Page 66 of Last Hand

“And they’ll kill you if you go charging in there without backup,” I counter. “You are no good to Fallon or Rebecca dead, I’ll see you soon.”

Milo’s already on it, his fingers moving across his screen when Rocco shoves his blanket back. “What are you doing?”

“Coming with you,” I go to shake my head when he speaks again. “You really wanna waste time arguing with me?” I grit my teeth and head for the door, knowing I don’t have time to argue with him; I need to get to my wife.

An hour later, we’re cutting through the woods behind Nathan’s mother’s property. The forest is dark, but Nathan moves quickly. He leads us forward without hesitation, ducking branches, navigating uneven ground like he’s walked this path a thousand times. I stay right behind him, my gun drawn, senses stretched tight.

Milo is on my left, a shadow among shadows. The only sound he makes is the occasional snap of a twig underfoot, and even that feels deliberate—a signal to me that he’s still there. Santos’s men fan out behind us in formation, silent and ready.

“How much further?” I whisper to Nathan.

“Quarter mile,” he whispers back. “There’s a creek ahead. Once we cross it, we’ll be able to see the clearing at the back of the house where the barn is.”

I’m surprised by him. The nervous, fidgeting man who paces my casino floor has vanished, replaced by someone who knows exactly how to move through these woods. It’s a reminder not to underestimate anyone, especially a father fighting for his family.

The smell hits us first—smoke, heavy and acrid. Nathan freezes for half a second, then increases his pace. I have to grab his sleeve to slow him down.

“Careful,” I hiss. “We don’t know their numbers or positions.”

We hear them before we see them—Mikhail’s men, combing the woods with flashlights and barking orders into radios. Russian phrases cut through the night air, urgent and angry. I signal for everyone to get low, and we drop to a crouch, using the underbrush for cover.

Through the trees, I catch glimpses of movement—dark figures with guns, sweeping the perimeter. Three, maybe four on this side. No way to know how many more there might be and who’s already out here with us searching.

My fingers tighten around my gun. I’m thinking of Fallon. Is she here? Did they get to her already?

The irony isn’t lost on me. For years after Lydia, I swore I’d never let another woman close enough to become a liability. Yet here I am, stomach in knots at the thought of Fallon in danger. My hands are steady, yet my chest is tight, an uncomfortable heat I recognize as fear, not for myself, but for her.

The cabin appears through the trees like a vision from hell, glowing red and orange from the flames already licking at the rafters. It’s burning. Fast. Too fast to be accidental. The fire roars, consuming the small structure with hungry intensity. Heat rolls toward us in waves, carrying the acrid smell of accelerant. Gasoline, probably. They wanted to make sure nothing survived.

My jaw tightens when I spot Mikhail near the barn, shouting into his radio. Even from this distance, I see the frustration in his movements, the rage in his stance. There are three men with him, all armed and jumpy, scanning the tree line and somehow missing us in the shadows. One of them drags something across the yard—a body—and dumps it on the ground in front of Mikhail.

The figure stirs, trying to rise. Blonde hair catches the firelight.

Fallon.

Her clothes are torn and dirty, her face smudged with soot and what looks like blood. She’s moving. Alive. Something in my chest loosens, just a fraction.

Nathan surges forward beside me, a strangled sound escaping his throat. I slam him to the ground, pinning him with my forearm across his chest. His eyes are wild, frantic.

“They’ll shoot you long before you reach her,” I hiss, my face inches from his. “Stay the fuck down.”

He struggles against me for another second, then goes limp, breathing hard. He nods. I ease up, keeping one hand on his shoulder.

“We do this smart or we don’t do it at all,” I whisper.

Through the trees, Fallon stirs, lifting her head just as Mikhail backhands her with enough force to snap her head to the side. The sound of it carries across the clearing, and my fingers dig into Nathan’s shoulder, whether to restrain him or myself, I’m not sure.

Fallon spits blood onto the ground, then starts crawling, not away from Mikhail, toward another shape lying motionless in the dirt nearby. I narrow my eyes, trying to make out who it is. A woman, blonde like Fallon only older, wearing what looks like a nightgown stained dark with blood.

Rebecca. Fallon’s mother.

“Rebecca,” Nathan whispers beside me, the word barely audible.

I can’t tell if she’s breathing. From the way Fallon’s movements become more desperate, more frantic as she claws her way toward the still form, I’m guessing not. Mikhail watches for a moment, something like amusement twisting his features. Then he grabs Fallon by the hair, yanking her up so violently her feet leave the ground for a second.

He’s yelling at her in Russian, dragging her toward the barn, away from Rebecca’s body. Fallon fights him, kicking, clawing at his hand in her hair. His men fan out, two covering the tree line while the third opens the barn door.

I motion to Milo. He slides his bag off his shoulder, unzips it with careful precision, and pulls out the rifle. It’s a beautiful piece, matte black, with a scope that costs more than most people’s cars. He assembles it quickly, each movement practiced until it’s almost musical.

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