5:35 p.m. EST — White Owl Ranch, Signal Mountain, Tennessee
America ripped off her blindfold and squinted downrange, searching for her target along with everyone else. Though no one could identify where her arrow had landed, the Turnbull brothers were already celebrating their victory. Kachine emerged from behind the targets, waving and shouting “Cease fire!” before inspecting the boards.
“Wow, I can’t believe she missed,” Kiasax remarked, scanning the targets. From where she was standing the challenger had landed three arrows on his target, all bullseyes. While America had only landed two, one in the outer ring and one in a pumpkin.
“Look closer,” Kachine smiled, as she approached America’s target and removed an arrow from the pumpkin, revealing a second arrow that had landed so close to the first that it was hardly visible. Kachine tossed the arrow over to Kiasax, who lifted it high above her head, prompting the crowd to erupt into cheers and applause.
“What did I tell you, folks?” Africa shouted, dancing with the crowd, “She’s the best in the world!”
As the crowd began to chant her name, America caught a glimpse of two horseback riders in the distance racing across the ranch toward the north gate. Leading the charge was her uncle and head rancher Percy Cuthand, astride his rare and stubborn Faroese horse, Selu. Behind him, rode her stepfather Logan Graham atop Ana’s brawny black Quarter horse Yona. As they vanished from her view, America couldn’t help but wonder what had them in such a rush.
White Owl Ranch’s northernmost gate served as the main entry and exit point for members of the general public. When Percy and Logan arrived at the gate they were surprised to see such a lengthy queue of cars still waiting to get into the festival. Two vehicles were holding up the line: a Signal Mountain Police motorcycle and a black Chevy Suburban Z71 with tinted windows and government plates.
Outside the gate shack, Signal Mountain Police Officer Dane Willowby was arguing with a young Nektan guard named Bilagana “Billy” Rivers.
“Just the guy I wanted to see,” Dane laughed as he approached Percy. “Can you tell this youngin’ here we got an appointment with the queen?”
“We’ll take it from here,” Percy told Billy, waving him off. Billy bowed slightly and went to check on the other vehicles.
Inside the Suburban, FBI agents Zia Brahmin and Jinhai Pho observed in silence as Officer Willowby flashed them a big thumbs-up before mounting his bike.
“Here we go,” Agent Pho muttered, his voice intertwining with the growl of the engine as he steered the truck through the gate’s massive wrought iron doors. “Ready to interview the chief of a nation?”
“Ready as a cat with nine lives,” Agent Brahmin replied, calmly flipping through her notepad and twirling her pen. Lifting her gaze, her eyes swept across the windshield and settled upon the passenger side mirror. There, outside her window, just beyond her shoulder, she could see the reflection of a mysterious black orb floating in mid-air.
“Everything alright?” Agent Pho inquired, stealing a glance at Agent Brahmin’s face, which resembled the look of a gazelle that had just spotted a prowling lion.
“There’s a drone outside the—” Agent Brahmin’s words vanished into thin air, as an alert message blared across the speakers and center console warning of an object in close proximity. Reacting quickly, Agent Brahmin seized her phone, dropped her window, and captured a rapid-fire succession of snapshots before sticking her head out to scan the truck’s surroundings.
“A drone?” Agent Pho asked, his eyes darting between the rearview and side mirrors in search of any lingering presence. “Where?”
“It’s gone,” she replied, fixing her hair.
“We’ll, I’m pulling over.”
“Keep driving,” she asserted, swiftly swiping through the photos in her phone, realizing none had successfully captured an image of the drone. “We’re in their arena, so we’ll play by their rules.”
Emerging from the clouds, a sleek black aerial drone descended upon the roof of the Black House with the velocity of a shooting star. Ingeniously designed, the drone unveiled a set of air holes on its face which released calculated bursts of air to facilitate its deceleration. Stabilizing itself, the drone secured a perfect landing within Yakota Haize’s outstretched hand.
“Well done, little one,” he grinned, balancing an umbrella in one hand and stuffing the drone into a satchel attached to his uniform with the other. Advancing towards the highest point on the roof, Yakota settled on the ridge, immersing himself in the panoramic view that unfolded before him—the sprawling ranch below teaming with life and the lush forest that lay beyond it, all in perfect clarity. “Gangs hmm, what a fascinating revelation.”
Inside the Black House, the first floor was a buzz with clan members. The family great room hummed with animated discussions, as old Nektans delved into an array of topics that spanned the spectrum of human imagination. Meanwhile, the hallways bustled with festival workers, some hurrying to deliver supplies to the public, while others took a well-deserved break, engaging in cheerful conversations along the walls.
The kitchen was filled to the brim with beautiful women working together to keep the festival stocked with fresh Nektan delicacies. Anchoring the scene, Ana stood at the kitchen island, vigorously stirring a sizable pot of grape dumplings. To her left, Osceola was busy draining out some greasy fry bread; to her right, her esteemed older cousins, Senneca and Taregan Maize were diligently filling hundreds of paper bags with fried hominy.
Rancher Jolon Cuthand entered the kitchen, swiftly made his way over to Ana, and whispered, “Our guests are on the way.”
“Great,” she replied in a deadpan tone, as she handed her ladle over to Osceola and removed her apron. “Has the greenhouse been prepared?”
“Yes, chief.”
“Alright then, let’s get this over with.”
Logan and Percy charged towards the Black House, their horses moving with a powerful grace that mirrored their riders’ determined expressions. Upon reaching the front porch, they were welcomed by Taregan’s warm smile and Senneca’s cold gaze.
“Allow me,” Taregan asked, descending the front steps and grabbing hold of Yona’s reins.
“Certainly,” Logan replied, as he dismounted the horse, removed his saddle, and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Is she ready?” Percy asked, removing a handful of Cheerios from his breast pocket and feeding them to his horse.
“Yes,” Senneca replied, “Please, allow me to take Selu back to the stalls so you can attend the meeting.”
“Is it not my sworn duty to protect Onacona?”
“Yes, but—”
“And is it not your sworn duty to protect the chief?”
“Yes, but the chief has requested your presence—”
“We will not abandon our duties for these strangers. That is not our way.” And with that, Percy spun his horse around and rode back to where the officers had parked their vehicles.
Agent Brahmin hopped out of the Suburban, shut the door, and slid her arms through the sleeves of her dark blue blazer. Agent Pho made his way around the truck with Officer Willowby close behind him.
“Somethin’ sure smells good,” Officer Willowby remarked, loading a wad of dip into his mouth. “That’s one thing about them Nektans,” he continued, now standing in front of both agents, “They sure know how to throw down on a grill.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Percy announced, bringing his horse to a halt before the gathered officers. “Would you kindly proceed towards—” Pausing abruptly, he swiftly turned his steed, captivated by a bone-chilling cacophony of screams echoing in the distance. In a matter of seconds, a chaotic stampede of frightened festivalgoers came surging up the hill toward the Black House.
“What the heck is going on?” Agent Brahmin asked Percy, removing the gun from her holster and holding it at low ready.
“This is quite unusual,” Percy replied, fighting to keep his horse calm as hundreds of visitors raced past him, pushing and screaming.
“He’s got a weapon!” shouted one of the guests.
“They’re shooting arrows at each other!” shouted another.
“Arrows?” chorused the agents.
“Dammit, not again,” Percy grumbled. “Stay here, I’ll be right—”
“I’m coming with you,” Agent Brahmin declared, grabbing hold of Percy’s arm and hoisting herself onto the back of his horse.
“Are you out of your mind?” Percy shouted, spinning Selu around.
“A little, yes,” she replied, wrapping her arms around Percy’s waist. “Now let’s go before more people get hurt.”
5:52 p.m. EST — White Owl Ranch, Signal Mountain Tennessee
The fairgrounds, positioned southeast of the ranch, resembled the haunted likeness of a ravaged battlefield. Amongst the shattered glass and splintered wood, hung a myriad of arrows, their tips firmly embedded into the surface of every discernible object.
There, hidden behind a weathered sign riddled with arrows, America sat in deep contemplation, her heaving breaths harmonizing with the tension in the air. How did things get so out of hand? She thought, wiping the sweat from her eyes and scanning the area around her. A few paces to her left she could see Kachine, Savon, and Opera crouched behind the rear tire of an old utility tractor. Far off to her right, she could see Kaisax and Africa hiding safely behind a ring-toss booth.
America yanked two arrows out of the sign behind her and stuck them into the waistband of her skirt. Then, after summoning up enough courage, she took off running toward a nearby pumpkin patch surrounded by a wall of compressed hay bales. As soon as she was seconds away from the patch, a volley of arrows came zipping through the clouds above her. Diving for covering, America rolled behind the bales just in time to watch twenty arrows sink into the ground and hay around her.
“No freakin’ way!” she screamed, as a shiver ran down her spine. “Nope, I can’t, nope.”
“Pull yourself together, Mary!” Kiasax shouted as she raced past America carrying a small bale of hay over her head. “Now’s our chance to advance. Grab a bale and follow me!” America did just that but as soon as she caught up with Kiasax another wave of arrows came raining down on them. “Take cover!”
Mirroring Kiasax, America hit the ground and huddled behind the bale just as the onslaught of arrows sank into everything around them.
“It’s Tusk,” Kiasax confirmed, peeking over her bale, “and from the look of it, he’s created some sort of machine that can fire multiple arrows at once.”
America’s heart pounded in her chest as she glanced at Kiasax, who was still trying to peer over the top of her bale. “A machine?” America whispered in disbelief, adrenaline surging through her veins. She wiped sweat from her brow and whispered, “How are we supposed to fight that?”
Kiasax grimaced. “We run, regroup, and figure out a plan.”
Just then, a sharp whistle pierced the air. America’s eyes darted toward the sound, spotting a shadowy figure sprinting from the far side of the field. It was Yakota, charging forward, crouching low. In one fluid motion, he slapped the rear of his black thoroughbred, Tsiqsiquu, sending the horse galloping down the field as he leaped off and dashed for cover.
“Stay down!” Yakota called out to them, sliding behind the hay bales next to America. His face was serious, jaw clenched with determination. “I’ve seen Tusk’s contraption. It’s bad—really bad—but it’s not perfect. The reload time is slow.”
Kiasax nodded, already thinking ahead. “So, we have a window.”
America’s mind raced. Tusk was dangerous, reckless, and if he’d built some sort of arrow-launching machine, he was more dangerous than ever. “How long until it reloads?” she asked, clutching the compound bow tightly in her hand.
“Maybe thirty seconds,” Yakota said. “It’s enough time if we’re smart about it. But we can’t fight him head-on.”
“Then what do we do?” America asked, frustration building. “We can’t just keep hiding.”
“No,” Yakota agreed. “But we can lure him into a trap.” He glanced at Kiasax, who was already nodding, and then to America. “We’re going to need distractions—enough to make him lose focus.”
America caught on quickly. “If he’s focused on a target, he won’t notice someone sneaking up behind him.”
Kiasax smiled. “Exactly. And that’s where you come in. You’re the best shot we’ve got.”
America’s eyes narrowed, determination swelling inside her. “I’ll take the shot.” She pulled the arrows from her waistband, fingers brushing over the smooth wood of the shafts. Her earlier nerves dissipated, replaced by the resolve to bring Tusk down.
“We’ll need everyone’s help,” Yakota added, “Kachine, Opera, and Africa too. If we all work together, we can catch him off guard.”
Just then, another wave of arrows whistled through the air, crashing into the hay bales around them. America flinched but didn’t move. “Let’s do it.”
With a quick plan in place, they scattered across the field, ducking between hay bales and broken booths. America could see Africa, Opera, and Kachine already in motion, sneaking through the chaos to get into position.
Yakota sprinted ahead, signaling for Kiasax and America to follow. They dashed across the pumpkin patch, avoiding the stray arrows that still fell sporadically from the sky. The timing was perfect; in the chaos, Tusk’s attention was scattered. He couldn’t keep track of them all.
Finally, they reached the cover of a large barn near the edge of the festival grounds. The dark wooden structure provided just enough shelter from the field of fire, and from this position, they could see Tusk and his brothers clearly.
Tusk was at the center of the chaos, standing tall, a makeshift machine perched on his shoulder, firing volleys of arrows like a twisted, medieval warlord. The contraption was crude but terrifyingly effective. It resembled a cross between a giant crossbow and a crude Gatling gun, with arrows mounted in rotating slots, ready to be fired at will.
“Alright,” Yakota whispered, crouching beside the barn door, “we’re going to split his focus. When he turns toward me and Kiasax, you take the shot, America.”
America swallowed hard, nodding. Her fingers were steady, though her mind was racing. She pulled out an arrow and nocked it onto her bow, breathing slowly to calm her nerves.
“Wait for the signal,” Yakota instructed. “We’ll only get one shot at this.”
Kiasax and Yakota darted from cover, making as much noise as they could, tossing rocks and shouting at Tusk. Predictably, the red-haired Turnbull turned toward them, shouting orders to his brothers and taking aim with his machine.
“Now!” Yakota called, just as the machine started to whirr and clank, preparing to fire.
America didn’t hesitate. She stood, raised her bow, and aimed, her body moving on instinct. She felt the wind on her face, just like during the archery competition earlier, and adjusted her aim.
She let the arrow fly.
The world seemed to slow as the arrow soared through the air, slicing through the space between them. Tusk, mid-turn, never saw it coming. The arrow struck the center of the machine, embedding itself in the mechanism. Sparks flew as the machine jammed, grinding to a halt with a horrible screech.
Tusk bellowed in rage, ripping the broken machine from his shoulder and tossing it aside. But without his weapon, he was vulnerable. Yakota, Kiasax, and the others moved in, surrounding him, their bows drawn.
“It’s over, Tusk,” America said, stepping forward, bow still in hand. “You’ve lost.”
Tusk glared at her, his eyes wild with fury. “This isn’t over, Mury,” he spat. “Not by a long shot.”
“Go ahead,” Yakota said, his voice calm but firm. “Keep talking. It’ll be the last thing you do before we hand you over to the sheriff.”
But Tusk wasn’t one to go down without a fight. He reached into his belt, pulling out a small knife, ready to charge.
America was quicker. In a flash, she nocked another arrow and fired, the arrow embedding itself in the ground just inches from Tusk’s feet. He froze, realizing that his odds weren’t looking so good.
“Go on,” America said. “I dare ya.”
For a long moment, Tusk hesitated, his hand twitching toward the knife. But finally, with a growl of frustration, he threw the knife down and raised his hands in surrender.
“I’ll be back,” Tusk sneered as his brothers slowly backed away, realizing the fight was over.
“I’m countin’ on it,” America replied, her voice steady and strong.
Just as America finished speaking, Tusk and his brother bolted into the woods, laughter echoing behind them.
At that moment, Agent Brahmin and Percy rode up, skidding to a halt as they spotted the fleeing figures. Tusk glanced back, waving his middle finger up in defiance.
“Those kids must be the culprits,” Agent Brahmin said, her voice sharp with urgency. “We need to detain them.”
“Hold on,” Percy replied, shaking his head. “Those boys are the sheriff’s sons and the mayor’s grandsons. They won’t spend a night in jail for shooting arrows at hay bales.”
“But they could’ve hurt someone!” Agent Brahmin insisted, her eyes narrowing at the retreating figures.
Percy scanned the scene. “From the looks of it, no one got hurt. We’ll let them go for now and handle this without escalating it further.”
Agent Brahmin hesitated, frustration evident on her face, but nodded reluctantly.
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