Chapter 20 #2
Oliver was going to be the feds’ problem now.
But I couldn’t say any of that. So I let him see interest. Consideration. “That’s generous.”
“I don’t make offers I don’t mean.”
“I’ve got overseas commitments for a while. Deals in progress, contacts expecting delivery. Serbia. Morocco.” I shrugged. “If I disappear now, it raises questions. I’ll be gone a few months, unless something changes.”
Oliver nodded. “I understand obligations. I have some of my own.” He glanced around at his men, still loading trucks. “We’ll need to let the heat die down anyway.”
“Smart.”
“When you get back, we’ll talk.” He extended his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
I shook it because I had no choice.
Bishop watched the whole exchange without expression. But his hand had finally moved away from his weapon.
Nearly thirty hours later, I was stuck in the FBI field office in Billings.
The place had the particular fluorescent grimness of every government building I’d ever been inside.
Lights buzzing at a frequency designed to drill into your skull.
Plastic chairs shaped by some sadist who’d never sat in one for more than five minutes.
Air that tasted recycled, stale, like it had been breathed by a thousand stressed agents before it reached my lungs.
I’d been in the same interview room the whole time.
Same bitter coffee in the same Styrofoam cup, gone cold hours ago.
Same crappy sandwiches. Same bathroom breaks with someone standing right outside the stall door like I was the criminal.
I hadn’t bothered to tell them about my minor wounds.
I’d patched them up well enough before leaving Oliver’s compound. I’d live.
Same parade of agents cycling through, each one determined to explain exactly how I’d fucked up their operation.
The written statement sat on the table between me and the latest interrogator—a thin man in his forties named Brennan, with the look of someone who’d spent his career behind a desk and resented everyone who hadn’t.
He’d been at this for almost an hour, his voice a steady drone of criticism and second-guessing.
“The woman, Mia Thornton, complicated an already delicate situation.” Brennan tapped the statement with one finger. “She should have been reported immediately. Extracted.”
I’d explained this four times already. My thoughts kept fragmenting, scattering like leaves. When had I last slept? Before the hunt. Before Snake. Before watching Mia disappear into the darkness, not knowing if she’d make it out of this sick game alive.
“Extracted how?” My voice came out rough. “Oliver’s compound was twenty miles from nowhere. Armed men everywhere. Zero safe extraction routes. Transmission jammers, so no way to get messages out easily.”
“So you chose to jeopardize—”
“I chose to keep an innocent civilian alive.”
Brennan shuffled papers. Unmoved. “About her equipment claim. Ten thousand dollars in destroyed camera gear? The Bureau has no obligation—”
“She spent days in a situation that would break most people.” I leaned forward, trying to focus through the exhaustion.
“And instead of falling apart, she memorized faces. Cataloged details. Every buyer who walked through that compound, she was paying attention so she could help identify them later. Help you identify them.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“She did your job. While running for her life.” I jabbed my finger at the table. “Replace her fucking cameras.”
Brennan’s expression didn’t change. He flipped to another page. “There’s also the matter of the deceased. Raymond Kellerman. Known as Snake.”
“What about him?”
“You killed him.”
“He was trying to kill me.”
“So you claim.” Brennan’s tone dripped skepticism. “Self-defense.”
“He pulled a knife during the hunt. Said he was going to gut me, then track down Mia for himself.” My hands had curled into fists under the table. I made myself relax them. “It was him or me.”
“Our analysis suggests you could have incapacitated him without lethal force.”
“Your analysis wasn’t there.”
“If you’d played things differently…” Brennan leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Kellerman had connections we haven’t mapped. And the hunt itself. If you’d allowed it to proceed naturally, we might have gained insight into Oliver’s operation. His psychology. His—”
I understood what he was saying. The implication underneath the bureaucratic language.
Play things differently. Let the hunt proceed naturally.
Let Oliver catch Mia. Let her become the prize for whatever that sick fuck wanted to do.
I was on my feet before I knew I was moving. Chair crashing backward. Fist already cocked, aimed at Brennan’s smug face.
The door opened.
“That’s enough.”
The voice was sharp. Authoritative. Female.
I froze, arm still raised, chest heaving. A woman stepped into the room—mid-fifties, gray hair in a severe bun, elegant pantsuit that was clearly not from the same department store as Brennan’s clothes. She carried herself like someone who’d earned her authority the hard way.
“Agent Brennan. Out.”
“Ma’am, I was in the middle of—”
“Get. Out.”
Brennan left the papers scattered on the table and walked out. Didn’t look at me on his way past.
The woman closed the door and took the seat across from me. “Sit down, Mr. Cooper.”
I sat. Righted the chair first. My hands weren’t quite steady.
“I’m Deputy Director Hartwell.” She folded her hands on the table. “I apologize for Agent Brennan. He has a particular talent for saying exactly the wrong thing. I’m not sure how he was approved to talk to you, but I’ll handle that also.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“I’ve reviewed your operation.” Her tone was brisk. “The intel you extracted from Oliver’s weapons database—buyer lists, delivery schedules, payment records—was extremely valuable. We’ve already identified seventeen potential targets.”
“Good.”
“Ms. Thornton’s observations will help as well, once she feels up to coming in and giving detailed descriptions.” Hartwell’s expression shifted, just slightly. “We appreciate both you and her and what you’ve gone through.”
I let out a breath. Felt something loosen in my chest. I hadn’t been looking for thanks, but neither had I been expecting to have my work thrown back in my face.
“Oliver offered me a position,” I said. “Full time. I told him I’d think about it, but I’m done. I’ve been undercover almost two months, and honestly, that’s enough for me. I’m not law enforcement. This isn’t what I signed up for.”
Hartwell nodded. “Understood. But I have to ask—would you consider, at some point, vouching for someone we could place long-term in Oliver’s operation? Since Oliver trusts you, that would give us an in that rarely comes along so neatly. It would mean possibly going back under short-term.”
I thought about it. About Oliver walking free. About next year’s hunt. About the weapons still flowing to people who’d use them to kill.
“Yeah. But if the Bureau wants something from me, I want something back.”
“Name it.”
“Mia’s camera equipment. Every piece of gear that got destroyed. You replace it.”
Hartwell was quiet for a moment. I watched her weigh it—the politics, the budget, the precedent.
“That’s a significant expense, Mr. Cooper. I can’t just—”
“Then I can’t help you.” I held her gaze. “She lost everything because of this operation. Her livelihood. Her equipment. Almost her life. You want my cooperation down the road, you make this right.”
Another silence. Hartwell studied me like she was taking my measure.
“I’ll make some calls,” she said finally. “No promises, but I’ll advocate for full replacement.”
“I need more than advocacy.”
“You’ll get a decision within the week.” She stood. “That’s the best I can offer. Take it or leave it.”
It wasn’t everything I wanted. But it was real, not empty promises.
“Fine.”
Hartwell gathered Brennan’s abandoned files. “You’re free to go. Someone will be in touch about a follow-up, but take some time first. Again, thank you for what you did. We all want to see Oliver’s operation completely dismantled. We’re much closer to that, thanks to you and Ms. Thornton.”
She left.
I sat in the empty room for a long moment. The fluorescent lights hummed. The stale air pressed in. My body felt like it belonged to someone else—heavy, distant, wrong.
But Mia was in Garnet Bend. Travis would have called if something had gone wrong. She was safe.
I needed to see her. Not a phone call, not a secondhand report. I needed to stand in front of her and see her breathing. Touch her face. Know that she was real.
I pushed myself up from the plastic chair. Every joint ached. Every muscle protested.
The hallway outside was empty. Government beige, government carpet, government silence. I walked toward the exit, car keys heavy in my pocket.
Garnet Bend was three hours away. Mia was three hours away.
I started walking faster.