Look, I'm not going to sugarcoat this—dying sucks.
And dying in London rain? While saving a kid? That's the kind of heroic stupidity that sounds great in movies but feels a lot less epic when a double-decker bus is introducing your ribcage to your spine.
My name was Marcus Chen, and I had exactly twenty-eight years of what you might generously call "life" before a combination of bad weather, worse timing, and a congenital heart defect that had been plotting my demise since birth finally got their act together.
The heart thing—ventricular septal defect, if you want to get technical about it—had been my arch-nemesis since day one. It's basically a hole in your heart that makes you tired, weak, and utterly useless at all the things I'd actually wanted to do with my life.
Like join the police force.
*"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Chen,"* the recruitment officer had said, and he really did look sorry, which somehow made it worse. *"Your condition makes you ineligible for service. Health and safety regulations, you understand. For your protection and your potential colleagues'."*
For my protection. Right. Because protecting me from doing the one thing I'd dreamed about since I was eight years old was *so* much better than letting me try.
So instead of fighting crime, I'd spent the last five years fighting spreadsheets at a data entry job that made watching paint dry seem thrilling by comparison.
Which brings us to the rainy Tuesday evening when I heard a little girl scream.
My brain—the logical, sensible part that had kept me alive for twenty-eight years—said, *Don't be an idiot, Marcus. You'll die.*
My heart—the broken, faulty one—said, *So what? At least you'll die doing something worthwhile.*
Turns out, my heart won that argument.
I shoved the girl. The bus hit me. I felt bones break, tasted copper, and thought, *Well, at least the spreadsheets can't hurt me anymore.*
Then everything went black.
---
Except it didn't stay black.
Instead, I opened my eyes to... nothing. And I don't mean darkness or a void or one of those pretentious "between worlds" waiting rooms. I mean literally nothing. No up, no down, no sense of having a body or not having a body. Just awareness floating in absolute zilch.
"Yo! Marcus! You alive?"
I would have jumped if I'd had a body to jump with. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, like the universe's worst surround-sound system.
"Uh," I said, or thought, or whatever you do when you're dead and confused. "Pretty sure I'm not alive, actually. There was a bus. I lost that fight."
"Eh, debatable!" the voice said cheerfully. "I mean, sure, your meat-suit took a beating, but *you*? You're here! Talking to me! That's more alive than a lot of living people, if you think about it."
A figure materialized in front of me—or I materialized in front of it? Spatial relations were weird here. He looked like a guy in his forties, wearing a vintage band t-shirt (The Ramones, nice), jeans, and sneakers that had seen better days. His hair was messy, his grin was manic, and he had the energy of someone who'd had way too much coffee and thought that was a personality trait.
"Who—"
"ROB!" he announced, spreading his arms wide. "R-O-B. Random Omnipotent Being. But not, like, one of those stuffy, holier-than-thou cosmic entities. I'm more of a 'I have infinite power and I mostly use it to mess with people in entertaining ways' kind of god. Think of me as the universe's weird uncle who shows up at Thanksgiving with questionable stories and somehow makes everything more interesting."
I stared at him. Or at where I thought he was. "I'm dead and I'm talking to the universe's weird uncle."
"Correction! You *were* dead. Past tense! Now you're in my office—metaphorically speaking, I don't actually have an office, that would be so boring—and we're going to have a chat about your future. Or futures. Plural. It's complicated."
"I don't have a future," I pointed out. "See previous point about the bus."
"Okay, see, that's exactly the kind of defeatist attitude we're going to fix!" ROB snapped his fingers, and suddenly we were sitting in director's chairs. Mine said "Dead Guy" on the back. His said "Awesome God Person." We were surrounded by floating screens showing scenes from my life—most of them me sitting at a computer or struggling to breathe after climbing stairs.
"Marcus Chen!" ROB announced like he was introducing a game show contestant. "Twenty-eight years old! Congenital heart defect! Dreams of being a cop, systematically crushed by biological reality! Spent most of his adult life doing data entry and binge-watching TV shows because sleep was overrated when your heart didn't work right!"
"Are you going to mock my entire existence, or is there a point to this?"
"Both! I can multitask!" ROB grinned. "But here's the thing, Marcus. You died saving a little girl. Emily Harrison, by the way. Seven years old. In your timeline, she was supposed to get hit by that bus. You changed that. You *chose* to change that, knowing it would kill you."
The screens shifted, showing the little girl crying but alive, being hugged by her mother. Showed her growing up, going to medical school, becoming a trauma surgeon, saving lives.
"She'll save four hundred and sixty-three people over the course of her career," ROB said, his voice suddenly quieter. "Because you pushed her out of the way. That's a pretty good legacy for a guy who thought he never made a difference."
Something tight unwound in my chest. Or in whatever metaphysical equivalent I had of a chest.
"So what happens now?" I asked. "Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation? Do I become a ghost? Because I've seen enough horror movies to know that it never ends well."
"Better!" ROB hopped out of his chair and started pacing excitedly. "See, here's the thing. Normally when someone dies heroically, they get the standard package—nice afterlife, maybe some angels with harps, whatever. Boring! But you caught my attention, Marcus. You spent your whole life wanting to be a hero, to protect people, to make a difference, and your body kept sabotaging you. It's like the universe's cruelest joke."
"Glad you're entertained."
"Oh, I am! But I'm also in a position to do something about it!" He waved his hand, and the screens changed, now showing TV shows I recognized. *The Rookie*. *SWAT*. *Yellowstone*. *9-1-1*. *Modern Family*. Others I'd watched during countless sleepless nights.
"You're sending me into a TV show?" I asked, disbelieving. "Is this like *The Good Place*? Am I being punished for illegally downloading music in college?"
"Nah, that's not even a real sin. The music industry is a scam anyway." ROB waved dismissively. "I'm sending you to a convergent universe—a world where all these shows exist together. Montana, Los Angeles, Colorado, all one cohesive reality. And you, my friend, are going to be reborn as Jack Dutton."
"Jack... Dutton? As in the *Yellowstone* Duttons?"
"Youngest son of John Dutton III!" ROB said with the enthusiasm of a car salesman who'd just found the world's easiest mark. "Born on the biggest ranch in America! Raised by cowboys and Beth Dutton, who is terrifying and will absolutely mess you up if you cross her! Left at seventeen to join the Army Rangers! Came back a decorated badass! It's perfect!"
"That's... that's insane."
"That's the *point*!" ROB practically bounced. "But wait, there's more! Act now and you also get—" he made a game show gesture "—the abilities of any three fictional characters of your choosing! Any three, Marcus! Skills, physical abilities, competencies—all yours! You get to be the hero you always wanted to be, in a body that won't betray you!"
I sat there in my metaphysical director's chair, processing. "Any three characters?"
"Yup! Batman, Superman, Sherlock Holmes, whoever! I mean, there are *some* limits—no reality warpers, no omnipotent beings, nothing that would make you basically god-tier, because that's boring. But in terms of human skills and abilities? Go nuts!"
My mind raced. Three characters. I'd spent years watching shows, reading books, analyzing characters because I had nothing else to do with my insomniac nights.
"Jack Reacher," I said finally.
ROB nodded appreciatively. "From the Lee Child books? Nice. Six-five, two-fifty of muscle, military training, investigative skills, built like a tank. Solid choice."
"John Wick."
"Ooh, yes!" ROB grinned. "Tactical genius, weapons master, the most competent human on the planet in a fight. You're building a monster, Marcus. I love it."
"And Patrick Jane."
ROB stopped, tilted his head. "From *The Mentalist*? The fake psychic consultant guy?"
"Observational skills," I explained. "Understanding of human psychology, reading people, social engineering. The other two make me physically capable. Jane makes me smart about how I use it."
"The warrior, the weapon, and the mind," ROB said slowly, and his grin widened. "Marcus Chen, I thought you were just another dead hero, but you're actually *interesting*. Okay! Deal! You got it!"
"Wait—what's the catch?"
"No catch!" ROB said, then paused. "Okay, small catch. You'll remember all your memories as Marcus Chen, including having watched these shows. You'll know the general plots, the major events, but not every detail. Think of it like you binge-watched everything a few years ago and remember the important stuff but not every scene. Fair?"
"Fair," I agreed.
"Oh, and you'll look like Alan Ritchson. You know, the guy who plays Reacher in the Amazon show? Because if I'm going to give you a new body, might as well make it a good one. Consider it a bonus for being entertaining."
"You're giving me superpowers and making me attractive? What's the actual cost here?"
ROB's expression shifted, becoming more serious than I'd seen. "The cost, Marcus, is that you'll be born into a complicated, violent, morally gray world. The Duttons have enemies. People will try to kill you and your family. You'll face impossible choices. Having power doesn't make life easier—it just gives you more responsibility. Can you handle that?"
I thought about twenty-eight years of limitations. Of watching other people do the things I'd dreamed of. Of dying in the rain to save one little girl because it was the right thing to do.
"Yes," I said simply.
"Good answer!" ROB's manic energy returned instantly. "Oh man, this is going to be so fun to watch! Okay, so, quick rundown: You'll be Jack Dutton, youngest of five Dutton siblings. Your mom Evelyn died when you were one—a horse riding accident, very tragic. You were raised by your dad John, your brothers Lee, Kayce, and Jamie—Jamie's adopted but that's a whole thing—and your sister Beth, who is ten years older and will absolutely kill for you. Also Rip Wheeler and Lloyd Pierce basically helped raise you. You left at seventeen for the Army Rangers, did seven years, just got honorably discharged due to an injury that's healing but was enough for them to let you go. You're twenty-four now, riding home on a motorcycle, planning to move to LA and join the LAPD."
"That's... a lot of backstory."
"You'll have all the memories! It'll make sense! Probably!" ROB paused. "Oh, and you've got money. You gave Beth your military savings to invest three years ago, and she turned it into a pretty nice nest egg. You're not rich-rich, but you're comfortable. The motorcycle—a Harley Fat Bob, very nice choice by the way—is your only real indulgence. You picked it because it's aggressive, raw, and doesn't apologize for what it is. Kind of like you're going to be."
He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Also? Fat Bobs are mean-looking bikes. When you roll up on that thing looking like you could bench-press a car, people are going to cross the street. It's perfect for the image."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Really?"
ROB looked at me, and for just a moment, the cosmic weird uncle façade dropped, revealing something genuinely ancient and unknowable underneath.
"Because you ran toward danger to save a child, knowing it would kill you," he said quietly. "Because you spent your entire life wanting to protect others despite every possible limitation. Because sometimes, Marcus Chen, someone deserves a second chance to be the person they were always meant to be."
Then the grin was back. "Also because watching you navigate *Yellowstone* with meta-knowledge and superpowers is going to be absolutely hilarious. I'm immortal and omnipotent, Marcus. Entertainment is hard to come by."
The nothing-space around us began to dissolve, reality breaking apart into streams of light and sensation.
"Wait!" I called out. "Any advice?"
"Yeah!" ROB's voice echoed as he faded. "Don't die again! I probably won't bring you back twice! Also, Beth Dutton is your ally but never, ever cross her! And maybe try to keep your brothers alive! Lee dies in episode one and that's just sad! Oh, and take care of the Fat Bob—those things are beautiful machines and—"
"What about Lee?!"
"Have fun! Don't forget to write! Metaphorically! I don't actually need letters, I'm omniscient! Enjoy the bike!"
Then everything went white, and Marcus Chen ceased to exist.
And Jack Dutton opened his eyes.
---
I woke up gasping like I'd been drowning, which was weird because I was pretty sure I was in a bed. A really terrible motel bed, but still.
For exactly three seconds, I was Marcus Chen, a twenty-eight-year-old data entry specialist with a broken heart, dying on a London street in the rain.
Then the memories slammed into place like someone had downloaded twenty-four years of life directly into my brain. Which, technically, ROB had.
I was Jack Dutton. Youngest son of John Dutton III. Born on the Yellowstone Ranch. Mother died when I was barely old enough to remember her. Raised by my siblings—Lee, the responsible oldest brother; Jamie, the adopted one with the law degree and insecurity issues; Beth, the terrifying sister who loved fiercely and destroyed completely; and Kayce, the one closest to my age who'd left the ranch to join the Navy.
I'd grown up learning to rope cattle with Lloyd Pierce, who'd been on the ranch since before I was born. Learned about loyalty from Rip Wheeler, who'd been there almost as long and loved Beth with the kind of intensity that should probably concern people.
Left at seventeen because I couldn't breathe on the ranch—not literally like Marcus couldn't breathe, but emotionally. I needed to prove I was more than just the youngest Dutton. Joined the Rangers. Did seven years. Got blown up in Syria—shrapnel, not fatal, but enough to earn an honorable discharge.
Now I was twenty-four, halfway through a road trip from Colorado to Montana, planning to spend a week at home before moving to Los Angeles and joining the LAPD.
All of that information just... existed in my head, complete with memories and emotions and muscle memory.
It was deeply weird.
I swung my legs out of the crappy motel bed and stood up, which was when I realized the second major change.
I was *huge*.
Not Marcus Chen's five-foot-nine, skinny frame that couldn't climb stairs without resting. I was six-foot-five of solid muscle, weighing in at probably two-fifty, with the kind of build that made people cross the street.
Alan Ritchson's body. Jack Reacher's physicality. Combined with seven years of Army Ranger training.
"Okay," I said out loud to the empty motel room, my voice deeper than Marcus's had ever been. "Okay. This is fine. This is... this is extremely weird, but fine."
I walked to the mirror and stared.
Chiseled jaw. Bright blue eyes. Short blonde hair. The kind of face that belonged on a recruiting poster or a romance novel cover.
I flexed experimentally. Watched muscles move under skin. Felt *strong* in a way Marcus Chen had never, ever felt.
"ROB, you magnificent weirdo," I muttered. "You actually did it."
Then I noticed something else—information just... appearing in my head. Looking at the room, I automatically catalogued exits (one door, one window), potential weapons (lamp, broken chair leg, television remote as a distraction tool), and threat assessment (minimal, unless the cleaning staff was secretly an assassination squad).
John Wick's tactical awareness.
And looking at my own reflection, I found myself analyzing—posture indicates confidence but underlying tension, microexpressions suggest uncertainty about identity, behavioral patterns consistent with someone adapting to significant change.
Patrick Jane's observational skills.
"Oh, this is going to take some getting used to," I said.
I spent the next hour doing what anyone would do in this situation: testing my new abilities like a kid with Christmas presents.
Push-ups? Could do them forever. Literally did a hundred without breaking a sweat.
Weapons handling? I found a stick outside and it felt natural in my hands, like I'd been training with improvised weapons my entire life.
Reading people? I watched through the window as the motel manager argued with a guest, and I could see the tells—the manager was lying about room availability, probably overbooked, the guest was tired and frustrated but not aggressive.
It was incredible. It was overwhelming. It was everything Marcus Chen had ever wanted.
And it came with a side of existential crisis about whether I was Marcus or Jack or some weird hybrid.
"Okay, ground rules," I told myself, packing up my stuff—Rangers traveled light, apparently that was muscle memory now. "You're Jack Dutton. Marcus Chen's memories inform your decisions, but this is your life now. Your family. Your world. Act like it."
Outside, my motorcycle waited.
The Harley-Davidson Fat Bob sat in the parking lot like a predator at rest. Matte black with those distinctive dual headlights that made it look perpetually angry, the fat front tire that gave it its name, and enough chrome to catch the morning sun. It was aggressive, raw, unapologetic—the kind of bike that announced you were coming from three blocks away.
I ran my hand over the fuel tank, feeling Jack's memories—buying it six months ago with money Beth had made from investing his savings. Walking into the Harley dealer in Colorado Springs, seeing this beast on the floor, and knowing immediately it was the one. The only indulgence he'd allowed himself after seven years of military frugality.
The salesman had taken one look at Jack—all six-foot-five, two-fifty of him—and said, "Fat Bob's perfect for a guy your size. She's got an attitude."
Jack had grinned. "Good. So do I."
Now, standing in this motel parking lot with Marcus Chen's memories overlaying everything, I understood the choice completely. The Fat Bob didn't pretend to be something it wasn't. It was loud, powerful, and built for someone who didn't apologize.
Kind of perfect, really.
I threw my bag in the saddlebag, swung onto the bike, and felt the weight settle beneath me—substantial but balanced, like sitting on controlled aggression. The engine roared to life with a sound that made my chest rumble and probably woke up half the motel.
"Montana," I said, twisting the throttle and feeling the Fat Bob respond like a living thing. "Let's go home."
---
The ride from Colorado to Montana should have been straightforward. Should have been a nice, contemplative journey through beautiful scenery while I processed having two lifetimes of memories.
Naturally, the universe had other plans.
I was about six hours in, somewhere in Wyoming, when I saw the smoke.
Black column rising above the trees, the kind of smoke that meant vehicles and fire and nothing good.
My first instinct—Marcus Chen's instinct—was to call for help and stay back.
My second instinct—Jack Reacher's tactical assessment combined with seven years of Ranger training—said *people are hurt, you're the help until better help arrives, move now*.
Guess which instinct won?
I twisted the throttle and the Fat Bob surged forward, that Milwaukee-Eight engine snarling as it ate up the distance to the crash site in seconds. The bike handled like a dream even at speed, those fat tires gripping the road.
The scene was chaos.
A big rig had jackknifed across both lanes, its trailer detached and on its side. A stock trailer—for horses, looked like—was overturned in the ditch. Three or four other vehicles were scattered around, crumpled and smoking. People stumbled around in shock, some bleeding, some just standing there with that dissociative stare I'd seen too many times in Syria.
I was off the bike before it fully stopped, kickstand down, helmet off in one smooth motion.
"Does anyone need immediate medical attention?" I called out, voice carrying with command authority.
An older woman with blood on her shirt pointed shakily toward the big rig. "The driver—he's trapped—oh God, there's so much blood—"
Already moving. John Wick's threat assessment overlaid with Jack Reacher's tactical analysis and Patrick Jane's ability to read people told me: woman in shock but not injured, actual casualties elsewhere, prioritize the trapped driver.
The cab was destroyed, front end accordioned from impact. The driver was pinned, mid-fifties, graying hair matted with blood. Breathing shallow and rapid. Chest injuries. Internal bleeding.
I didn't need medical training to know he was dying. I had it anyway—Rangers got extensive first aid training—but sometimes you just knew.
"Sir," I said, kneeling as close as I could, keeping my voice calm. "Can you hear me?"
His eyes flickered open. Focused on me with difficulty. "Dutton?" he rasped.
I blinked. Looking at his torn shirt, I saw the Paradise Valley Capital Development logo. Local company. He recognized me—or recognized the Dutton resemblance.
"That's right," I confirmed.
"Tell John..." he coughed, blood on his lips. "Wasn't my fault... brakes failed... they cut the budget... maintenance..."
"I'll tell him," I promised, taking his hand. It was the least I could do. "You did everything you could."
His grip tightened briefly. Then relaxed. His breathing stopped.
I stayed there for a moment—seven years of deployment had taught me to honor the dead, even when you couldn't save them—then stood and scanned the scene with new eyes.
That's when I saw my father.
John Dutton stood fifty yards away next to the overturned horse trailer, reaching toward a downed horse. The animal's legs were broken, eyes rolling with pain. And my father—John Dutton, patriarch of the largest ranch in America, the man who'd raised me and my siblings with iron discipline and rare affection—was approaching that dying horse with a gentleness that made something crack in my chest.
Blood ran down John's face from a gash on his forehead. He ignored it completely.
"Easy," he murmured, his voice carrying across the crash site. "Easy, now. I know it hurts. I know."
The horse, despite its pain, seemed to recognize something in John's tone. It stilled slightly.
John drew his sidearm. Put it to the horse's head.
"I know you deserve better," he said softly. "The best I can offer you is peace."
The gunshot echoed across Paradise Valley.
In the ringing silence, father and son locked eyes.
I saw John's expression shift through surprise, recognition, and something that might have been relief. He was seeing his youngest son—the skinny seventeen-year-old who'd left seven years ago—returned as this. A man who looked like he could benchpress a truck, with his mother's eyes and the bearing of someone who'd seen combat.
"Jack," John said, his voice rough.
"Hey, Dad," I replied, crossing the distance. "You're bleeding."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding from a head wound at a crash site," I countered, already reaching for the first aid kit in my saddlebag. "Sit down before you fall down. I learned field medicine in the Rangers. Don't make me pull rank."
John's eyebrows rose. "Pull rank? On me?"
"Yup." I guided him to sit on someone's truck bumper, ignoring his protests. "Emergency medical situations override family hierarchy. I'm pretty sure that's in the Constitution."
"It absolutely is not."
"Well, it should be." I started cleaning the head wound with efficient movements, seven years of patching up injured soldiers making my hands steady. "This is going to sting."
"I've had worse."
"I believe you. Hold still."
Behind us, police sirens wailed closer. I recognized the sound—Sheriff Donnie Haskell's cruiser, probably. Small towns, you learned these things.
"So," John said as I butterfly-bandaged his forehead. "Seven years. Army Rangers."
"Yup."
"Honorably discharged."
"Yup."
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"IED in Syria. Shrapnel. Shoulder's healing but not at Ranger standards anymore." I finished the bandage and stepped back to examine my work. "Clean enough. You'll probably have a concussion. Need to get checked out properly."
"I said I'm fine."
"And I said you're concussed." I grinned slightly. "We can argue about it, but we both know Beth's going to murder both of us if I let you ignore a head injury."
John actually cracked a small smile at that. "She would."
His eyes drifted past me to the Fat Bob, and something like approval crossed his face. "That your bike?"
"Yeah. Fat Bob. I bought her six months ago."
"Good choice," John said. "Aggressive. Suits you."
Coming from John Dutton, that was practically a declaration of paternal pride.
Sheriff Haskell's cruiser skidded to a stop, along with an ambulance and a deputy's car. Haskell—fifty-something, local boy who'd known the Duttons his whole life—rushed over.
"Mr. Dutton! You alright?"
"Fine, Sheriff," John said, trying to wave him off.
"He has a head laceration and possible concussion," I corrected. "The horse was critically injured in the crash, and had to be put down. The big rig driver is dead—brake failure, he said. Paradise Valley Capital Development cut maintenance budgets. You'll want to check service records."
Haskell turned to look at me properly, and his jaw literally dropped. "Jack? Jack Dutton? Holy hell, boy, I didn't—you're—"
"Bigger," John supplied dryly. "The army fed him."
"Rangers," I corrected again. "Just finished my service. That's my bike over there if you need to move it for the investigation."
Haskell looked at the Fat Bob and whistled low. "That's a hell of a machine. Bet she sounds mean."
"Like an angry bear with a megaphone," I confirmed. "Want me to move her?"
"Nah, she's fine where she is. Just... damn, Jack. Welcome home." He shook his head. "Hell of a homecoming."
The next hour was organized chaos. I gave my statement—detailed, thorough, including everything the dying driver had said and my assessment of the scene. Patrick Jane's observational skills meant I could recall details most people wouldn't notice. John Wick's tactical mind meant I'd automatically catalogued the accident dynamics.
Haskell took notes with increasing respect.
"You always this observant?" he asked finally.
"Pays to pay attention," I said simply.
The EMTs tried to convince John to go to the hospital. John refused. I compromised by promising to watch him for signs of serious concussion and haul him to the ER if anything went wrong. The EMTs, knowing the Duttons well enough to recognize a lost cause, reluctantly agreed.
Finally, as the sun started dipping toward the mountains, Haskell clapped me on the shoulder. "You're free to go. Stop by the station tomorrow and write everything up properly?"
"Will do."
As the scene cleared and the last police cars departed, it was just father and son on the roadside. John's truck. My Fat Bob. Seven years of distance that suddenly felt like seven minutes.
"You've changed," John said, studying me.
"Seven years will do that."
"That's not what I mean." John paused, choosing his words with the care of a man who wasn't good at expressing emotion but was trying anyway. "You left here angry. Wanting to prove something. You came back..."
"Different," I finished.
"Settled," John corrected. "Like you found what you were looking for. Did you?"
I thought about Marcus Chen, dying in the rain to save a little girl. Thought about ROB—the universe's weirdest uncle—giving me this impossible gift. Thought about the abilities I now carried and what I could do with them.
"Yeah, Dad," I said. "I think I did."
John nodded slowly. "Good. Well then. Welcome home, son." He paused. "Let's go see your brothers and sister. Beth's going to tackle you. Fair warning."
I grinned. "Looking forward to it."
I swung onto the Fat Bob, feeling the weight settle familiarly beneath me. The engine roared to life with that distinctive snarl that made John shake his head with what might have been amusement.
"Try not to wake up the whole county on the way in," he called.
"No promises," I called back.
Together—John in his truck, me on my bike—we headed down the long dirt road toward the Yellowstone Dutton Ranch.
Toward home.
And toward a future I was determined to change.
I had meta-knowledge of the shows. I had the abilities of three of fiction's most capable characters. I had a family worth protecting and a world worth saving.
Beth was going to be delighted. Lee was going to be confused. Kayce was probably going to want to arm wrestle. Jamie would be... Jamie.
But first things first: I was going to keep my brothers alive, save the ranch, and then head to LA to be the kind of cop Marcus Chen had always dreamed of being.
No pressure.
The Fat Bob's engine rumbled beneath me like a heartbeat—strong, steady, reliable. Everything Marcus's had never been.
The story of Jack Dutton—who had once been Marcus Chen—was just beginning.
And somewhere in the cosmic nothing-space, ROB was probably eating popcorn and laughing his omnipotent ass off.
---
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