“I’ll take him.”
Brock blinked.
Then greed replaced irritation.
“Cost me five hundred bucks. You carrying that much cash, sweetheart?”
“No.”
He laughed and turned away.
“But I have my truck.”
That stopped him.
All three looked toward my restored F-150.
Lifted.
Immaculate.
Worth far more than five hundred dollars.
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about dogs.”
I walked to the shooting bench and unzipped my long canvas case.
Inside rested my custom .338 Lapua Magnum.
Desert-tan finish.
Precision build.
Nightforce optic.
The same platform I had carried during my final deployment.
The laughter died.
I pointed toward a rust-covered steel plate one thousand yards away.
Wind ripped across the valley.
“I fire five rounds.”
Brock stared at the target.
“If I miss once, you get my truck.”
His expression changed.
“The title. The keys. Everything.”
“And if you somehow hit all five?”
I rested my hand on the Shepherd’s head.
