Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
My chest clenches. A month ago, that would have sent me running. Tonight, wrapped in their arms, my body still humming, I know what it means.
It’s not ownership or some sort of cage. It’s a place, a bond, and a choice.
I slide my hand over Rhett’s forearm where it crosses my stomach, and Cade’s fingers thread through mine, like he can’t resist touching me. Boone kisses my shoulder, letting his mouth linger there.
“And you’re mine,” I say. “All of you.”
CHAPTER 23
CADE
Most people think moving contraband is hard, but it’s not. The hard part is making sure you can move it again the next day, and the day after that.
When I go out on another reconnaissance mission using the new information we plotted on the maps, I find out Harlan Turner isn’t just running random trips through the wilderness. He has infrastructure in place for long-term operations.
I move slow and stay high, using the terrain the way I was trained to use it. I keep ridgelines between me and open ground, and I spend more time waiting than walking.
The first night, I watch four men come through the pass moving in a staggered formation like before. The lead man carries a rifle across his chest, and the last man keeps turning his head, scanning their backtrail. They’re equipped with night vision, which might be an upgrade since the night Wren first spotted them.
They’re professional enough to be dangerous, but not good enough to spot me.
I photograph them from beneath a stand of twisted spruce, with my body tucked into deadfall and my breathing controlled until my ribs ache. My camera’s wrapped in matte tape so it won’t catch moonlight. Every click is silent.
By dawn, I confirm a second route through another pass, then a third that follows an old game trail that’s been subtly widened over months, maybe longer.
Three active corridors, and all of them converge in a place that makes this situation more fucked.
On the second day, while I’m belly-down above a remote valley west of Elk Run Outfitters’ main client trails, I spot a staging area. It’s mostly hidden below a steep cut of rock and timber, shielded from accidental discovery by deadfall, waterlogged ground, and a decommissioned logging road that used to be impassable.
The road is narrow, rutted, and disguised at the lower access point with brush someone dragged across. From above, I can see a good number of recent tire marks in the dirt.
There are two utility trailers under camo netting, a canvas shelter, stacked fuel containers, and a portable antenna rig tucked against the treeline.
Logistics win wars, and a man with Turner’s background would understand that better than most. Logistics also keep criminal operations running.
There are at least six men guarding the staging area, and at noon, there’s a shift change with a clean, practiced handoff to a new crew. The men wear plate carriers, there are radios clipped to their vests, and they’re carrying the type of weapons no mountain guide has any reason to own.
I photograph everything until my fingers go stiff and the muscles in my shoulders burn from holding still.
I stay through nightfall, through their first movement out of the valley, and through the second. By the time I pull back, I have enough photographs, coordinates, and movement notes to make a DEA agent sit up straight.
I should feel satisfaction from what I’ve accomplished, and I should be recharged after my time alone. Two days on my own in the mountains used to feel like relief, but now the silence only reminds me who isn’t here.
On my way out, I stop under a stand of firs as a realization hits me.
Three weeks. That’s all it took for one stubborn wildlife biologist to reorient something inside me that I thought had hardened into place. Three weeks for a woman to become the center of my focus, not a distraction.
It should make me uneasy, and it does, but I don’t regret a damn thing.
It’s nearly dawn as I circle back toward our land, taking a purposely indirect route. I cut north, follow the high contour, then drop down through a saddle that gives me a long view of the ridgeline behind the cabin.
On my approach, I find a boot print. It’s fresh, and it’s not one of ours.
It’s in a patch of soft soil where pine needles have been pushed aside by pressure and dampness. There’s a deep heel, an aggressive tread, and it’s larger than Wren’s by a mile.
A couple of feet ahead, there’s another. Then another. The angle tells me the man was moving east along the ridgeline, not crossing it. Staying parallel to our property.
I follow the trail without stepping on the prints. Twenty yards in, there’s a branch that’s been cleanly trimmed back with a blade. Another twenty yards, there’s another mark.