Author's note: This story contains adult themes, harsh language, and a fair amount of gore and violence. It is rated M for a reason.

Heat waves across rolling hills of granite and limestone distorted the Texas air, creating mirages against the horizon. The sun was at its highest, glaring down the landscape as a prone figure lied motionless with the butt of a .30-6 pressed to her cheek. Around her, like the stagnant heat, were the resonating screams of cicadas. Sweat had taken home between her cheek and the rifle's butt stock, making it a chore to maintain sight picture.

Ahead of her target, unaware of her cross hairs lined up along its back.

It lifted its unsuspecting head, sniffing the summer breeze before perking its ears. Over head, buzzards circled silently.

Exhaling through her mouth, she brought her finger past the trigger guard and against the concave of the trigger. Taking a shallow breath, she held it, realigned her sights, and squeezed the trigger on the exhale.

The shot rang out across the Texas hill country. Th bullet catching its target through the neck, throwing it into the ground within a near back flip. In the backdrop, dirt kicked up and midst the singing cicadas, the rabbit began to scream.

"Shit," the woman cursed, rising up from the ground quickly. Her shot was off and now the meat would be stiff. She slung the rifle across her back and hurried over the limestone and dying cactus' for the downed prey. It thrashed and kicked, slinging dust and blood as the life and wail bled out of it.

Taking the compact 9mm pistol from her appendix carry, she dropped the safety and aimed.

Another shot echoed over the desert hills and the shrill report stopped.

By the ears she carried her game to a parked dirt bike a few hundred meters back. A small utility bag was cinched onto the tail end of the seat. Tossing the top of the bag up, she threw the rabbit carcass inside with two dead rattlesnakes and headed home.

Logan Ryder lived alone, but not in the sense that she was isolated. Her father Caldron Ryder was exceedingly cautious to a fault and had designed a house during his younger years. Not long after, his work sent him overseas indefinitely. Knowing this and with the uncertainty on his return, passed the house unto Logan, his first and only child. With it came the surveillance, the property sensors, and several hundreds of acres.

The layout of the home went as such; Solar panels lined the roofing, providing hot water and electricity. The Ryder's had their own septic system, which was just as difficult as it sounded; a well, cameras set a perimeter around the house, but not the property in its entirety; live feed was accessible through a computer assigned in the main study on the bottom floor. Every window was reinforced, bulletproof, and sound proof; the doors as well.

Having lived several years in the homestead, Logan still couldn't recall every high end detail her father implemented into the estate. It kept her off the grid, that much she knew.

Another attribute her father found absolutely necessary was a safe room, located inside the basement. The subterranean compartment possessed dry foods, such as Meal Ready to Eat, an impressive arsenal, generator, fuel, and Logan was blue in the face trying to remember all the things down there.

Most of the weapons, like the house, were passed down to her. Being Caldron's only child, there was no one else to receive it. Her mother, Jennifer Ryder, did not particularly qualify for the inheritance after their divorce. Apparently a mercenary who may or may not return home in a body bag wasn't a top quality most women sought. Though none of the two prior marriages lasted more than 3 years, it was the money that kept most of them satisfied. After the second wife, Caldron became aware. The third struck luck. Her mom's family was of old oil money and well endorsed without Caldron's help. With this, they married for love and not long after, Logan was born.

When Jennifer got pregnant, they kept the gender a secret until delivery. Unfortunately, her father was so sure Logan would be a boy that they didn't bother considering the possibility that he could actually be a she. When the doctor broke the news upon delivery, they both agreed to keep the name. Either from laziness or they thought they were being unique, she wasn't sure. Twenty-six years later, what difference did it really make? Neither were here to address her and her work referred to her by her last name.

Logan glanced up, finding herself standing alone in her kitchen. Hours were gone, absentminded through it all. The three rattlesnakes she had killed that evening were already skinned, gutted and readied to cook. In her hands currently was the rabbit, a handful of its fur was pulled back from its neck. She had stopped midway, snapping free of her surmounting thoughts.

How many years had it been?

As soon as Caldron discovered his little treasure was a boy but, unfortunately, a girl, the game changed entirely. His existence had already been hard and unforgiving, romance excluded. From the desolate streets of Fallujah as a Marine Recon to the safari planes of Africa, hunting war criminals as an operator, Caldron was no stranger to war, bloodshed, and disappointments. Which, over the course of many years, can rack up a sour reputation amongst those who've had the luxury of crossing paths. He, like many of his comrades, was ready for the worst and took every necessary precaution to ensure his wife and child could withstand on their own should something awry happen. Mostly he ensured Logan had the means of protecting herself. He laid down a strict path for her to follow. It wasn't the easiest and some days were certainly harder than others, but she came through because she knew it would make him proud. The suffering was well worth the reward except...

Now, all that training and following in his wake seemed worthless to her. He had forged a smaller, deadlier version of himself or so he thought. But where was the glory in that if he didn't watch her thrive? She crawled through muddy pits of barbed wire and bracken, tracers and explosions, fought men twice her size, hunted her own game and grew her own food. She was a self-sustaining human, exactly what he wanted her to be. She could fight bare handed, with small arms, or even larger ballistics. She could do all these things because that was what he wanted of her. But where was he now? How did she know his efforts proved a success if he refused to have anything to do with her?

Across the room was the fireplace where family photos rested along the mantle. A picture that always rose more questions than admiration still remained for the world to see: newborn Logan cradled in her weary mother's arms. Of course, it wasn't that aspect that aroused suspicion. It was Jennifer's black eyes nearly swollen shut, the busted lip, and deep purple bruising about her arms and shoulders that startled onlookers. They had to stabilize her before administering the crowning baby the night Logan was born.

My God, her few friends would gasp, what the hell happened to your mom?

I don't know, she'd tell them.

That was the awful truth. Logan worried which was worse. It seemed most of her father's incessant training stemmed from that night, which only made him seem more maniacal considering it'd been over twenty years.

Of course, the hospital called the police and everyone wanted to blame him, even if the evidence was inconclusive. Jennifer made her statements and swore it wasn't domestic violence that placed her in such conditions. But in the same breath, it seemed she refused to say who exactly had done it. That or she didn't know. Whoever it was sent her mom into preterm labor was still out there, still breathing, lurking, maybe even assaulting someone right now. Everything was coming at them at once. An attack. A newborn baby. A life slipping away. By the way, what's the baby's name?

Fuck it, her name is Logan.

Along the white marble top were dark smears of blood and caked dirt. Scales that had fallen off the snake pelt were swept into a pile with the left over tufts of rabbit fur. Logan took a deep breath and respired heavily and with palpable unsatisfaction. The empty house welcomed the sound, drifting over the vacant dining room and living area. Despite how adamantly she ignored it, she knew how long it'd been since she'd spoken, much less seen her father. It remained to plague her with the unknown and frightening uncertainty of his whereabouts and his conditions.

Her hands worked to set aside the meat and clean the counter top. The sun was setting. On her right, the windows were black. On her left, hues of orange, pinks, and purples took blended across the horizon. The coming dusk changed its chorus from cicadas to crickets and frogs near the shallow creek beds along her property. That awful number continued to float through her mind. Flexing her jaw, she tried humming to divert her focus everywhere but on the years that had passed without him. Logan couldn't sing, write poetry, apply makeup-not without help-or walk in heels. She was too busy becoming her father, throwing all her eggs in one basket to branch out anywhere else. Maybe that was why she was single.

"You better be dead," she muttered bitterly to herself as she tossed the pelts into the trash and washed her hands. That's the only excuse she'd allow.

She brought the meats to the stove top and grabbed several bottles of seasonings.

Even her mother was out of touch, but not because of work or the like. She just refused to talk to Logan. Her relationship with her mother wasn't of Hallmark quality. But, for what it's worth, she preferred it that way. The few times they were stuck in a room together, the conversations were forced and distant. Though blood bridged the two genetically, emotionally they were detached and estranged.

Logan wasn't the girl her mother wished to raise. Coming from a high-class oil tycoon, girls were taught at a young age to act refined and disinterested. Caldron made sure otherwise. There was a particular way things had to be done and Logan never learned proper etiquette, much less how to wear a dress, though efforts had been made. Caldron had rules and they were to be followed. Neither Logan or her mother had a say in the matter. A response due to the attack that nearly claimed her life as well as her mother's.

Logan snorted to herself. Truly, he was a maniac.

However, Caldron's rules weren't always followed. Of the ever-growing list, Logan broke one: she joined the United States Army. Her father detested the idea of her serving and certainly made an impression of it during her younger years. Perhaps his time as a Marine showed him sides of the military he found unfitting for his daughter. Another mystery for her to solve another time...or never.

"I can teach you everything you need to know without signing your life away." He'd scold her randomly, even if a mention of enlisting hadn't been made. But that changed after he sold her the house and practically dropped off the map. She did it out of spite, hoping to elicit some type of response from him, lure him out of hiding if it only meant reprimanding. She'd rather hear him shout and bellow in anger than hear nothing at all. Moreover, he always had a way of finding things out. His connections ran deep and wide. Whether networking locally or overseas, he knew someone from somewhere. Nothing happened or could happen without his knowledge. Logan was so certain of this, she feared during her enlistment process, he would somehow sabotage her effort and thus, Logan would be turned away.

But the contract was signed and she had been in three years thus far and still, not a word from her father.

It infuriated her. He was her everything. Her guardian. Her teacher. Her dad! Why would he not return her phone calls? Or emails? Shit, at this rate, she'd be satisfied with a simple text. Just something that showed her he was still alive and not strung up somewhere to bleed out. She feared his absence was the nature of his job. He dealt with diplomats traveling abroad, war criminals setting fire to oil reserves and pirates intercepting freighters across the sea. If it was out of caution and protection that he severed ties, it still bothered her to no end.

Let them come. Whoever they are. Whatever it is they want. She could handle them.

The thought made her stomach twist and for a moment, she lost her appetite and the interest to cook. But that too diminished and she went back to tending to the meats.

In this large empty house there was just Logan, where everything reminded her of Caldron. From the multiple stories to the handcrafted stone fireplace, he had built this home from the ground up. The decorations had also been of her father's hand. Like many Texans, he liked the rustic approach of dark wood floors, darker brick with antlers and leather abound.

Throwing the meats into the stove, she slammed the door shut and pressed bake. The oven clicked and hummed as she stepped back.

This was her routine.

In the mornings, she would rise before the sun, don her flight suit and commute to Austin. From 8 to 5, she'd work. By six, she was home, preparing dinner for one. She considered getting a dog, but what would be the use? Animals were for eating and surviving off of. Logan couldn't imagine cuddling an armadillo or a coatimundi. Not to mention, despite her coarse exterior, Logan had quite the amount of love to offer but the love was assigned for Caldron, her once-doting father. Because of this, she abhorred the idea of loving something smaller with a shorter lifespan. She hadn't the heart to take such a blow if it were to die.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she brought the bottle with her to the living room. Nestling on her wrap-around couch, she tucked her legs beneath her and drank deeply and in her own quiet company. The taste caused her to shudder as the bitterness coated her tongue and throat. Wine was gross, but it helped her sleep and it was healthier than a carbonated beer, though she preferred beer above all else. Especially Texas beers.

The minutes ticked on as she sat in the silent company of pelts, a stag head, and an empty fireplace while the food cooked. She was one glass in when the distant rumble of thunder and a faint flicker of lightning brought her gaze towards a window. As if on cue, the hum of rainfall followed directly after, filling the empty house with its voiceless chorus. The night was impenetrable without a moon but she could see the rain running rivulets down the thick windows. Another sighed filled her lungs and then the living room. This one of content. She liked sleeping through thunderstorms.

Beep!

The sound caused her to glance over her shoulder towards the small device within the study room, the area she kept the live feed camera and computer. Rainfall filled the silence subsequently and for a moment, Logan thought she'd imagined it.

Beep!

It came again. No, she hadn't imagined it.

Rising quickly from the couch, she hurried barefooted over towards the monitor nearby and brought up the night vision camera displays that surrounded her house.

Beep! Beep! Beep! The property gate was opening.

There, she spotted the truck tearing down her driveway through the rain. The gate required a passcode, one that only she and one other knew.

Was her father here?

Her heart leaped for a moment then the heavy lead of doubt and fear followed suit. Abandoning her wine glass, she ran through the living room and kitchen shutting off all the lights and grabbing her pistol. The sound of tires biting into the gravel grew louder as the truck neared. They braked and turned, washing their headlights over the front of Logan's house before coming to an abrupt halt.

Pressing her back against the wall, she took measured breaths to keep a steady heartbeat and adjusted and readjusted her pistol grip at the low ready. A plan had already taken ground in her mind. The night was still young. It couldn't be later than 9 pm and it was a Sunday night. While her thoughts rifled through whom it could be, she leaned carefully to peek out through the blinds of her dining room window.

A tall figure stalked behind and around his truck, avoiding the bright headlights, and came to the passenger side. The door was yanked open, filling the interior with the overhead light. The rain was making it difficult to see. She still couldn't decipher who they were. The sky opened into a fierce downpour by a pronouncing clap of thunder. The interior light went out once the door slammed shut.

Their footfalls came through the gravel and soon…

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

A pounding that kicked started Logan's heart came from the front door.

"Logan!" The man shouted over the rain and beyond the thick door. "Logan, it's me! Open up!"

She recognized that voice. Abandoning her pistol, heart climbing into her throat, she darted across her dining room, knocking chairs over, and slapped lights on. She nearly fell when she entered the foyer, moving with a quick madness as she unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door back.

There he stood; Caldron Ryder in the flesh, alive and...

Next to him, leaning into his arms and unable to stand on his own was a bleeding and battered a man she'd never seen before.

Being Texan, WHY HAVEN'T I WRITTEN A STORY IN TEXAS? What's wrong with me! This is mostly a test chapter. I just watched John Wick 2 and I'm a slight gun nerd so of course I was overwhelmed with inspiration. And I think Keanu is smoking *wags eyebrows* I'd like to know what yall think. if this is a bust, well, I won't waste time continuing it, but if people are interested, yknow how it goes.

Thanks for reading.