had seen more fights than most kids his age ever would.
No doubt like father, like son.
Jackson pulled back into cover, jaw tight, heart pounding slow and steady. Three of them. All armed. All dangerous. If they’d come here, they knew Avery was inside.
He steadied his grip on the Glock and exhaled once, quietly. Time to find out what they wanted.
The three of them started toward the house, slow and steady, like they had all the time in the world.
Jackson stepped out from behind the corner. “That’s far enough.”
His voice carried across the yard, hard and clear. He raised the Glock, sights leveled on Darian’s chest.
Darian froze midstep, his hand slipping under his coat. Jackson’s finger tightened on the trigger, ready to drop him where he stood.