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Jackson

Blood stains the steering wheel. Still wet. Still fucking warm. Skid marks slash the asphalt. Her phone lies shattered on the floorboard. And murderous rage, cold and unstoppable, builds in my chest.

She fought. The driver door hangs open, mud churned by multiple boot prints. Blood spatters are an angry red on the asphalt, and I hold onto the hope that it’s not hers–that she got in at least one good hit before they subdued her.

That’s my girl.

“Jackson.” Lucas’ voice carries a brutal hardness that usually makes men yield. “Step back from the truck.”

I realize I’ve crushed the door handle in my grip, metal groaning under my fingers. Lucas Caldwell’s Range Rover idles behind me, Wyatt already working the ground like the master tracker he is. The three of us have built empires through calculated violence, but this—this is personal.

“Three men.” Wyatt’s voice carries the certainty of a lifetime of tracking wild horses, and wilder men, across mountain ranges. “One limping. She must have done some damage.” Pride wars with rage in my chest. “Trail leads to a pickup.”

“Four hours max.” I force the words through clenched teeth. “The blood’s still tacky.”

“Which means you have time to do this right.” Lucas grips my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. His usual polish has been replaced by something darker—the calculated violence that built his cattle empire showing through. “You’re no good to her if you’re in jail for murder.”

“Bold of you to assume they’ll find the bodies.” But he’s right. Control. I need control.

A sleek BMW M5 pulls up, and Ryder Caldwell unfolds his massive frame from the driver’s seat. Lucas’ cousin moves like a predator despite his designer suit, and his smile holds nothing but violence.

“Was in the middle of something.” He adjusts his watch. “If she doesn’t fucking forgive me, I’m blaming you, assholes.”

Four of the most dangerous men in the state, brought together by one kidnapped woman. Any other time, the irony would make me smile.

“They’ll be at O’Malley’s.” Wyatt’s already moving toward his truck. “Thursday night’s poker night. Where her daddy lost everything.”

The rage in my chest goes arctic. They took her to the same place where her father’s weakness nearly destroyed everything. Where I first saw her, eighteen and fierce, trying to cover his debts with her college fund.

“Jackson.” Lucas’ voice holds a warning. “We do this smart.”

“Then we’ll start with their fingers and work our way up.” The words come out mechanical, detached. Like I’m discussing crop futures instead of dismemberment. “Until they tell us everything.”

Ryder’s smile would make a shark proud. “I do so love working with professionals.”

O’Malley’s hasn’t changed in a decade—rundown, reeking of stale beer and desperation.

Lucas adjusts his Italian suit. Wyatt checks his boot knife. Ryder’s smile promises violence.

I feel nothing but ice.

The door splinters from my kick. Conversations die as we enter—four horsemen of the apocalypse in custom riding boots. The bartender takes one look at my face and decides his stockroom needs urgent attention.

Joey Martinez sits at the back poker table, the same seat where he used to clean out Rick Foster. His eyes go wide as he recognizes me, but his feet tangle in his chair before he can run.

I’m on him before he hits the ground.

“Hey, boss.” Martinez’s alcohol-sour breath hits my face as I pin him to the wall. “Long time no see.”

Ryder casually shoves a table in front of the door while Lucas keeps the crowd back. Wyatt just leans against the bar, raw violence radiating from his stillness. The other patrons press against the walls like spooked cattle, no one quite willing to be the first to run.

“Your left hand was always your tell.” I study Martinez’s fingers like I’m choosing a tool. “The way you’d tap the cards when you were bluffing Rick Foster out of his daughter’s future.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about—” His words end in a shriek as the first finger breaks clean.

The sound cuts through the bar’s stale air. Someone retches in the corner.

“Let’s try again.” I press my forearm against his throat, voice desert-dry. “Where is she?” My voice remains conversational.

The snap of bone is precise—almost surgical. Not the uncontrolled violence of anger, but the methodical destruction of a man who’s done this many times before. Martinez’s scream tears through the bar, high and thin with shock.

“Still don’t know?” I move to the next finger, slowly applying pressure, letting him feel the bones beginning to separate before I complete the break with a sharp twist. The sound—halfway between a crack and a wet pop—causes more retching from the corner.

His fourth finger splinters differently—multiple fractures rather than the clean breaks of the first three. More painful. More difficult to heal. I watch his eyes roll back, noting the moment shock begins to set in.

“Most men start talking at this point.” I muse.

I pull the knife from my boot—the one with the serrated edge designed for skinning. “Fingers heal eventually,” I explain, the same tone I’d use when discussing the weather. “But hands? Those nerve endings are never quite the same.”

As I position the blade at his wrist, Martinez’s bladder lets go. The ammonia stench mingles with blood and fear. Someone whispers a prayer behind me.

“The abandoned Parker place,” he sobs, strings of mucus hanging from his nose. “Please, you can’t?—”

I slam his head against the wall with brutal force—enough to knock him unconscious without killing him. He’ll live. Whether he’ll ever use that hand again depends entirely on my mood when this is finished.

Lucas’ expression is carefully neutral as I turn back to the crowd. Only those who know him well would recognize the respect in his eyes. Respect for a monster who knows exactly how far to go.

“Anyone else feel like taking the hard way?” Ryder’s cultured voice carries over the silence. No one moves.

“Seven miles out.” Wyatt’s already moving toward the door. “Lots of old access roads. Good place for an ambush.”

“They’ll have backup.” Lucas pulls out his phone, already coordinating resources. “Might be smart to wait for?—”

“We’ve wasted enough time.” The words come out sand-dry as I check my rifle. No need to say more—they know exactly what Walsh and his crew have coming.

The old slaughterhouse looms against the sunset, rust-eaten metal glowing like dried blood. Three trucks parked out front—more muscle than expected. Good. More bodies to make an example out of.

Lucas signals from his position. Wyatt’s already circling toward the back entrance. Ryder ghosts between shadows with lethal grace.

A scream splits the air—fury, not fear. Shiloh. My heart stops. My control shatters.

I’m moving before Lucas can stop me, rage finally breaking through the ice. They dared to touch her. Dared to make her scream.

Through a broken window, I see her. Blood on her lip. Hands working at her restraints. Eyes burning with fury as a man approaches her with clear intent.

Our gazes lock across the distance.

She gives me the smallest nod. A signal. A promise.

Then she slams her head into her captor’s face, and all hell breaks loose.

A fist catches her captor’s jaw as he reels back. Blood sprays. But two more men are already moving toward her, and her hands aren’t fully free.

“Now.” Lucas’ voice cuts through my rage. “Wyatt, take the?—”

Gunfire drowns out his words.

I’m through the door before the first shell hits the ground, letting decades of calculated violence guide my movements. The nearest man goes down with a crushed larynx. The second catches my boot knife between his ribs.

More shots—Ryder, providing cover from the shadows. Two bodies hit the concrete with precise head wounds. The crack of bone tells me Wyatt’s made his own entrance.

“Jackson!” Shiloh’s warning comes just as something heavy slams into my back.

I roll with the impact, feeling ribs crack—mine or his, doesn’t matter. My elbow connects with soft tissue. A knife glints in the dying light.

Lucas appears like smoke, catching the blade with practiced ease. The wet snap of a broken arm echoes through the building.

I scan for Shiloh through the chaos. She’s gotten one hand free. Even bound, she fights like a wild thing—all ranch-honed muscle and desperate fury.

Three men converge on her position. My heart stops.

“Cover me.” The words come out more growl than speech.

“Jackson, wait—” Lucas reaches for my arm, but I’m already moving.

The first man dies before he hits the ground, neck snapped. The second takes longer—I want him to feel it. Want them all to understand exactly what happens to anyone who dares touch what’s mine.

A gun clicks behind my head.

“Hold.” The command cuts through the chaos, same voice I remember from her father’s poker games. Walsh emerges from the shadows, looking like what he is—scum.

He has a .45 pressed against Shiloh’s temple. Her split lip bleeds down her chin, but her spine stays straight.

“Figured you’d show.” Walsh’s boots scrape concrete as two more men melt from the darkness. Not hired muscle—men who know their business. “Been watching that little filly rebuild what her daddy destroyed. Time to collect.”

My hands itch for his throat, but I keep my voice steady. “You’re a dead man walking.”

“Maybe.” He shifts his grip on Shiloh’s hair, making her hiss. “But she’ll go first.”

Her eyes lock onto mine across the killing floor.

More boots on metal behind us. More guns emerging from shadow.

Shiloh drives her head back. The impact cracks his nose, but his grip on her hair holds. Blood streams down his chin as he jerks the gun up, pressing it harder against her temple. More men emerge from the shadows—too many angles, too many guns.

Shiloh’s fingers twitch at her side—one finger, then two. Letting me know she’s got this handled.

“Enough games.” Walsh spits blood. “Drop your weapons or she dies right here.”

Lucas shifts his weight, ready to move. Wyatt’s knife gleams. Ryder goes still as death.

Walsh’s finger tightens on the trigger. “Last call, Hawkins. The deed, or?—”

The bullet thuds into the concrete wall.