Chapter 1198: Hackett-Barron Farm

“Jack! There—tall, skinny guy in camo. That’s the younger brother, Wyatt,” JJ called from the passenger seat.

At the same time, Jack spotted the black Mercedes parked by the curb and saw Wyatt Hammond stepping out with an MP5 submachine gun featuring a folding stock.

“Any sign of Greg?” Jack asked, eyes locked on the suspect as he awkwardly reached left-handed for his Sig Sauer P320-XTen from his holster.

“No, looks like he’s alone. No bag—just the SMG in hand,” Aubrey called out, half-hanging out the car window before pulling back inside.

Wyatt had clearly realized the sirens were coming for him and glanced frantically down the street, only to see himself already flanked by law enforcement from both ends.

As he turned back toward the Mercedes to try and make a break for it, gunshots rang out. Bullets struck the pavement at his feet, sending up chips of rock and forcing him into a panicked sprint down a side alley.

Jack’s warning shots—fired quickly and left-handed—weren’t perfectly placed, but they served their purpose.

Two kids, maybe twelve or thirteen, were caught on the sidewalk nearby. Startled by the gunfire, they immediately crouched down in place.

Jack swerved the full-sized Suburban violently, the tires screeching under the weight as it blocked off the street and shielded the children.

JJ jumped out from the passenger seat and guided the shaken kids away. “You’re okay, you’re okay. Come with me.”

“Wyatt! Don’t do something stupid!” Jack yelled, grabbing the Noveske N4 rifle Aubrey handed him and jumping out of the SUV. He called after Wyatt, who was now sprinting down the alley.

But Wyatt answered with a burst of 9mm Parabellum rounds, several slamming into the Suburban’s frame and leaving visible holes amid the sparks.

“Idiot,” Jack muttered, his patience gone. He raised his rifle, aimed briefly, and fired.

Wyatt stumbled mid-run, crashing to the ground. He tried to rise, but couldn’t—managing only to roll behind a parked car for cover.

“Surrender, Wyatt!” Jack shouted as he slowly advanced, keeping to the line of parked vehicles.

Behind him, the second Suburban driven by Jubal screeched onto the sidewalk. Hannah emerged with a G28E precision rifle, resting it on the car door for a clear shot.

Gunfire continued. Wyatt, now pinned behind the car, stretched out his hand and blindly fired his MP5 in Jack’s direction.

Jack took cover behind a Camry’s hood, waiting patiently. When the magazine finally ran dry, he called out again.

“Don’t be an idiot, Wyatt. You and your brother Greg were once good men. But you can’t keep killing innocent people—especially Julia. She’s only 19. Her only crime was sharing the Griffin name. Think about that.”

“It’s too late. Kill me. I’m not surrendering,” Wyatt shouted back, reloading and firing another wild burst.

Jack glanced toward Hannah. She gave a slight nod. Jack gestured—green light to fire.

A crisp shot rang out. Wyatt screamed and dropped behind cover.

Like a panther, Jack sprang forward, sprinting the last few meters. He leapt onto the car’s roof in one swift motion.

He didn’t say a word—Wyatt was determined to die, and Jack had no time to negotiate. Flipping the rifle, he slammed the butt into Wyatt’s head like a baseball bat—knocking him cold.

Wyatt was already bleeding from his leg and shoulder, yet had still tried to reach for the weapon. Now, finally unconscious.

—

“AHH!” The pain from the tourniquet snapped Wyatt back to consciousness.

“Tell me your brother’s plan, Wyatt. What is Greg going to do?” Jack said calmly, trying once more to reason with him while binding his wounds.

“Julia is innocent—just like your niece. The EPA team arrives tomorrow. Larry Griffin is already done for. There’s no need to take another innocent life.”

“I… I won’t betray Greg. Never. ‘There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.’”

Quoting Thoreau’s Walden, Wyatt turned his head and clamped his mouth shut.

“You son of a beach,” Aubrey snarled, slamming a fist down on the car’s trunk in frustration.

“We’re offering you a chance to lessen your sentence. You think we don’t have other ways?”

He fished out Wyatt’s phone, flipping through the call log.

Just then, Jubal—having just gotten off the phone—walked over and tapped Aubrey on the shoulder. “No need. Clay called. Larry Griffin left the house in a rush after taking a call.”

“Huh?” Aubrey looked toward his girlfriend. “But wasn’t his phone in Alice’s hands?”

“Yeah,” Jubal nodded, glancing at the now-silent Wyatt. “But Greg called Larry’s girlfriend instead. Clay is tailing him now. We need to move.”

—

“Hackett-Barron Farm,” JJ read from the faded sign, the letters barely visible under layers of peeling paint.

“I’ve seen that logo before,” Jack said, turning onto the narrow road leading toward the farm. He eyed the painted bullhead symbol and felt a flicker of recognition.

“Ah-ha. Clay and I saw the same logo on a hat hanging on the memorial wall at that agricultural supply shop. This farm used to belong to the store owner’s father.”

“You think the shop owner might’ve known something—or even helped them?” Aubrey asked.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Jack replied, shaking his head, remembering she had lung cancer.

Neither Suburban had turned on its sirens. As they neared the farm, they cut the lights and slowed to a crawl.

Suddenly, Clay emerged from a patch of roadside bushes, waving them over.

“Larry went inside about three minutes ago,” he whispered, pointing to a dilapidated barn in the distance.

“Pairs. Stay alert,” Jack ordered, handing Clay a vest and rifle, and motioned for JJ to follow him.

Inside the decrepit barn, Larry Griffin stumbled forward after being shoved, nearly falling into a pile of foul-smelling straw.

“Dad!” Julia, tied to a broken wooden chair, cried out, voice choked with tears.

“Please—just let her go,” Larry said as he saw she was still alive. Relief washed over him as he tried to smile at Greg, who was holding him at gunpoint.

“Whatever you want, take it. Money, anything—just don’t hurt my daughter.”

“Oh, right. Of course. For people like you, everything can be fixed with money, can’t it?” Greg sneered, stepping back and retrieving an IV set and a dark, unidentifiable bag from behind a wooden post.