Page 70 of Shared By the Mountain Men Triplets

“You’re right. It’s about territory.” Rhett’s voice hardens. “Not land. People.”

Boone moves to Wren’s side. “If you leave, Turner learns that pressure works, and he’ll lean harder on the next person.”

“Atlas won’t run,” I say. “Buck won’t. Their families won’t be safer if we fracture.”

As Wren’s throat moves, Rhett holds her gaze. “Easy decision. We stand.”

Boone nods once. “We stand.”

They look at me, but they don’t need to. “We stand,” I say.

Wren exhales like something inside her has cracked, but she doesn’t break. She looks down at the photo and uses the tips of her fingers to turn it face up again.

It’s a stolen moment made into a weapon.

“He’s not going to make me regret making friends,” she says, finally, with her usual determination back in its rightful place.

Boone smiles, though there’s nothing easy about it today. “That’s our girl,” he says.

Wren gives him a look, but he doesn’t walk it back.

As night falls, we keep preparing. Boone finishes loading magazines, while Rhett and I review maps. I mark one with every approach to our property, and note every blind angle and every place a man might think he can hide.

Wren comes over and stands close enough that her sleeve brushes my arm. She studies the map with tired eyes.

“That drainage there,” she says, pointing. “Wildlife stopped using it a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was displacement from traffic farther north, but maybe men are cutting through there.”

Rhett leans in, Boone comes over, and all three of us lookwhere Wren points.

She should never doubt she’s part of our operation. She’s inside the center of it. She’s ours.

Turner made his threat, and we’re going to answer.Back off, or you’ll pay.

I look at the map, then at the woman beside me, then at my brothers, and finally, the rage inside me goes quiet. It’s not gone, but now it’s turned into something useful.

If Turner comes for us again, he’s going to learn what it means when we answer.

CHAPTER 31

RHETT

Our dining table now looks less like a place where people eat and more like the inside of my head. Maps and sketches cover nearly every inch, along with the satellite imagery Sentinel pulled for us last night. Everything’s marked up in black, red, or blue.

Boone calls it a serial killer wall in table form, and I call it the only thing keeping me from picking up a rifle and solving this the wrong way.

I’m on the line with Novak, arguing about what constitutes immediate danger, because the DEA don’t want to move unless there’s a direct threat.

“If Turner makes another move on Dr. Hollis or attacks your residence, we’ll reassess,” he says. “We’re accelerating the timeline in light of the threats, but if he’s just posturing and trying to scare you off, we need to hold for the handoff.”

According to Novak, men coming out of a draw trying to grab Wren counts as posturing. I set my pencil down before I snap it in half.

Wren’s standing by the window with a mug of tea in both hands, and she looks tired in a way that makes me want to reach through the phone and grab Novak by the neck.

Cade’s sitting on the hearth cleaning a rifle, and Boone’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, both of them listening to my side of the conversation.

“How accelerated?” I ask.

“Turner’s people are preparing for a major handoff. We have cartel movement out of the city, financial chatter, and enough on your terrain side now to put the staging valley at the center of it.”