he picked it up and sighted the surrounding acreage to check the calibration of the scope. In the distance, he spotted a modest cabin. It was no less attractive than the giant looming over its shoulder like a guard. More so, because it looked like a home rather than a showpiece for people to envy. He started to lower his rifle when movement caught his eye. What seemed to be two males and a tiny female exited the home and climbed inside a white pickup. He continued to watch as the vehicle pulled away, wondering about the family.
Logan had grown up in the foster system, so he had no clue what it was like to belong to people in the most basic of sense. He’d been found on the side of the road at the age of four, hungry and covered in dirt. The Nashville police never found his mother, or so he was told, but when he was eighteen and ready to join the army, he’d dug around. His mother was a junkie with no family—another kid lost to the foster care system. She’d overdosed in her car, and Logan had crawled out a window when she didn’t wake up. Until he’d enlisted and became brothers with Coop, Buster, and Loverboy, he’d never had a real family. Only crowded foster homes where everyone fended for themselves.
He gritted his teeth at the memory. It was best to leave the past where it belonged. No good came from holding onto it, and he sure as hell didn’t need more demons fighting for dominance.
When he could no longer see their vehicle, Logan jerked his rifle down and stored it carefully in the toolbox. After securing his gear, he pulled out his toothbrush. He could tolerate soiled clothes and go without a shower for days on end, but not dirty teeth. It’s how he got his nickname, Crest. Twice a day like clockwork, he brushed. You learned fast in foster care that dentist appointments were few and far between. You either kept your teeth in good condition, or you suffered from the neglect.
Done with his teeth, he turned to his side mirror and looked at his scruff. With the temps what they were, a fuller beard would come in handy, so he let it go and ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. It was too long, even for a civilian, but he didn’t give two fucks. He’d worn his buzz cut with pride for years, but short hair only reminded him of what he’d lost, so just like his beard, he let it ride. The sooner Logan “Crest” Storm was gone in every way, the better.
With Google Maps open, Logan followed the directions for Ennis, Montana. He hit a narrow highway and picked up speed while Max stuck his head out the window. Ten miles down the road, he spotted a white truck on the side of the road. He couldn’t tell if it was the same make and model he’d seen through his scope, so he slowed his speed and glanced inside the cab as he passed. All three passengers were looking into the distance as if hypnotized. He caught a pained look on one of the males’ faces, so Logan immediately pulled onto the shoulder and put his truck into park, watching them through the rearview. No one moved from what he could see. They looked frozen in place. Assessing the situation for a moment longer, Logan made the only decision he could as a soldier, so he reached over and opened his glovebox, grabbing his 9mm. He stuffed it into the back of his jeans, covering it with his shirt, then he told Max to Stay.
Logan exited his truck slowly, scanning the surrounding area out of habit, looking for enemies that were no longer gunning for him, before heading in their direction. As he grew closer to the truck, he raised his hand in an offer of friendship, but his attention was focused on the two males. If the female was in trouble, they were the most significant threat.
Within five feet of the hood, he glanced quickly at the woman and almost stopped in his tracks. Her light-colored eyes were rimmed red, her face a mask of heartache and pain. She was staring at him with such hopelessness that his heart lodged in his throat, and his training kicked into high gear, quickening his pace. Yet, through all of the adrenaline flooding his system as he approached, it