The first truck crested the rise behind them with too much speed to be accidental.
Zubair saw it in the side mirror before anyone else spoke. A battered pickup with a welded grille and mud-caked panels, the kind Hope Sanctuary used for patrol runs beyond the perimeter. A second vehicle followed, then a third, spacing tight enough to keep each other in sight.
Psycho leaned forward between the front seats, eyes bright. "That's Bishop."
Sera didn't glance back. Her hands stayed loose on the wheel, posture relaxed, as if pursuit was a minor inconvenience. The smile she'd worn when she warned the family still lingered faintly, softened into something sharper.
"Fifteen," Lachlan said, looking over his shoulder without moving his body much. "Maybe more if they doubled up."
Zubair didn't need the count to feel the intent. Those trucks weren't coming out here to talk. They were coming out here because someone had told them they could still fix this with guns and numbers.
