But quickly enough.
The blow struck his shoulder.
Pain shot down his arm.
Otis absorbed it, controlled the attacker’s momentum, and put him on the ground.
More explosions shook the farmhouse as Wade’s men used heavier weapons against the structure.
The reinforced sections held.
Inside, defenders remained protected.
“They’re getting frustrated,” Otis said into the radio, breathing harder now. “Watch for mistakes.”
Several attackers rushed toward the barn, believing they had found an opening.
Instead, alarms and barriers disrupted the advance.
Men stumbled back.
Others fired blindly into the darkness.
Otis felt the strain in his joints as he moved toward higher ground.
Age and weight made every step harder than it had once been.
But his mind remained clear.
Across the property, he spotted Wade Gryom directing men toward the grain silo.
Wade’s face was contorted with rage.
And, beneath it, fear.
“They’re pushing east,” Otis warned.
Then something struck his arm.
A sharp burst of pain.
He dropped instinctively behind cover.
“Big O, you hit?” Dre’s voice crackled over the radio.
Otis looked down.
Blood darkened his sleeve.
“Arm,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m all right.”
“Stay focused.”
The attack began collapsing into confusion.
The coordinated assault Wade had imagined was disappearing against a defense his men did not understand.
They fired at shadows.
Shouted over one another.
Retreated from areas they had rushed only moments before.
Otis moved again, his injured arm throbbing.
He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in a dark window.
A large old man moving through his family’s farm with blood on his sleeve.
Not the soft target Wade had expected.
“West side clear,” Marcus reported.
“They’re falling back.”
Another voice followed.
“South side clear. We have several restrained. Minor injuries.”
Otis watched the remaining figures retreat into the darkness.
Angry shouting carried across the fields as Wade’s men dragged their wounded back toward the vehicles.
The first wave had achieved almost nothing.
“Defensive positions,” Otis ordered.
He pressed his good hand against the wound.
“They’ll regroup.”
Dre reached him carrying a first-aid kit.
“Let me see that arm.”
Otis allowed the younger man to clean and wrap the injury while his eyes stayed fixed on the monitors.
The fighting had lasted less than half an hour.
But both of them knew the night was not over.
“They didn’t expect us to be ready,” Dre said.
“They never do,” Otis replied.
His breathing gradually returned to its usual rhythm.
“Pride blinds people.”
He looked toward the darkness beyond the farm.
“Makes them dangerous.”
A pause.
“And vulnerable.”
Around the property, defenders checked equipment, helped the injured, and restored their positions.
The first assault had failed.
But Wade Gryom was still out there.
And everyone knew he was too proud to accept defeat.
The darkness thickened as clouds covered the moon.
Inside the farmhouse, Otis pressed a cold compress against his injured arm while studying the security feeds. Red and orange shapes gathered near the tree line, reorganizing after their failed first assault.
“They’re coming back,” Dre whispered, watching the monitors. “Bigger push this time.”
Otis nodded, his large frame shifting carefully as he moved into position. “They’ll target the house directly now. Pride’s hurt. Hurt pride makes people stupid.”
Moments later, the second assault began.
Fire struck the house, followed by shouting and gunfire. Wade’s voice carried through a megaphone from somewhere beyond the yard, filled with hatred as he urged his men forward.
Otis activated the farmhouse fire suppression system, limiting the flames before they could spread. The attackers continued toward the building, pounding against entrances and windows while defenders inside moved to safer positions.