My blood goes cold. They're shooting at my woman.
Harper shoves Emma and the ranch hand through the door of the foreman's house and disappears inside. Through the window, I see her positioning them away from the glass, low and protected.
I'm already pulling out my phone, dialing Jake as I scan the ridge to the north. The shots are coming from elevation—800 yards, maybe more. The angle, the velocity, the precision—this isn't some stupid asshole with a hunting rifle. This is a coordinated hit.
Jake answers on the first ring. "What?—"
"Circle H is under fire," I say, my voice clipped and tactical. "Sniper. Multiple shooters. They're taking out livestock. Harper moved Emma to the foreman's house. They're secured for now, but they’re still shooting."
"We're ten minutes out," Jake says, and I hear the engine roar in the background. "Mason's with me. You armed?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Keep them secure. We're coming."
Another shot cracks through the air, and this time the bullet hits the barn wall—splintering wood six feet from where Harper was standing before she moved Emma. The next shot hits the front window of the foreman’s house, right where Harper’s standing. The glass shatters, exploding inward.
I’m moving toward Harper when I hear her call out, “I’m okay!”
I duck behind a trough, forcing myself to breathe. That's it. I'm done. Shoot at me, we’ll have words. Shoot at my woman, no one will ever find your body. "They just escalated," I say into the phone, my voice cold. "I'm going after them."
"Luke—"
"Warden, they shot at Harper. I'm not waiting." I hang up before he can argue.
I move to my truck, pop the lockbox in the bed, and pull out my rifle—a Remington 700 with a scope I've had since my Delta days. I grab extra mags, a tactical vest, and my comms earpiece. I'm not as good as Mason—he can shoot a gnat from two miles away—but I'm decent enough.
The comm buzzes to life.
"Riot, we're five minutes out," Mason says. "Warden says you're going after them."
"Damn right I am, Ace." I'm already moving toward the tree line, my eyes on the ridge. "They're positioned north, maybe 800 yards out. At least two shooters, possibly three. Professional setup. This isn't intimidation—this is a hit."
"You need backup?" Mason asks.
"Negative. Secure the house when you arrive. Harper’s got Emma and the ranch hand in the foreman's house. I'm going hunting."
I cut the line and disappear into the trees.
The ridge rises steep and fast, pine and scrub oak thick enough to provide cover. I move low and quiet, my rifle slung across my back, my breathing controlled.
Another shot echoes above me—closer now. I can hear the report, feel the concussion in the air.
They're still firing.
Good. That means they're focused on the ranch, not on me.
I climb fast, using the terrain to mask my approach. My boots find purchase on rock and root, my hands gripping branches to pull myself higher.
Eight hundred yards becomes 600, then 400.
I can see them now—two shooters positioned on a rocky outcrop, prone behind their rifles. They're wearing tactical gear, comms in their ears, scopes trained on the ranch below.
Professional. Coordinated.
Paid.
Turner's men or from the Reyes family?