Chapter 6
SIX
COLT
The sun’s finally punched through for real by mid-morning, turning the snow into a blinding sheet of diamonds.
I stand at the window, coffee gone cold in my mug, watching the ridge emerge like it’s been hiding all this time.
Visibility’s climbing. Roads’ll be passable soon—maybe tomorrow if the county plow makes it up this far.
Time to move.
I set the mug down, grab my sat phone from the shelf above the door. No cell service up here, but the sat line’s reliable enough for what I need. First call’s to Hank Lawson, Iron Peak’s sheriff since before I bought this place. He picks up on the second ring.
“Colt Ryker,” Hank drawls, sounding like he’s chewing on a toothpick. “You still alive up there, or did the storm finally bury you?”
“Still breathing. You hear anything about a Matthew James? Mid-twenties, probably drives a black F-150, runs with a pack of three or four other assholes. Might’ve been asking around town the last couple days.”
Silence stretches. Then Hank exhales slow.
“Yeah. I’ve heard the name. Matthew James.
Son of Judge John James. They’ve got a nice spread out past the old mill—big house, bigger ego.
Matthew’s the golden boy who never quite grew up.
Drugs, fights, girls who end up bruised.
Nothing ever sticks. Daddy makes sure of that. Why you asking?”
“Girl showed up on my porch night the storm hit. Bleeding. Said her ex and his crew carved her up when she tried to leave. Name’s Willa. She’s got something on him—says it’s enough to put him away if it gets to the right people.”
Hank whistles low. “That’d explain why Matthew’s been driving around like a man possessed. He was in the diner yesterday, asking if anyone’d seen a dark-haired woman, early twenties, maybe hurt. Offered cash for info. I told him to fuck off polite-like. He didn’t like it.”
“Keep your eyes open,” I say. “They come sniffing around my ridge, they won’t like what they find.”
“Colt…” Hank’s voice drops. “You know I can’t just go after him without cause. Judge James has half the county in his pocket. Evidence better be ironclad.”
“It will be.” I glance toward the bedroom door. Willa’s in there changing into some of my old sweats I dug out—still too big, but better than nothing. “I’ll be in touch when the pass clears.”
“Watch your six, brother.”
I end the call, thumb already scrolling for the next number. Rhett picks up faster—old SEAL habits die hard.
“Ghost,” he says, using the callsign I haven’t heard in years. “This better be good. I’m in the middle of rebuilding a carburetor.”
“Need intel. Matthew James. Iron Peak area. Connected to Judge John James. Anything cross your desk or your contacts?”
Rhett’s quiet a beat. “James. Yeah. Word is the kid’s running product—meth, pills—through the backcountry. Small-time but nasty. Daddy cleans up the messes. Feds looked at him once; case evaporated. Why?”
“A girl. His ex. She’s got proof. I need to know if he’s got reach beyond the county line.”
“He’s got friends. Not cartel, but the kind who know how to make people disappear quietly. You got her safe?”
“For now.”
“Keep her that way. You need backup, say the word. I can be there in an hour once the roads open.”
“Appreciate it. I’ll call if it goes sideways.”
I hang up, set the phone down. My pulse is steady, but there’s a low burn under my skin—same one I used to get before a mission. Protect the principal. Neutralize the threat. Simple.
Willa steps out of the bedroom then, hair pulled back in a messy knot, wearing my gray sweatpants cinched tight at the waist and another of my flannels. She looks small, fragile, but there’s steel in her spine when she meets my eyes.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Made some calls. Sheriff. Old teammate. They know the name. Your ex is bad news, Willa. Connected. Nothing sticks to him because his father’s a judge. But if what you’ve got is real…”
She nods, slowly, and walks to the couch. She sits, pulling her knees up. “It’s real.”
I cross to her, and drop into the chair across from her. “Tell me exactly what you found. No holding back.”
She hesitates, then reaches into the inner pocket of the coat she’d been wearing when she arrived—the one I hung by the door to dry. She pulls out a small black flash drive, holding it like it’s a live grenade.
“Bank records. Wire transfers to accounts tied to known dealers. Photos of him with the product. Audio of him bragging about moving weight through the county, about how his dad would handle any heat. Dates, names, amounts. Enough that if it gets to someone who isn’t bought, he’s done. And his friends too.”
My jaw locks. “You copied all that?”
“Every file. I didn’t just grab it—I duplicated the drives so he wouldn’t know right away. Then I ran.”
I hold out my hand. She places the drive in my palm, fingers brushing mine. A spark jumps, but I ignore it. I stand, and head to the small desk in the corner where my ancient laptop lives—solar-powered, offline most of the time, but it’ll do.
I plug it in. Boot it up. The screen flickers to life. I open the drive.
Folders labeled clean: FINANCIAL, PHOTOS, AUDIO, TIMELINE.
I click through.
Bank statements first—transfers from shell accounts to cash apps, then to burner wallets.
Names I recognize from Hank’s quiet files: local distributors, a couple of out-of-state mules.
Photos next—grainy shots from what looks like a warehouse, Matthew and two others unloading crates stamped with chemical warnings.
One clear face shot: him holding a brick of meth, grinning like it’s Christmas.
The audio is worse. I plug in headphones so she doesn’t have to hear it again, but I catch enough. His voice, smug: “…Dad’ll squash it like always. Cops know better than to touch me. We move another five keys this month, we’re set.”
Plain as day.
I close the laptop, pull the drive, and hand it back to her. “This is enough. More than enough.”
She takes it, fingers trembling just a little. “What now?”
“Storm’s clearing. Tomorrow or the day after, roads open.
We take this straight to Hank Lawson. He’s straight—been trying to nail James for years but never had the hammer.
This is it. You file the report, press charges for the assault, hand over the evidence.
Hank gets it to the DA in the next county over—someone Judge James doesn’t own.
Feds might even sniff around if the drug angle’s big enough. ”
“And Matthew?”
“He’ll fight. But with this? He’s fucked. His dad can’t bury digital copies spread across jurisdictions.”
She exhales, shaky. “I just want to go home. Back to my kids. My classroom. June and Evelyn. I miss it so much it hurts.”
I nod. “You will. Soon.”
She looks up at me, hazel eyes searching. “And you? What happens to you after all of this clears up?”
I shrug. “Back to quiet. Horses. Wood. Same as always.”
Her lips press together. “I don’t want to just disappear from here like I never happened.”
The words hit low. I stand, crossing to her, and crouch so we’re eye level. “You won’t. But right now, priority is getting you safe. Getting this evidence where it can do damage. Then we see what’s next.”
She reaches out, and touches my jaw—soft, tentative. “Thank you, Colt. For everything.”
I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her knuckles once. Quick. Then stand before I pull her into my lap and forget the plan.
“Eat something,” I say. “Rest. Tomorrow we move.”
She nods.
I head to the stove, and start lunch. It’s a simple, venison chili from the pot I’ve had simmering. But my mind’s already on tomorrow. On the drive down. On making sure no one touches her again. Because once this evidence is out?
Matthew James is going down.
And Willa’s getting her life back.
But the part that keeps circling in my head—the part I can’t shake—is the quiet hope she might want to come back up this mountain when it’s over.
Not running.
Just… coming home.