Chapter 10
Coop
The cabin door closed behind us with a soft click that sounded like a prison cell lock.
I kept my arm tight around Mia’s waist, fingers possessive against her hip, maintaining the act for whatever cameras were watching.
She stayed pressed against me, playing her part perfectly, even though I could feel the tension vibrating through her body like a struck wire.
When I’d looked over and seen Oliver standing with her, I’d wrapped up my demonstration as quickly as possible.
Mia was smart and I trusted her, but Oliver…
The way he’d looked at her—like a collector examining a rare specimen he planned to pin to a board.
My skin still crawled from watching him lean in close, whispering something that made her go rigid before I’d gotten there.
I steered her toward the bathroom, the only place in this hellhole where we had any privacy. Closing the door, I immediately turned on the shower, cranking it to full blast.
“What did Oliver say to you?” I kept my voice low, barely above the sound of running water. “When I was finishing with the weapons demonstration. Anything I should know about?”
Mia’s shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the performance falling away now that we were alone. “Nothing concrete. Asked what I did for a living. And then some stuff about the Gathering. That he has something nice for me to wear. It was creepy.”
“Yeah, creepy as shit.” The words tasted sour. Oliver being Oliver meant calculating exactly how to destroy someone for maximum entertainment value. “Nothing specific about plans?”
“No. But the way he looked at me…” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Like he was already imagining something. Planning something.”
“I know.” I moved closer, keeping my voice at whisper level.
“Listen, I need to get as much data as I can while we’re here.
Since Oliver wants me to do weapons inventory today.
I’ll photograph serial numbers, create detailed records for the federal task force.
Get any information I can about the buyers coming in for the Gathering.
Then the feds can decide when and where to raid, how to take Oliver down without collateral damage. ”
She nodded, processing. “And I’m coming with you?”
“Yes.” There was no fucking way I was leaving her alone. I studied her face, saw the exhaustion she was fighting. “You’re doing so well, Mia. I know you didn’t sign up for this. Christ, I wish I could get you out right now, today, but—”
“I’m okay.” She straightened, that steel spine I’d always loved showing through. “I’m scared, but I’m okay. We do what we have to do.”
Before I could respond, someone pounded on the cabin door hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Shit.” I turned off the shower. “Stay close to me.”
We emerged from the bathroom to find Snake standing in our main room, having let himself in. His dead eyes tracked over Mia with the kind of interest that made me want to put my fist through his skull. At least he didn’t seem to notice that we weren’t wet or wrapped in towels.
“Oliver wants the inventory done,” Snake said, his voice flat as roadkill. “It’s ready now.”
“Fine by me. Sooner I catalog his toys, sooner I can line up buyers.”
“I’m supposed to watch you.” Snake’s expression made it clear how he felt about that assignment. “Make sure you don’t get curious about things that ain’t your business.”
“Babysitting duty?” I let mockery creep into my tone. “Thought Oliver trusted me. Or is this your idea?”
Snake’s hand drifted toward his knife, a habitual threat. “Oliver trusts bullets and bank accounts. Everything else is just conversation. Let’s go.”
He turned and walked out, expecting us to follow.
I grabbed Mia’s arm in that possessive grip that had become our cover, guiding her outside.
Snake led us across the compound toward the storage bunkers, his stride unhurried but purposeful.
Other militia members watched from various positions—two by the lodge, one on the roof with a rifle, another working on a truck. Everyone tracking our movement.
The storage bunker sat half buried in the hillside, concrete walls thick enough to survive anything short of a direct strike. Snake pulled a key from the chain around his neck, working the heavy lock. The mechanism was well-oiled, clicking open smooth and quiet.
“Two hours,” Snake said, his eyes sliding over Mia again with obvious intent. “You need more time than that, you’re either stupid or stealing. Neither ends well for you.”
“Two hours is plenty.”
He pushed the steel door open, revealing the interior.
Concrete walls painted government gray, metal shelving units reaching to the ceiling, crates stacked with military care.
An old laptop sat on a battered metal desk, looking like surplus from the early 2000s.
The air smelled of gun oil and Cosmoline, that particular combination that meant serious hardware.
I moved to the laptop, booting it up while Snake positioned himself by the door, his AR-15 casual across his chest. The rifle was loaded—I could tell by how he held it, the practiced ease of someone ready to swing it into action.
He pulled out his phone, thumbing through what looked like a game, but his peripheral attention never left us.
The laptop wheezed to life, running some ancient version of Windows. The inventory program was basic—an Excel spreadsheet with categories for weapon type, quantity, serial numbers, condition. Legitimate enough on the surface, exactly what you’d expect for black-market weapons tracking.
“All right,” I said, loud enough for Snake to hear. “Let’s see what Oliver’s been collecting.”
I started with the nearest crate, prying it open with a crowbar from the desk. M4 rifles, still coated in protective grease, serial numbers filed off but not completely—ghost impressions still visible if you knew how to look.
I made legitimate notes on the laptop while angling my belt buckle toward the crates.
The camera built into it was nearly invisible—Travis, our reclusive tech expert at Warrior Security, had outdone himself.
The kind of tech that would make the CIA jealous.
Each photo captured details Oliver wouldn’t want documented.
Mia stayed close but not in the way, smart enough to look bored rather than interested. Snake glanced up occasionally from his phone, those flat eyes checking our position, our actions, then returning to whatever game held his attention.
Forty minutes in, I’d documented three crates of rifles, two of handguns, and enough ammunition to supply a small war.
The laptop had been sluggish at first, but I’d noticed something—hidden partitions on the hard drive, folders that didn’t show up in the normal directory.
Not connected to any network, but storing files locally.
I palmed a mini-USB drive from my pocket—one with military-grade encryption that would look blank if anyone found it, but capable of copying everything on a hard drive in minutes—also thanks to Travis.
If he were here, he’d probably be able to decipher everything on this computer by working his voodoo in minutes, no USB drive needed.
I didn’t have the same skill level. Hell, nobody had the same skill level as Travis when it came to computers. So downloading onto this USB was my only option. I just needed an opportunity when Snake wasn’t looking.
It came a few minutes later when Snake’s nicotine craving finally won. “Need a smoke,” he announced, moving toward the door. “Don’t touch shit you’re not supposed to. I’ll know.”
He stepped outside, leaving the door open but moving far enough away that I could hear the flick of his lighter, the first exhale of smoke. Maybe three minutes were all we had. Four if he was really enjoying it.
I moved fast but smooth, nothing that would look panicked if he glanced back. I pulled Mia close, speaking directly into her ear like I was whispering something crude.
“Going to plant a tracker,” I breathed, barely making a sound. “Keep an eye out for Snake coming back.”
She nodded against my shoulder, understanding immediately, then moved closer to the door.
I grabbed the tracker, this one sent from the federal task force I was working for, no bigger than a quarter.
Moving to the largest weapons crate like I was checking something underneath, I pressed the tracker against the metal frame.
The magnetic backing clicked softly into place.
It would transmit location data, letting the feds track if Oliver moved his arsenal.
Then the laptop. USB drive in, automatic program launching. The download bar appeared—buyer lists, delivery schedules, payment records. Everything Oliver thought was secure because it was offline.
47%… 52%… 61%…
“Someone’s coming,” Mia whispered, her face draining of color as she watched the door. “But it’s not Snake. It’s that other guy that stays around Oliver a lot.”
Bishop. Fuck. He wasn’t going to be easy to fool.
The download bar read 78%. Stopping now would corrupt the files, make the whole thing worthless.
I made a decision that tasted like battery acid.
I yanked Mia onto the desk before whoever it was could round the corner, crushing my mouth to hers.
She made a surprised sound that I swallowed, positioning her body to block the laptop screen.
Her legs came around my waist automatically, selling the performance even as I felt her confusion.
I heard footsteps in the doorway, but I kept kissing Mia.
“Mr. Oliver know you’re using his inventory for foreplay?”
I pulled back just enough to speak, keeping Mia pressed against me, one hand behind her back near the laptop. The download bar crept higher—89%.
“Man’s gotta multitask,” I said, injecting the right amount of crass humor into my voice. “Checking all the merchandise, you know?”
God, this shtick of pawing Mia to distract the bad guys was getting damned old. But once again, there was no other option.
94%… 97%…
Bishop walked into the bunker slowly, circling us like a shark. His eyes cataloged everything—the open crates, the laptop, our position. Suspicious but not certain.
But he was also the kind of man who’d kill on suspicion alone if given the chance.
100%.
The download completed with a soft chime that the running laptop fan covered. I palmed the USB while appearing to grip Mia’s hips, the drive disappearing into my pocket with skillful ease.
Bishop’s eyes narrowed, and he started moving toward the desk with purpose.
“You know what?” I spun Mia off the desk, setting her on her feet but keeping her close. “Maybe we should try the floor next. Dirty, but more room to work.”
The words came out crude enough to fit the character, buying us distance from the laptop. Bishop stopped, his expression still flat but something shifting in his eyes. Calculation. Assessment.
“Snake shouldn’t have left you alone,” he finally said, each word precise as a knife thrust.
“Tell him that. I’m just doing the job Oliver asked for.”
Bishop held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked out without another word. The kind of exit that meant he’d be watching closer now. Suspicious but without proof.
But hell, that had been true from the beginning.
Snake returned thirty seconds later, reeking of cigarettes and looking irritated to find Bishop’s retreating back.
“The fuck was he doing here?”
“Checking up on you, apparently.” I turned back to the laptop, typing in more legitimate inventory data. “Maybe he thinks you’re slacking on babysitting duty.”
Snake’s jaw tightened, but he resumed his position by the door without comment. We had another forty minutes to fill, keeping up the act of cataloging weapons while the USB drive burned like a hot coal in my pocket.
I went through the motions—opening crates, counting weapons, entering data. Mia played her part, standing close enough to seem like property but far enough not to interfere. Snake went back to his phone game, though his attention seemed sharper now, Bishop’s visit having put him on edge.
Two hours exactly. Snake checked his watch, then jerked his head toward the door. “Time’s up.”
I saved the spreadsheet file, shut down the laptop with deliberate care. Everything normal. Everything routine. Just a man doing the job he was hired for, while carrying enough stolen data to destroy Oliver’s entire operation.
If we lived long enough to deliver it.