Page 67 of Leather & Lies

“We’ve wasted enough time.” The words come out sand-dry as I check my rifle. No need to say more—they know exactly what Walsh and his crew have coming.

The old slaughterhouselooms against the sunset, rust-eaten metal glowing like dried blood. Three trucks parked out front—more muscle than expected. Good. More bodies to make an example out of.

Lucas signals from his position. Wyatt’s already circling toward the back entrance. Ryder ghosts between shadows with lethal grace.

A scream splits the air—fury, not fear.Shiloh.My heart stops. My control shatters.

I’m moving before Lucas can stop me, rage finally breaking through the ice. They dared to touch her. Dared to make her scream.

Through a broken window, I see her. Blood on her lip. Hands working at her restraints. Eyes burning with fury as a man approaches her with clear intent.

Our gazes lock across the distance.

She gives me the smallest nod. A signal. A promise.

Then she slams her head into her captor’s face, and all hell breaks loose.

A fist catches her captor’s jaw as he reels back. Blood sprays. But two more men are already moving toward her, and her hands aren’t fully free.

“Now.” Lucas’ voice cuts through my rage. “Wyatt, take the?—”

Gunfire drowns out his words.

I’m through the door before the first shell hits the ground, letting decades of calculated violence guide my movements. The nearest man goes down with a crushed larynx. The second catches my boot knife between his ribs.

More shots—Ryder, providing cover from the shadows. Two bodies hit the concrete with precise head wounds. The crack of bone tells me Wyatt’s made his own entrance.

“Jackson!” Shiloh’s warning comes just as something heavy slams into my back.

I roll with the impact, feeling ribs crack—mine or his, doesn’t matter. My elbow connects with soft tissue. A knife glints in the dying light.

Lucas appears like smoke, catching the blade with practiced ease. The wet snap of a broken arm echoes through the building.

I scan for Shiloh through the chaos. She’s gotten one hand free. Even bound, she fights like a wild thing—all ranch-honed muscle and desperate fury.

Three men converge on her position. My heart stops.

“Cover me.” The words come out more growl than speech.

“Jackson, wait—” Lucas reaches for my arm, but I’m already moving.

The first man dies before he hits the ground, neck snapped. The second takes longer—I want him to feel it. Want them all to understand exactly what happens to anyone who dares touch what’s mine.

A gun clicks behind my head.

“Hold.” The command cuts through the chaos, same voice I remember from her father’s poker games. Walsh emerges from the shadows, looking like what he is—scum.

He has a .45 pressed against Shiloh’s temple. Her split lip bleeds down her chin, but her spine stays straight.

“Figured you’d show.” Walsh’s boots scrape concrete as two more men melt from the darkness. Not hired muscle—men who know their business. “Been watching that little filly rebuild what her daddy destroyed. Time to collect.”

My hands itch for his throat, but I keep my voice steady. “You’re a dead man walking.”

“Maybe.” He shifts his grip on Shiloh’s hair, making her hiss. “But she’ll go first.”

Her eyes lock onto mine across the killing floor.

More boots on metal behind us. More guns emerging from shadow.

---