Page 67 of Last Hand

“East side,” I whisper. “There’s better cover in those pines. Wait for my signal.”

He nods, his face unreadable in the darkness. Still, I know what he’s thinking. We’ve been here before, in different woods, different circumstances, the same stakes. Life and death hang in the balance of split-second decisions and steady hands.

Milo disappears into the underbrush, circling wide to the east, his footsteps now completely silent. He’ll find his position, set up, and wait. Patience has always been his strength. Mine too, usually. Not tonight. Not with Fallon in Mikhail’s hands and us finally close enough to get her back.

I can’t take my eyes off her as Mikhail drags her toward the barn. She’s still fighting, still struggling against him.

She twists suddenly, almost breaking free of his grip. Mikhail stumbles, cursing loudly enough for the sound to carry to us. He recovers quickly, grabbing her around the waist and throwingher over his shoulder like a sack. Fallon pounds on his back with her fists. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Plan?” Santos whispers from the side of me.

“Your men?” I ask.

“They’re watching the front of the house, staying out of view until you give the word.”

“How many out the front?”

“About a dozen; my boys can handle them, though,” he says confidentially.

I assess the situation—two men by the tree line, easily taken out with simultaneous shots. One by the barn door, more difficult. Mikhail himself, carrying Fallon, the most complicated target. The fire spreading toward the barn, adding urgency and chaos to an already volatile situation.

“Once Milo takes the first shot,” I say quietly. “Then we move in from three sides. Santos, take your men around to the west. Rocco, you’re with me and Nathan. Clean shots, no wild firing. Fallon’s our priority.”

Santos nods and goes to tell his men. They melt away into the shadows, circling toward the west side of the clearing. Rocco slides up next to me, checking his weapon one last time.

“Nathan,” I say, turning to him. “When this starts, you stay behind me. No heroics. You want to help your Rebecca and Fallon, you follow my lead. Understood?”

His eyes are fixed on Rebecca’s motionless form. His hands are steady as he grips his gun, and I make a mental note to find out later where a cleaner learned to handle a weapon with such familiar ease. To say I was shocked when I saw him snatch one off the car’s hood and load it as we got out near the river is an understatement.

Mikhail reaches the barn door. The guard holds it open, and Mikhail carries Fallon inside. The door starts to swing shut behind them.

“Now,” I whisper into my comms. “Milo, take the shot.”

I hold my breath, counting the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

The guard standing at the edge of the trees suddenly jerks, a small dark hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He drops without a sound. Perfect shot, silenced.

The second guard turns, confused, staring at his fallen mate. He opens his mouth to shout a warning—too late. Another whoosh, and he crumples.

The guard by the barn door is more alert. He raises his weapon, scanning the trees, shouting something in Russian. Mikhail emerges from the barn, dragging Fallon behind him, gun already drawn.

“Now,” I bark, and we surge forward.

And then it starts. Thwip. One of his men, who comes rushing from behind the barn, drops. Another two spin around, shouting as they lift their guns, trying to work out where the shot came from. Their confusion lasts exactly two seconds when I put a bullet through the chest of the nearest one while Santos’s men open fire from the west. Gunfire explodes around us, shattering the quiet night.

Santos’s men storm the clearing from the front of house, moving with military precision. One of Mikhail’s guards goes down, riddled with bullets. The other turns to run and is mowed down before he makes it two steps.

Mikhail takes a hit to the shoulder and staggers, cursing in Russian. The impact spins him halfway around, but doesn’t make him let go of Fallon. He hauls her into the barn, dragging her by the hair like she’s cargo. I catch a glimpse of her face—bloody eyes, wild with fear.

“Fallon!” I shout, taking off after him as my men swarm the yard, picking off the remaining Russians. My focus narrows to the barn door, everything else fading to background noise. The crack of gunfire, the shouts of men, the roar of the fire—all of it just static compared to the urgency pounding through my veins.

The heat from the fire intensifies, creeping toward the barn with every second. The walls of the cabin collapse inward with a thunderous crash, sending a fountain of sparks into the night sky. Embers dance on the wind, drifting toward the old wooden barn. We’ve got minutes, maybe less, before it goes up too, along with the forest if Santos’s men don’t find a way to put it out.

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