Chapter Eight
Between Bitterroot Falls and Cutthroat Creek, Montana
It was a mistake. It was a mistake. It was a mistake.
His words blasted through Christina’s head over and over again. Touching Jackson was a mistake. Kissing him was a mistake.
Wanting him so desperately after all this time?
The biggest mistake.
But it cut her to the bone that he felt that way about her. Still.
And she’d thrown herself at him. Set herself up for the rejection. To him, she was worse than biker trash now. She was a murder suspect, wanted for shooting three men. One of whom had been his boss and friend.
When he looked at her, he probably saw someone who had spent six years lying and manipulating.
Even if it was all in the name of good.
What had she been thinking? To kiss him. To tell him she wanted him. To think about giving herself over to him, again, after so many years. Only for him to doubt her in every way possible.
Mortifying.
She didn’t think. That was the problem. He got in the shower, and she saw him. No scars. No flab. Just masculine beauty. A sexier, grown-up version of her Jackson. She simply acted on autopilot around him.
Now, she was humiliated. Wounded in a way no one could see. Because she’d also gotten quite good at hiding her pain.
“Are you finished?” he asked, behind the wheel of the old pickup truck Imogene loaned him. Driving them goodness knew where. He glanced at her, his eyes cold, his lips curled in distaste.
She clenched her fingers around the pen in her hand and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.
Stay frosty, stay alive.
“Almost.” Looking at her notes, she went back to writing down everything she knew about the depots and anything else she could think of that might be useful to the task force.
Including methods the cartel used to transport drugs across the border.
Smuggling tactics constantly changed, but she knew they’d started shoving drugs inside the side rails and metal framing of livestock trailers.
“Is your plan to turn me in to the authorities once I’m finished? ”
“If it is, does it mean you won’t give me the intel I need?”
She wanted to scream, yes! Just to mess with him.
Taking a deep breath, she swallowed her anger and ignored her bruised feelings.
“I dedicated six years of my life to this mission. Kirk’s last words to me were that he didn’t mind dying as long as Operation Big Sky Guardian succeeded.
” A person’s commitment couldn’t be any stronger.
“I’ll tell you everything. Write it all down for you.
But you have to promise me that you’ll find a way to finish what we started without letting the mole sabotage it. ”
“You don’t care if you go to jail?” he asked.
“Jail?” she scoffed. “Jackson, I didn’t kill anyone. Forensics will verify what I said about the way Kehoe died in the tunnel. If for some reason I’m not cleared, there won’t be a trial. The Reaper will make sure of it.”
“You sound confident.”
“Because I am.”
“They’ll be able to protect you in Salt Lake City. The FBI facility there is secure.”
“The facility isn’t the problem.” There were always weak people who could be compromised. The cartel had a knack for finding and exploiting them. The Reaper would use them to get to her. “There’s no stopping him. No place is safe.”
Jackson glanced at her, his expression softening. “How did you end up in the abandoned tunnel?”
“Hector Ibarra came to my place in Bozeman. Ordered me to follow him without any explanation. He took me there.”
“Write down your address, the route you drove, along with the make and model of Ibarra’s car.”
“Why?”
“There are a good number of CCTV cameras in Bozeman. Maybe there’s footage of you following him to corroborate your story.”
“I have cameras at my place, too. Assuming they didn’t wipe the security feed, he’ll be on it.
” She had everything backed up to two different clouds, but there was a lot of data stored on there.
A safety net she wasn’t ready to disclose.
She wrote down the other pieces of information, even Hector’s license plate number.
“Where are we going?” They headed away from Missoula, due west, into the mountains.
Not toward Utah either. She had seen signs for Bitterroot Falls, but he passed the exit for the town, and they were taking a road through the woods.
“Safe haven to spend the night, since we couldn’t stay with Imogene.”
The sun was setting, but she could make out a wooden perimeter fence down the road.
A man stepped out of the tree line, holding a rifle. He wore woodland camo from head to toe. Boonie hat. Neck gaiter that covered the lower half of his face.
Jackson slowed the truck to a stop.
Another man emerged from the woods on the driver’s side, dressed the same as the first guy. As he approached them, Jackson lowered his window.
“You need to turn around,” the guy said. “That’s private property ahead and we don’t tolerate trespassers.”
“I’m US Marshal Jackson Powell, and I’m here to speak to Joe. Tell him it’s not official business. I need a favor.”
Eyeing them, the guy nodded. He backed up, pulling out a handheld radio, and keyed it. “Hey, we’ve got two visitors out front. One is a marshal. Jackson Powell. He’s here with a woman. Says he needs a favor from Joe. Not official business.”
A squawk sounded. “Hang tight,” someone said on the other end.
Christina looked at Jackson. “They’re pretty serious about security,” she said.
“They patrol the perimeter of the entire camp. Survivalists.”
Explained a lot. In her experience, survivalists and preppers tended to be insular and paranoid. “How is it they owe you a favor?”
“Long story. Let’s just say they ran into some trouble last year, protecting one of their own, and I was in a position to help them. So I did.”
“Why?”
“They made bad a choice for the right reasons.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It felt like the right thing.”
Sounded like the Jackson she remembered. A good-hearted person who always tried to do the right thing. In school, he came across as a bad boy, but she’d seen through his facade.
The radio squawked again. “Let them in.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said, and the other man nodded.
They drove down the road and stopped in front of a big black gate. Once it opened, Jackson pulled into a camp and parked off to the side.
She climbed out of the rickety truck and looked around.
A dirt path ran straight through the camp and deeper into the woods.
On either side were tents of various sizes, woodsheds and small cabins.
A pavilion made of logs and stones with tables and benches was close to the front of the camp.
All the structures were covered with camouflage netting.
If anyone searched for this place by helicopter, it would be hard to spot from the sky.
“Jackson,” a bald man called out.
As he drew closer, Christina guessed he was in his seventies. Tall and sinewy, the man had a weathered face and wary eyes that studied her.
“Hey, Joe.” Jackson shook his hand. “I appreciate you letting us in. This is Christina.”
Joe looked her over from head to toe.
Christina adjusted the ill-fitting clothes that hung off her slim frame. Jeans and a knit sweater. She was grateful they were clean and warm. Imogene even had a flannel jacket in the bag.
“What’s the favor?” Joe asked.
“We need to spend the night. You should know that she’s wanted and at this point, the authorities most likely think I’m aiding and abetting her, but the truth is far more complicated.”
Swallowing a groan, Christina shook her head slightly in disbelief.
Jackson was too forthcoming and trusting.
Her first instinct was to spin a story, weave some tale.
Eliminate the possibility of someone calling the cops.
Then again, it was Jackson, his honest nature and quick thinking, that had gotten her this far.
Maybe she’d been in the game too long and it had made her jaded.
The corner of Joe’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “This wouldn’t be the first time we’ve harbored someone wanted by the law.”
“That was your son,” Jackson said. “This is different. You should also know besides the authorities there’s a cartel hitman after her. We lost him, but your guards on patrol should be aware and keep an eye out. If you’re not comfortable with us staying, I understand.”
“You helped us when you didn’t have to. We owe you and we always pay our debts.” Joe turned to someone and whistled. “Hey, set up a tent for these two.”
“They can use the one in the northeast corner,” the man said. “We got the cabin for the newlyweds finished and they cleared out of the tent.”
Joe nodded. “Come on. I’ll show you where you two can bunk.”
“Thanks,” Jackson said, grabbing the bag from the truck. “It’s only for the night. We’ll leave in the morning.”
As they walked through the camp, lit firepits scattered throughout illuminated their surroundings.
Christina noticed that it was mostly men, but women and children, too.
Families. Hard to tell how many people with darkness falling fast, but she estimated more than fifty and fewer than a hundred.
It was a robust, thriving community. They even had farm animals and a chicken coop.
Along the way, Joe grabbed a couple of sleeping bags and lanterns from one of the woodsheds. They passed some cabins that had been built with plenty of space between them.
“Here we are.” Joe unzipped the front of a tent that was set back among the trees away from the others.
He turned on the lanterns and hung them up on hooks.
The tent was more of a small camping yurt, large enough to fit four people comfortably.
“No one will bother you. We’ve got some outhouses on the south side.
” He indicated the direction. “If you’re hungry, go to the first cabin closest to the pavilion.
Rabbit stew is for dinner. Breakfast is at sunrise.
And I’ll be sure to let my guys know to stay alert. ”