Malcolm cut the ATV's engine two hundred yards out. The last vibrations faded beneath him, and he swung off, boots touching the dirt in utter silence.
The farmhouse sat quiet under the pale morning light, but it wasn't the peace of safety—it was the quiet before a storm, thick and heavy, pressing against his ears.
No voices. No movement. Even the wind seemed to have stopped.
He moved in low, rifle ready, hugging the tree line until the yard opened up.
Each step was measured, the weight of his gear shifting gently against his body.
Somewhere inside, a faint murmur filtered through the stillness. He halted, letting his breathing slow until it was nearly silent, and picked up the muffled sound of voices from the kitchen.
None of them were Iyisha's. His stomach dropped, the cold spreading outward like frost.
He slid along the wall, careful not to crunch the frostbitten grass beneath his boots, until he was beneath the window. He pressed his shoulder to the siding and listened.
"John's returning anytime now," the old woman's voice said, smug and sure.
"He can take his time," Matt replied. "This girl's a jackpot, Ma."
"She is. Pity she's got some dirty Asian blood."
Matt chuckled darkly. "Doesn't matter. She's beautiful… and we'll have kids now on the farm."
Malcolm's jaw tightened until it ached. He pictured Iyisha's face in that room, helpless. Heat burned up his spine.
He risked a glance through the window. Iyisha was tied to a chair, wrists bound tight, her posture shrunken in fear. Matt stood far too close, stroking her hair like she was a prize animal.
Her eyes were wet, her lips trembling with muffled whimpers. Malcolm's grip on the rifle tightened.
He backed away fast and silent, circling toward the greenhouse. His eyes locked on a chunk of rock jutting from the soil. He bent, fingers curling around it. It was heavy in his hand, the weight promising noise.
One hard throw, and the crash of shattering glass and bending metal tore through the morning air.
Inside, chairs scraped and footsteps thundered from the kitchen. Malcolm stood still just out of sight at the sharp corner of the wall, rifle ready, waiting for someone to emerge.
Matt emerged from the kitchen, his eyes sharp, a gun gripped in his hand.
He scanned the yard and then began moving toward the greenhouse, each step cautious. Malcolm pressed himself tighter to the corner, muscles coiled, breath held.
The moment Matt rounded the greenhouse and stepped into the open, Malcolm lunged from cover, driving the rifle barrel hard into his temple. The impact jolted through them both as Matt's weapon flew from his hand and clattered into the dirt.
Matt's eyes darted toward the rifle on the ground, his weight shifting like he might dive for it.
"Try it and I'll blow your brains out," Malcolm said, voice flat and icy.
Malcolm's boot kicked the gun away across the dirt, never taking his eyes or the barrel of his gun off Matt. In one smooth motion, he bent and scooped it up with one hand, still aiming his own rifle squarely at him.
Matt swallowed hard, a thin line of blood already trickling from the side of his head where the rifle had struck.
"Where's John?"
"With his lover," Malcolm said, voice clipped. "Stand up. Walk. Don't move fast—I've got an itchy finger."
They rounded the corner, and Malcolm's stomach turned to stone.
The old woman stood on the porch, her gnarled hand gripping a knife tight against Iyisha's neck. The pressure bit into her skin enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Her eyes glinted with a cold calculation, savoring the control.
He was right about not killing Matt the moment he had the chance—without taking him hostage, that old woman would have plunged her knife into Iyisha without hesitation.
"Let him go," she snapped.
"Let her go first," Malcolm countered without hesitation.
"No," she barked back. "How do I know you won't just shoot him?"
"You'll just have to believe me," Malcolm said with a thin, dangerous smirk. "If you let us go, I won't kill him… like I killed your other grandson.
Her face twisted, the words hitting their mark. "No… John…" she wailed, her voice breaking into a raw, keening cry.
"Listen," Malcolm barked, sharp enough to cut through her grief. "Let her go."
The old woman's hands trembled. The knife pressed for a moment longer before she shoved Iyisha forward.
Malcolm's gaze cut to the old woman. "Untie her hands. Now." His voice was ice.
When she hesitated, Iyisha stayed frozen, too scared to move, so Malcolm fired a shot into the dirt near Matt's head. The old woman shrieked in fear, begging him not to shoot her grandson then reached down and loosened the ropes around Iyisha's wrists.
"We should have killed you both," she spat bitterly. "Oh God, my John."
Iyisha, trembling, her voice almost breathless with fear, stood frozen for a moment.
Malcolm gritted his teeth; every part of him wanted to grab her and run, to get her away from here as fast as possible. But they needed their supplies to survive.
"Iyisha—get our stuff," Malcolm ordered.
She gave a quick, shaky nod, her steps unsteady as she turned and made her way inside, each movement betraying how rattled she was.
Iyisha bolted inside, her footsteps hammering against the floorboards. The old woman twitched as if to follow, but Malcolm's voice cut sharp through the air.
"I'm a good shot, and I'm easily rattled. Keep moving and I might just kill your grandson," he warned, his tone cold enough to freeze her in place.
Malcolm kept his rifle firm against Matt's back, eyes flicking between the man's every twitch and the old woman's tightening grip on her knife.
"I left the ATV up top—go get it," Malcolm muttered to Iyisha, his voice low but urgent. She gave a small nod and went, her steps quick but shaky, while he stayed behind, rifle steady, keeping both of them in his sights.
Matt shifted, testing his chances, and Malcolm fired—a single sharp crack that sent the bullet hissing past Matt's head, close enough to make his hair stir. The old woman shrieked in fear, her voice breaking as she begged him not to shoot her grandson.
Malcolm gave a cold, humorless laugh. "How many people have you killed?" he asked flatly. "What were you hunting?"
The old woman's face twisted, lips curling with venom. "We didn't do anything!" she spat. "People kept using that road, bringing the Vultures down on us, making them set up a road stop there and putting our farm in danger… it's their fault!" Her voice rose to a shriek, each word raw and jagged, as if sheer volume could scrub away the blood on her hands.
Malcolm tsked under his breath, the cold thought forming that he needed to end both of them here and now.
But before he could act, the faint hum of the ATV reached his ears. Iyisha appeared from the rise, moving the machine slowly, almost timidly.
"I don't know how to drive," she said, her voice shaky, fear still clinging to every word.
"Load the ATV," Malcolm told her. "Get some gas too."
While she worked, the old woman's voice cracked into a tirade. "How could you kill John? My poor, poor grandson."
Malcolm didn't bother answering. The disgust in his eyes spoke volumes—disgust at her, at them, at this place.
Iyisha returned a final time, her movements trembling but sure. "We're ready," she said.
Malcolm's answer was swift and merciless, he drove the rifle butt into Matt's skull with bone-jarring force. The crack of impact was followed by a dull thud as Matt collapsed, limp, to the dirt, a fresh line of blood seeping from the wound.
The old woman collapsed to her knees beside him, a guttural wail ripping from her throat. She clutched his shoulders with desperate, trembling hands, rocking him in a frantic, useless attempt to keep him with her, as if sheer will could erase the blood and the blow that had dropped him.
He leveled the rifle at the old woman, finger tightening on the trigger, ready to finish it right there. But Iyisha's sharp, trembling voice cut through his haze, pleading for them to just go.
For a second, he kept his aim steady, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Then he exhaled slowly, lowering the weapon with a low growl, fury still burning in his eyes.
Without her, he would have ended them both on the spot.
Malcolm tossed the rifle to Iyisha without breaking stride. "If they move, kill them."
They mounted the ATV. The engine roared to life, shattering the morning quiet.
Without another word, they took the back road, leaving the porch and its cries to fade into the distance.