Page 70 of Last Hand

Milo’s shoulder leaks a steady pulse of red down his vest, he just cradles it with his good hand and waves me off. “I’m fine,” he spits, teeth locked, blood slick between his fingers. “The bullet went clean through. Nothing vital.” His eyes don’t meet mine; I nod, anyway. We both know the difference between a wound and a reason to stop.

The barn stinks of burned hay and acrid gasoline; there’s a worse smell underneath: the coppery, animal stench of fresh death. Milo keeps pace beside me, face carved into stone. Fallon’s silhouette stands just outside the splintered barn doors. She’s like a mannequin left behind in an evacuation—motionless, pale.

Her arms hug her ribs so tightly it’s like she’s bracing for an aftershock. Her eyes are fixed ahead, unblinking, glassy, and vacant. She doesn’t notice us until we’re close enough to hear Nathan.

The man’s wailing comes in pulses. I’ve heard it before from widows, from mothers who outlived their sons, from men alone with the ruins of what they loved—it’s different when the voice belongs to Nathan. He’s on his knees in the churned dirt,cradling Rebecca’s head in his lap. He’s lost all sense of posture or dignity; he looks small, caved in, like someone’s punched the air out of him and he’ll never refill his lungs.

I look away. Even for me, it’s too much.

Fallon tries to move, takes one unsteady step toward her father, and then her knees buckle. I catch her before she hits the mud, and her body goes limp in my arms. She’s ice-cold, soaked in sweat, eyes wide and unseeing. She doesn’t even flinch when Milo touches her wrist, checking for a pulse. She just stares, fixated on Nathan and the dead woman in his arms, like she’s forgotten how to process the sequence of events that put them there.

I crouch, set Fallon gently on the grass, and kneel beside her. Her lips part, only nothing comes out. I press my hand to her cheek—dirt, smoke, and a streak of blood not her own as I try to find the right words.

“Fallon,” I say it softly. “Look at me.”

Her focus shifts, just barely. My thumb brushes soot from her cheekbone. She looks at me for a heartbeat and then past me, back to her father. She’s not coming back. Not yet.

“Hey. You’re safe.” The words taste ashy. “It’s over.”

It isn’t. She knows it. So do I, because now we have to deal with the aftermath.

Behind me, the world comes alive again: boots slapping mud, rapid Spanish, the metal-on-metal rattle of guns being cleared and checked. Santos and his crew are efficient as always. They fan out through the barn, hoses and axes and sidearms at the ready.

Santos himself emerges from the haze, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Fire’s contained. Won’t spread beyond the paddock.” He looks at the scene, the bodies, the wreck, the human carnage and doesn’t even blink. “We lost two. Everyone else is accounted for. What’s next?”

“Secure the perimeter,” I snap, eyes on Fallon. “Burn any bodies you don’t want traced. No police. No witnesses. Sweep the barn, then torch it.”

He nods, turns, and shouts orders in Spanish. Milo hovers nearby, pressing a rag to his shoulder, his attention on Nathan. He walks over, crouches down to Nathan’s level, and speaks with a gentleness that’s almost unnatural for him. “Nathan. We have to go.”

Nathan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even register Milo’s presence. His whole existence has narrowed to the woman in his lap, the blood on her face, the slackness of her mouth. His hands, usually so steady, and so capable shake violently. He rocks back and forth, whispering things too soft to catch.

Milo looks up at me, helpless for once. He shrugs, as if to say: What the fuck now?

I don’t know. There’s a protocol for this, none of it ever covers the part where people actually feel. I glance down at Fallon. Her breathing’s shallow, her pupils huge and shining. I lift her in my arms again, carrying her like a child. She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t move at all.

As we cross the muddy field toward the waiting cars, I pass Rebecca’s body and Nathan beside her. He’s silent now, his face is a mask of grief.

I don’t stop. I just keep moving because that’s all I’ve ever done.

The cars are idling by the driveway, headlights cutting through the early morning gloom. Fallon is light in my arms, and I wonder if she’ll ever come back to herself. I don’t know how to deal with this side of her. Her defiance, attitude, even her smart mouth I can handle; this though, leaves me clueless.

Santos shouts from the barn, voice echoing off corrugated tin. “They’re clean. Only the two bodies inside. We’re ready.”

“Good,” I say, not loud, not soft. Just enough.

I ease Fallon into the back seat of the nearest car. I palm her cheek, which is cold, and let my thumb trace under her eye. She used to flinch when I did that, back when she hated my guts. Now she doesn’t react at all.

Milo’s voice carries across the gravel, barely above a whisper from this distance. “Nathan. You have to let her go.”

Nothing. Nathan is locked in, jaw clenched, holding Rebecca’s body like if he keeps squeezing, she might cough herself back to life. His knuckles are white, his arms smeared with the red that used to run inside her. There’s blood on his shirt, his face, soaking his jeans at the knees.

I could walk away. Should walk away. Instead, I just stand there, arms crossed, watching Milo try and fail to unfuck the universe.

Milo puts a hand on Nathan’s shoulder, gentle like he’s waking a sleepwalker. “Nathan. We have to get out of here.”

Nathan jerks, enough force to send Milo stepping back. “Don’t fucking touch her,” Nathan barks. His eyes are bloodshot and wet, his mouth twisted, every muscle in his neck ready to snap. “Don’t you touch her.”

Milo shakes his head, patient. “She’s gone. Your daughters aren’t. Fallon isn’t.”

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