Page 63 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Malerick

Fuck. This is how it happens, isn’t it? Not in some glorious firefight, not with a sniper’s clean shot or a final stand backed against the wall with backup en route.

No. This is how it ends—beneath a rust-slick dock at a forgotten port, the scent of low tide and diesel thick in the air, salt clinging to my tongue like regret.

Regret for not making sure to follow protocol. I should’ve worn the armor. Should’ve checked the straps of this fucking vest. Run a test drill. Something. Anything. But I didn’t. I told myself I was protected enough. That muscle memory would cover the gaps. All that mattered was saving her.

Now the dock tilts beneath me—or maybe I do.

My equilibrium’s shot, thrown off by the warm, insistent pulse beneath my ribs, blood leaking faster than I want to admit.

It’s not some dramatic gusher from a horror movie.

Nope. My hand goes to my side, presses into the damp heat, and meets something too slick, too soft.

I can’t tell if it’s muscle or if I’ve gone deeper, if I’ve ruptured something vital. What organs are on the left side?

Obviously I can’t remember. Anatomy wasn’t my favorite subject. The pain doesn’t register clearly. It’s distant, like it’s happening to someone else. I can’t catch a full breath. My chest keeps hitching like a misfiring engine.

It’s going to be okay, I tell myself. I’ve been through worse.

That time when my fucking father broke my ribs and punctured my lung—I was twelve.

Thought I was going to die. He did too, I guess.

I remember the look in his eyes, right before he shoved the heel of his boot into my side again.

And I remember crawling through the blood and spit, making it to the bathroom sink, locking the door.

I survived that. This can’t be worse. Right?

A sound breaks my thoughts. Boots, stepping onto the dock. The rhythm is wrong—not rushed, not panicked. It’s more like an entrance. As if they’re enjoying the show. Me bleeding and probably two seconds from dying. I try to reach for my gun, but I can’t.

“Someone cover me,” I mumble hoping the earpiece has reception so that someone can hear me.

The first thing I see are the boots—black, polished, too clean for this place.

Too clean for the rot and rust and salt that coats everything else in reach.

Then the long coat follows, swinging with his stride.

Tailored, too fancy for a moment like this.

Who the hell wears bespoke outerwear to a murder scene?

Then I see his face.

Michael Timberbridge.

Desmond’s enforcer. His right hand. His fixer, his ghost, his executioner. And more than that—my fucking father.

I freeze. Not just from blood loss, not from fear, but from the way time collapses all at once.

For a second, I’m not bleeding out in a dockside ambush—I’m eight years old, back in our old house.

Knees pressed into the cold concrete, arms locked around a hunting rifle that’s too big for my frame.

He’s behind me, his voice sharp enough to flay skin from bone, telling me to stop shaking, to hold steady, to “man the fuck up.” My muscles ached for days after.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t break. Even after he knocked the gun from my hands and slammed my ribs into the floor, I still stood up. I still made him look me in the eye.

Now here he is. Older, sure. Grayer at the temples, with lines deeper around his mouth. But the eyes . . . they’re still cruel. They still watch me as if he’s disappointed I’m not dead yet.

He stops a few feet away, taking me in as if I’m a detail in a report. Then—he smiles. It’s cold, amused. The icy amusement digs into old scars.

“Didn’t expect you’d survive that hit,” he says, his voice the same as I remember—full of casual cruelty. No effort to hide it. As if killing me is just another chore, another box to tick.

It’d probably be a good idea to kill him before he goes after my brothers and their families.

“Guess I always underestimated how stubborn you were.” He says it with a light shrug, like my survival is an inconvenience, not a threat. Like he’s still in charge.

My fingers twitch toward the Glock at my hip, muscle memory kicking in, but the effort fizzles out almost immediately.

My arm feels like it’s submerged in concrete.

My joints won’t bend, my breath stutters in my chest, too shallow to be useful.

My legs are refusing orders. Everything is slightly off—like I’m trying to move through water while the world around me’s moving at normal speed.

He steps closer. One hand rests casually on his belt, as if this is a business meeting. The other holds a silenced pistol low at his thigh—relaxed grip, practiced fingers. He’s not even trying to hide it. He’s not deciding if he’ll shoot me, only where.

Somehow, I’m not surprised he’ll be the one killing me. He’s been trying since I was a child.

The wind kicks up from the water, biting and cold, cutting through the layers of my clothes and slamming into the open wound at my side.

It carries the scent of fish guts, rust, and gasoline.

Somewhere out on the bay, something groans—a ship creaking against its mooring.

A length of chain clinks softly in the distance.

The world goes on. But here on this dock, with the boards shifting beneath me and the blood soaking through my shirt, time narrows to a pinpoint.

My father watches me like he’s already added my name to the list. Like he’s already seen the life drain from my eyes. And that’s when I realize I’m not afraid of him.

I’m fucking furious.

Because, of course it’s him. Of course it was always going to come down to this.

The bastard who treated me like a punching bag.

Of course he’d show up now, in the final act, thinking he could clean up the mess with one more body and disappear into the sunset like a fucking hero in his twisted story.

And now that I’ve seen him, now that he’s here—I want nothing more than to find the strength to stand.

To plant my feet and raise my gun and wipe that smug smile off his face with a bullet.

But I can’t. I can’t fucking do it to save my life—literally. So I let the anger burn. Let it sit in my chest like gunpowder waiting for a match.

“You should’ve stayed away, Malerick.” His voice slices into the stillness, it allowing me to hear the anger behind it. He’s pissed. “But no—you had to play sheriff. Had to pretend like you were something more than gutter trash. The fucking hero of Birchwood Springs.”

His eyes scanning the perimeter. Probably looking at the man who dragged Delilah away.

“You think the town’s yours? You think she’s yours?”

I don’t respond. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction if I could. My jaw is locked. My muscles trembling. My vision is fading at the edges.

Then he spits. Right on me. The wet slap of it lands on my cheek.

“You’re nothing, bastard,” he snarls. “You were never anything but a failure. Just like your mother. Just like your brothers. Always dragging the Timberbridge name through the filth.”

Something inside me rips. Not pain. Not shame. Something deeper. A wire snapping under tension, years in the making.

“You want the truth?” He steps closer. Raises the gun.

Points it at my face like he’s offering a handshake.

“I never cared for you. Not once. You ruined everything the second you were born. My father—he thought marrying into the Smith family would solve his problems. Thought it’d bring in money.

A proper alliance. They paid him. Not me. ”

His mouth twists into something bitter. That’s what he wanted, my mother’s money?

I recall the paperwork I found at my mother’s.

Before my father died, there was an old will that stated all her assets would be put into a trust and distributed to her sons.

My father would never touch a dime. Hence, he tortured us but never killed us.

“But I taught that bitch what it meant to be married to a Timberbridge,” he whispers. And then he laughs. A low, mirthless sound that echoes across the abandoned dock. “I’m still going to get my hands on everything she owned. I fucking earned it.”

The breath leaves me.

“You’re still afraid, aren’t you?” he sneers.

“Still shaking like a little boy who wants to be loved by his father.” He steps closer, slowly, drinking in the sight of me as if he’s already carving the memory into a victory speech.

“Same as when you were a kid—pathetic and wide-eyed, flinching before the first hit even landed . . .”

I tune him out, grit my teeth, and force my fingers to move.

Just a little more. Just one more inch toward the Glock at my side.

My vision’s swimming. Breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

But the rage is louder than the pain. I just need one good shot.

One clean aim to wipe that smirk off his goddamn face and make sure he never lays a hand on anyone I love again.

But then, a thunderous boom cracks through the air.

I flinch for a moment because it’s obviously not mine, so he probably did it and .

. . it happens fast. A flash, and then Michael Timberbridge’s head jerks back mid-speech—cut off before the word “failure” can leave his lips.

A red bloom opens on his forehead like an angry flower, and he drops, his spine buckling first, knees collapsing.

He hits the dock hard, eyes still open, staring at me like he can’t believe he lost.

I blink. Once. Twice. Trying to process the silence after the violence. The world snaps back around me, fast and chaotic.

Boots slam against the wood. Then hands—strong and warm—grip my shoulders. Cassian’s face crashes into sharp focus, eyes wide with terror, jaw clenched with barely-contained panic.

“Are you okay, babe?” His voice breaks as he crouches beside me, already running his hands over my body to locate where I’m hurt. “I came as fast as I could.” He glances at Michael and shrugs. “Sorry for killing your father?”

“I wish I could’ve done it, but it was . . . hard.” I try to find some levity in the moment but it’s difficult to do so.

“Fuck, Mal—there’s so much blood.”

I try to speak but my throat feels like it’s full of gravel. I manage to rasp, “Where’s Lilah?”

Cassian’s already nodding, already answering. “They’re taking her to the hospital—just like they’re about to take you.” His head whips around. “Medic,” he bellows into the night.

Flashing lights bleed into the corner of my vision. A siren grows louder as it swings into the port. EMTs rush in—boots pounding, stretcher wheels rattling over warped boards. Hands lift me. My gun is taken. My blood leaves a trail behind. I watch the sky spin as they ease me onto the gurney.

Cass leans in close before they wheel me away, his hand wrapped tightly around mine, eyes locked to mine like he’s memorizing me. “You did good,” he whispers. Then softer, “You’re going to be fine. You. Are. Going. To. Be. Fine.”

He kisses me. Rough, fast, desperate. His lips taste like sweat, salt, and something sweeter beneath: the promise that we’re still standing. That us isn’t over, but just beginning..

As the medics pull me toward the waiting ambulance, I twist to look back at him. “Are you coming?” My voice is barely there.

Cassian stands over the body, pistol lowered, the smoke still curling from the muzzle. His face is calm, but his eyes are storms. He glances at me, mouth tilting in that wry half-smile that always meant “trust me.”

“I’m waiting for the cleaning crew,” he says, stepping over the corpse. “But I’ll be there before you know it—with Lilah.”

Then he turns, already surveying the shadows, already moving like the mission’s not over.

And even though pain’s clawing at my ribs and the blood loss is dragging me under, I believe him.

He’ll come. This time he will.