Page 21 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

“It wasn’t random, Sheriff,” Dog stated, cutting straight to the point. “Molotov through a window, Link saw it on camera. Precision strike. Someone wants a message sent to Margaret.”

Brody frowned, his eyes narrowing. “So it’s Winslow, then. Figured as much. Your guest, I gather, is related to the initial incident last week?” He looked at Dog and Bear, a silent question passing between them. “Look, boys, I know what you do up on that mountain. And I know the kind of trouble that follows some of the folks you help. I don’t have the manpower or the resources for something this big, not when you’re talking about folks with that kind of reach.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “But this is my town, and this clinic is important to these folks. I’m willing to work with you. You keep me in the loop, you don’t break any laws I can’t look the other way on, and we’ll get this son of a bitch.”

“Agreed,” Bear said, a hint of respect in his voice. “We’ll keep you informed, Sheriff. And we appreciate your trust.”

Dog walked to the shattered window, looking into the charred remains of the room. A consultation room. Designed for quiet conversations, for rebuilding lives. Now, a burnt-out shell. This was Charles. This was his rage. This was his message: I can still hurt you. I can still take things you care about.

“We have reason to believe he’s connected to some very dangerous people,” Bear added. “The fire is a warning. It won’t be the last.”

Brody sighed, running a hand over his face. “Alright. My uniform boys will handle the forensics here. You boys go do what you do best. Just remember our arrangement.”

“We will,” Dog promised, his gaze sweeping over the smoldering ruins of his clinic. “But for now, I need a full investigation. And I need to know no one else gets hurt.”

He looked back at the mountain, at the distant lights of the Farm, his mind a cold, hard knot of determination. Charles Winslow had just made this personal. And Barkley “Dog” Berkshire, a man who had built a life patching up broken things, was about to rebuild the clinic stronger than ever. But first, he was going to dismantle Charles Winslow, piece by painful piece.

14 - MARGARET

The steady, subsonic hum of the bunker’s generator vibrated through the soles of Margaret’s shoes, a rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic, erratic thrum of her own heartbeat. Trapped within the formidable depths of the farm’s safe room, a suffocating wave of guilt threatened to pull her under. Every muted clink or shifted weight from beyond the reinforced walls amplified a stark, undeniable reality: she had brought her nightmare to their doorstep.

A sniper. A Molotov cocktail.

She looked around at the women and children sharing her air, her stomach twisting into a cold, hard knot. The thought that these good people, who had offered her nothing but sanctuary, might pay the price for her escape was almost too much to bear.

Yet, even as self-recrimination clawed at her throat, an unfamiliar sense of awe forced its way through her panic. This wasn’t some cobbled-together storm cellar; it was a masterwork of engineering and tactical foresight. The smooth, seamless concrete walls, the whisper-quiet air filtration system, the meticulously categorized rows of survival supplies: it all spoke of a profound understanding of threat. It was an environment built on an unwavering commitment to protection.

Embedded in the far wall, a discreet, high-definition monitor displayed a continuous feed from the exterior cameras, offering a silent, watchful eye over the farm’s perimeter. Margaret’s gaze drifted from the screen to the bunker’s entry point, a thick, steel bulkhead far more substantial than any bank vault she’d ever seen. It was designed to withstand a siege, and it could be unlocked only from the inside. It was a detail that left her feeling simultaneously unnerved and profoundly secure.

Around her, a scene of quiet determination unfolded, sharp and clear against the bleakness of their confinement. At the sturdy, built-in table, Flora sat calmly, watching eight-year-old Kenzi effortlessly breeze through pre-algebra, while her eleven-year-old brother, Rhys, tapped his pencil impatiently against a geometry worksheet.

“Mom, I don’t need to review the Pythagorean theorem,” Rhys murmured, keeping his voice low but laced with restless energy. “Sammy and I already wrote the evasion algorithm for the drone. The software does the calculations.”

Flora didn’t look up from grading Kenzi’s paper. “An algorithm is only as good as the foundational math behind it, Rhys. Technology fails. Your brain shouldn’t. And until you can explain the proof to me, you’re finishing the worksheet.”

Rhys sighed, though a grudging look of respect crossed his face. He switched his pencil to his other hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

Beside them, little Amelia colored intently, holding up a crayon drawing of a bright yellow circle. “Look, Auntie Noor! It’s shining!”

Noor offered a warm, encouraging smile, seamlessly slipping into her role as the farm’s resident linguist. “It is beautiful, habibti. Do you remember our lesson? What is the word for sun?”

Amelia scrunched up her face in thought before beaming. “Shams!”

“Excellent,” Noor praised softly, returning to her sketching.

On a thick woven rug, Elena sat cross-legged, her kind, perceptive eyes bright as she animatedly read a storybook aloud to Noor’s young twins. Curled tightly beside her, Salty snored softly, occasionally twitching a paw in a dream. “And the little bear decided that honey was the bestest treat of all!”

In the corner, Eloise, the farm’s formidable matriarch, knitted with practiced, rhythmic movements. Her sharp eyes occasionally swept over the room, assessing, guarding, ensuring all was well. “Ach, Flora, are those the new emergency rations? They look better than the last ones we got in. I always say, a good belly helps much with waiting.” Her German accent, a faint, comforting burr, softened the practical words.

Flora glanced over, a faint smile touching her lips. “Lukas says they’re surprisingly good, Eloise. Like a hearty stew.”

Lukas, quietly polishing a well-used set of hand tools beside her, chimed in. “Ja, better than field MREs, that’s for sure.” His own accent was less pronounced than Eloise’s, a slight lilt to his words that was almost imperceptible unless you were listening for it.

His hands were busy, but Margaret noticed his gaze kept flicking to the high-definition monitor, his head tilted slightly as he listened to the comms feed in his earpiece.

Suddenly, the rhythmic swipe of Lukas’s polishing cloth stopped.

Margaret, hyper-aware of every shift in the room, locked onto him. The relaxed slope of his shoulders vanished, replaced by a rigid, coiled tension. He pressed a finger to his ear.

“Link,” Lukas murmured, his voice pitched so low the younger children wouldn’t hear, but the sudden sharpness in his tone made Flora’s head snap up. “What the hell? I’ve got eyes on Jax and Shadow approaching the main drive. Aren’t they supposed to be with the rock star in Vegas?”