She’d been watching the door for forty minutes.
Sunday night. Sarah sat in the Jeep just across the street, engine off. The Rusty Nail’s neon signs bled red and blue through the windshield — a flickering Open that buzzed and died and came back.
Through the smudged glass she could see bodies moving inside, shadows against the glow of beer logos and a television mounted over the bar. Laughter carried across the street, muffled but sharp-edged. The kind that didn’t care who heard it.
Josh Ryman’s social media had been a goldmine of careless information — bars tagged in every other post, photos of the militia boys drinking and talking shit, arms slung over each other’s shoulders like they were heroes instead of thugs. The Rusty Nail came up most often. Blurry selfies, group shots, beer bottles raised to the camera. If Brett was drinking anywhere tonight, it would be here.
The lot in front of the bar was half-full. Trucks mostly — F-150s, Silverados, one ancient Dodge with a cracked taillight. A few sedans near the back. People came and went — couples stumbling to their cars, a handful of men smoking by the entrance, their voices carrying across the quiet street. The acrid bite of cigarette smoke reached her cracked window, mixing with spilled beer and hot asphalt still radiating the day’s heat.
No sign of the black Tacoma.
She opened the notebook. The pages soft now, edges curled from handling. Brett’s page. Thompson Auto Body. Black Tacoma, lifted. White trailer, location unknown.
She wiped her hands on her jeans. Her shoulder ached, but duller now. Healing. Every breath reminded her of earlier that day. The blood on Rebecca’s cheek. Brett’s boots next to the cabinet door. Hiding in a cabinet while he terrorized her, his voice rough and eager, hunting. That moment of silence before Rebecca chose to lie.
The day before, at the auto shop — the green dot on his chest, her finger on the trigger, the choice she couldn’t make. The rifle cracking, the dirt scattering, Brett diving behind a toolbox and scrambling for cover. She’d run. Fled like prey.
What if he wasn’t here? What if he’d gone into hiding after all, and she was wasting time sitting out here while he slipped further away?
A dog barked somewhere beyond the bar. The sound carried sharp and then faded into nothing.
A single beam turned onto the street.
A black Tacoma, lifted, rolling slow over the uneven asphalt. The suspension creaked. The front end caught the light from the neon signs — one headlight shattered, the other still working, the grille crumpled inward like a fist had punched through it.
Brett.
She watched him park near the entrance, crooked across two spaces like he didn’t give a damn. The door opened and he climbed out — slow, unsteady. He was already drunk, or close to it. Broad shoulders, flannel shirt untucked, boots scuffing against the asphalt. He paused, lit a cigarette, took his time with it. Then disappeared inside.
She waited.
The notebook went back in the bag. Ghost lay across the back seat.
Now it was just time.
Two hours later, Brett came out.
The bar door swung wide, spilling yellow light and the thump of bass across the parking lot. Brett stumbled through it, laughing — loud and braying. He wasn’t alone. Two other men flanked him, both in jeans and work boots, one wearing a baseball cap pulled low. They clapped him on the shoulder, said something Sarah couldn’t hear. Brett doubled over, laughing harder.
They split up in the lot. The other men climbed into a Silverado, engine rumbling to life. Brett weaved toward the Tacoma, his gait loose and uneven. He fumbled with his keys, dropped them. The metallic jangle carried across the distance. He bent down — too fast — and nearly lost his balance. Grabbed the keys. Stood up. Leaned against the truck for a moment, head down, gathering himself.
Then he got in.
The engine coughed, sputtered, caught. The single working headlight flickered on, cutting a lopsided beam across the asphalt. Exhaust puffed white in the cold air.
Sarah started the Jeep but kept the lights off. Her hands were steady now. The adrenaline was there but it sharpened her instead of scattering her.
Brett’s tires skipped onto the pavement. She counted to five. Then followed.
She kept her distance — two car lengths, then three. The moon was nearly full, bright enough that she could navigate by its light alone. Brett’s driving was erratic. He drifted left across the center line, overcorrected hard to the right. His brake lights flared suddenly, then released. The Tacoma lurched forward, slowed again.
But the roads were empty. Just the two of them, moving through darkness.
The wind picked up, rattling through the Jeep’s vents. The smell of dust and dry grass, engine oil and something faintly sweet — wildflowers maybe, or rot. Her shoulders had crept up toward her ears. She rolled them back down. Checked her mirrors. Checked again.
After ten minutes, the houses thinned out. Fields opened up on either side — flat and dark, dotted with the skeletal shapes of dead trees. The road narrowed. No streetlights. Just the moon overhead and Brett’s single headlight wavering ahead.
His truck slowed. Turned onto a side road, the asphalt gone to broken pieces.
Sarah followed, her own headlights still dark. The Jeep rattled over the uneven surface. She could barely see — just the pale shapes of the road ahead, the darker line of trees pressing in from both sides.
And then — brake lights.
Red and sudden. Brett stopped. Dead center in the lane.
Her gut clenched. Her foot slammed the brake. The Jeep jerked to a stop, tires skidding.
Has he seen me? Is this a trap?
The Tacoma sat there, engine idling. Exhaust curling white into the cold air. One headlight pointed at nothing, illuminating a stretch of empty road and weeds growing through cracked asphalt.
Sarah’s limbs went rigid. Every instinct screamed at her to reverse, to flee, to—
The driver’s door opened.
Brett leaned out, shoulders hunching forward. His silhouette stark against the glow of the cab light.
The sound of retching carried across the distance — wet and guttural. Liquid splashing onto asphalt, the sharp stink of vomit cutting through the night air even from thirty yards away.
Sarah’s shoulders relaxed. Her hands loosened on the wheel.
He straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Spat. The door slammed shut. The cab light died. The truck rumbled forward again, weaving slightly as it picked up speed.
She was still hunched forward, shoulders up around her ears. She eased back into the seat. Counted it down. One. Two. Three.
Then she followed.
A mile later, Brett’s brake lights flared again. He turned right. A weathered sign appeared in the moonlight, paint peeling and faded: Pinewood Mobile Estates.
Sarah slowed. The entrance was narrow, flanked by dying shrubs and a chain-link fence half-collapsed into the dirt. She watched Brett’s taillights disappear between rows of trailers — tin-sided, low and dark, some with porch lights burning weak and yellow.
She kept driving past the entrance. Didn’t slow. Didn’t look back.
Half a mile up the road, she eased off the road, tires going quiet on the shoulder. She killed the engine.
Silence rushed in. Thick and absolute. Her heartbeat too loud in it.
She could see the glow of the trailer park in her rearview mirror — amber light buzzing somewhere beyond the trees, casting a haze into the sky. The road ahead was empty. No cars. No lights. Just the pale ribbon of asphalt stretching into darkness.
Her hands were shaking again. She pressed them flat against her thighs, felt the tremor in her muscles.
She reached for the cigarette pack. Took one out. The lighter’s flame wavered in her unsteady grip but she got it lit. Drew in slow.
The smoke filled her chest, her throat, bitter. She held it. Let it burn. Felt Mark’s presence settle over her. His voice, quiet and certain: Breathe. You’ve got this.
She blew out the smoke through the open inch of window, into the night air.
She drew in once more, slow and steady. She stubbed it out in the console tray, the ash falling soft.
She sat there another minute. Two. Letting her pulse slow. Holding the focus instead of letting it fracture.
Then she opened the door.
The night air was cold against her face, carrying the smell of dust and distant water, engine oil and the faint metallic tang of Ghost slung across her back — familiar weight, familiar pain. She checked the mag, the chamber. Adjusted the magnifier.
Sarah moved into the trees, cutting back toward the trailer park on foot. Her boots whispered through dry grass. The moonlight filtered through the branches overhead, casting shifting shadows across the ground. Every sound magnified — the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of the highway, the faint buzz of insects in the dark.
She was close now.
The trailer park stretched in uneven rows. Rusted mailboxes leaned toward the road. Power lines sagged overhead. A harsh light flickered near the entrance, buzzing like a trapped fly. She approached from the tree line, staying in shadow.
She moved through the rows on foot, scanning for the Tacoma. Dust rose soft under her boots. The air smelled of motor oil, cigarette smoke, fried food long gone cold. Each lot the same — tin-sided trailers, chain-link, dead grass. She kept to the darkness between porch lights.
Three rows in, back corner — there. The Tacoma sat crooked in the gravel, hood up, one headlight missing. She could hear the faint clang of a socket, a muttered curse, the creak of a wrench. He was there.
She dropped to one knee behind an old washing machine dumped in the weeds. The magnifier was in place and ready. She didn’t move.
She waited, watching. The night thick with small sounds — the buzz of insects, the ping of cooling metal, the distant bark of another dog somewhere beyond the fence. The air hung heavy with oil, dust, and the faint sweetness of cigarette smoke drifting from Brett’s trailer.
Minutes stretched. She tracked the rhythm of Brett’s movements — the scrape of his boots, the clatter of tools, the shift of his weight against the truck. Every sound became a marker, a cue. She pictured the shot, over and over: sight alignment, trigger press, recoil recovery.
Brett leaned into the engine bay, a flashlight wedged under his arm, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He straightened, blew smoke in a huff, rubbed the back of his neck. The faint blue TV light from inside his trailer pulsed across his skin.
Sarah settled behind the rifle. Mark’s hand, correcting her stance. His voice: Breathe. Find the stillness. She pulled the stock tight to her shoulder, and the tremor went out of her hands.
Brett took another drag, tilted his head back, exhaling toward the stars. His face clear in her scope. Her body went still. Every muscle coiled and waiting. The world narrowed — just her, the rifle, and Brett.
She found his eye. The reticle held, her mind empty except for the weight of the trigger.
And then he turned.
Not casual. Not slow — his head snapped toward her, eyes searching the darkness, locking onto something he shouldn’t have been able to see. Like he’d felt her watching. Like some animal part of him knew.
She squeezed.
The rifle cracked, recoil jolting her shoulder. The hit was wrong — low, too low.
His hand flew to his throat. The cigarette dropped from his lips. He stumbled back into the trailer and slid down its side.
The flashlight tumbled into the dirt, beam cutting sideways.
The sound started immediately. Wet. Choking. A gurgle that wouldn’t stop.
A dog started barking.
Sarah’s throat tightened. She forced herself to watch through the scope, rifle still shouldered.
Don’t look away. Finish it.
His boots scrabbled against the ground, slower each time. His hand stayed at his throat, fingers pressing where the blood came through them. The other hand opened and closed on air.
Another dog. Then the rest of them.
The gurgling thinned. His heels dragged furrows in the gravel, one and then the other, the rhythm of it going ragged, the pauses stretching longer between.
A porch light came on.
Through the reticle, the shape of him went slack. His mouth working. It kept working after the gurgling stopped.
Another light. A window went gold behind a curtain.
Somewhere under the barking, his boot moved once more.
Then nothing.
She kept the green dot on him. Five seconds. Ten.
A screen door banged open on its spring.
Her head came up off the sight. A man in a robe, out on his deck, close.
Then he turned.
Sarah ran.
She kept low through the weeds, sling biting into her shoulder, rifle clutched against her chest to keep it from swinging. Quiet as she could. Past the broken swing set. Past the dumpster.
Two dogs at the chain-link, barking at everything and nothing.
They stopped.
Their attention turned toward her.
Then they came bounding over the fence.
“Goddamn it.”
She burst into a full sprint.
A hundred feet of open dirt between her and the trees. Ghost threw off her stride, arms half-pinned when she needed them.
She risked a look behind — they were gaining, the gap shrinking fast.
The perimeter fence came up out of the dark — moonlight catching the chain-link, all six feet of it.
She jumped and caught the top rail, her boots kicking and scraping for purchase. The dogs slammed into the fence right below her, a snarling mass of teeth biting at her legs. She heaved one leg over, and then the rest of her followed.
She tumbled down into the sandspurs, Ghost’s weight driving into her ribs. Pushed up to her knees, glancing back.
The dogs clawed and lunged at the fence, fangs snapping between the links.
She got her feet under her and ran the rest of the way to the tree line.
She hit the tree line ahead of them and kept going, branches raking her arms, and somewhere behind her the barking thinned, then died off.
She didn’t stop running until she made it back to the Jeep.
Her hands shook so badly it took her three tries to get the key in. The engine caught. She pulled onto the road with the headlights still dark and drove. Ghost lay across the back seat, hidden under one of Miguel’s blankets.
Through the rear window, the amber glow of the park still hung above the trees.
Then the road bent and it was gone. Just the moon and the pale strip of asphalt.
The yellow lines coming up out of the dark.
Forty-three. Forty-four.
She made it two miles before her stomach turned.
The Jeep swerved to the shoulder, tires biting into the loose edge. She shoved the door open and leaned out, one hand braced against the frame. The heaving came sudden and hard — three convulsions that left her gasping, throat raw. The taste of bile and smoke.
When it stopped, she stayed bent over, breath coming in short pulls. Spit hung from her lip. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
She held still for a moment, door open, cold air washing over her. The engine ticked. After a minute, she pulled the door shut and shifted into drive.
The notebook sat in the passenger seat. Four names. She flipped to Brett’s and drew a line through it.
Cigarette smoke clung to her jacket, her hair, her hands. She rolled the window down.
The wind came cool against her face, pulling the smoke out into the dark. The farther she drove, the more the world reflected back at her — every sound magnified, the rush of air, the tires over the road. The adrenaline still had its grip on her, but beneath it ran a deep, quiet current. She had done it. Marked the first name off her list. It was real now — blood, recoil, silence.
The smell of gunpowder still on her skin. The tang of smoke, thinning now. The road ran on ahead of her, dark and open and endless.
She caught herself smiling.
Mark’s voice lingered. There it is, he whispered.
By the time she reached the fire road, her hands no longer shook. She pulled off, killed the engine, and sat in the thick quiet. The night smelled like dirt, dust, and spent powder.
She reached for a cigarette. Lit it. Drew in slow. The burn filled her chest, her throat, her head. Her calm felt solid now, settled deep, unshakable.
She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl against the windshield.
Three names left.