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But then he moves—the way ex-DEA does with the confidence of someone who has been the most dangerous thing in most of his rooms and has started to believe it as a permanent condition.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

I don’t answer him.

He’s good.

He’s big, and he’s fast, and there’s a reason Jessup pays him. He gets a hit to my ribs that’s going to hurt tomorrow. But I’ve been in rooms considerably more dangerous than a motel in rural Colorado, and the aptitude I developed over two tours has not diminished.

He goes down on the thin carpeted floor.

I crouch beside him.

He’s breathing.

He’ll be fine.

He’s going to be unhappy and will need to have his ribs taped, and get that nose fixed, but he’ll be fine.

“Get out of Wildflower Canyon.” I keep my lips close to his ear so he can hear me loud and clear. “Now—right after you wash the blood off your face. And don’t come back.”

He looks up at me. A recalculation is happening behind his eyes.

“Tell Jessup you ran out of runway,” I continue. “Tell him Mason Brooks sorted it. Now, say, ’Yes, I got that.’”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He’s a dumb moron—but he’s not that dumb. He knows he’s beat.

“Yeah. I got that,” he chokes out.

I stand, walk out of his room, and close the door that he’s gonna have to pay damages for.

I get into my truck and drive back to Wildflower Canyon.

I sit in the parking lot of the Ridgeline with the engine running, stare at the steering wheel, and give myself exactly five minutes to get my shit together.

Then I call Jessup.

He answers on the second ring. He’s been watching for my name.

“Mason.” He sounds cheerful, like one does when being kind to the help.

“Senator.” I keep my voice even. “Your man at the Meadowlark Motor Lodge is going to need a ride and a hospital. You should send someone.”

A pause.

“I see.” The cheer is gone from his tone now. The ownership he felt over me a moment ago is thinner now, stretched over something harder underneath.

I know that what I do next ends my line of work.

Not just with Jessup—ultimately, all of it.

I’m not worried about money. But I’m ending a way of life I built carefully over years and was, until recently, entirely comfortable with. I’m not comfortable any longer—in fact, I don’t know what I am.

A man who has had clarity his whole life turns out to be surprisingly bad at boggy ground.

“I have something for you.”

“Finally.” Now he’s back to sounding like an asshole talking while he smokes a cigar and drinks expensive whiskey. “I was starting to wonder if you were worth what I’m paying you.”