Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The summer storm had rolled in with savage intensity, drowning the valley in sheets of rain that transformed the world into watercolor smudges of gray and green. Lightning split the darkness, illuminating the treacherous mountain road in stark, white flashes that left Wyatt momentarily blind. His DEA-issued truck fought for purchase on the slick surface, tires sending up a spray of water with each curve he navigated.
The forecast had promised clear skies—a rookie mistake in mountain country where the weather could turn on a dime, where nature held no loyalty to human predictions. Wyatt cursed under his breath, knuckles white against the steering wheel, his body humming with the particular tension that came before a dangerous meet.
Moss was going to be furious. The man despised tardiness almost as much as he despised snitches, and both offenses carried similar consequences in his world. But Wyatt had little choice—a mudslide had blocked the main access road, forcing him to take the long way around. He glanced at the dashboard clock: 9:17 p.m. He was already seventeen minutes late for the meet.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder, and he snatched it up, hoping it was Raven. Instead, Agent Kwan’s name flashed on the screen. The disappointment that flickered through him was quickly replaced by professional focus.
“O’Hara,” he answered, professional and clipped.
“Where are you?” Kwan demanded without preamble. Her voice carried the sharp edge of someone whose careful plans were unraveling. “Moss is getting twitchy.”
“Ten minutes out,” Wyatt replied, squinting through the windshield as another lightning strike turned night to day for a heartbeat. “Mudslide on Ridgeline. Had to divert.” The explanation was efficient, stripped of everything unnecessary. Field language.
“Blaze is in position with his team. I’m maintaining visual on the cabin. Just get here.”
The line went dead, and Wyatt tossed the phone back in the cup holder. The pressure of the operation weighed on him, compounded by the chaos in his personal life. Two more weeks. That’s what he’d promised Raven. Two more weeks and everything would be over—the operation concluded, the truth revealed. He’d be able to step out of the shadows and back into the life they’d built together.
If she was still willing to have him.
He reached up to massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck, his fingers brushing against the short sandy hair there. He looked terrible—he knew it without needing to check the rearview mirror. The beard he’d grown for this operation was fuller than he typically wore it, shadowing his strong jaw. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence beneath his green eyes. It had been days since he’d managed more than a few fitful hours of sleep.
The turnoff to the Murphy cabin loomed ahead, nearly invisible in the downpour. He slowed the truck and made the sharp right onto the dirt road, now transformed into a muddy track. The vehicle fishtailed slightly before the tires found purchase, sending his heart into his throat for a breathless second.
In the clearing ahead, the dilapidated cabin stood like a hunched old man weathering the storm. A sleek black SUV was parked near the entrance—Moss’s vehicle. No sign of Viper’s motorcycle, which was unusual. Those two were typically inseparable, shadows of the same darkness.
Wyatt parked alongside the SUV and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, running through his mental checklist. His service weapon was secured in its shoulder holster, hidden beneath his jacket. The backup piece was strapped to his ankle, and the knife—a gift from Colt on his thirtieth birthday—was tucked into his boot. His cover story for the delay was prepared, and his nerves were steady despite the tension coiling in his stomach.
He’d done this dance a hundred times before, both in his military days and during his years with the DEA. The only difference now was how much more he had to lose.
He pulled his jacket collar up against the driving rain and made his way to the cabin’s sagging porch. The wooden steps creaked beneath his weight—the third one always did, a detail he’d filed away during previous visits. He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe in the pattern they’d established: two quick, one slow, two quick.
The door swung open to reveal Adrian Moss, mid-thirties with the compact build and dead eyes of a man who had seen too much and felt too little. Tonight, those eyes were narrowed with displeasure, cold as the storm raging outside.
“You’re late, O’Hara.”
“Mudslide on Ridgeline,” Wyatt replied, stepping into the cabin and shaking rain from his jacket. Water pooled at his feet, adding to the general decay of the place. “Had to take the long way around.”
The interior was sparse but functional—a scarred wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs, a threadbare couch pushed against the far wall, a woodstove in the corner that did little to dispel the damp chill. A battery-powered lantern cast harsh shadows across the worn floorboards, creating monsters where there were only men. Though in this company, Wyatt reflected, the distinction was academic.
“Where’s Viper?” Wyatt asked, noting the absence of Moss’s right-hand man. The question was casual, delivered with practiced indifference, but his senses immediately heightened at the anomaly.
“Taking care of a problem.” Moss’s voice was flat. “Seems we’ve had some unexpected interest in our operation from local hikers. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
A knot formed in Wyatt’s gut. “Hikers” almost certainly meant witnesses. And “taking care of a problem” meant silencing them permanently. He kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced with the implications. If Viper was eliminating witnesses, this operation had just escalated beyond drug trafficking. Murder raised the stakes exponentially.
“Let’s make this quick,” he said, standing at his full height of six foot three. Despite being soaked from the storm, he projected a quiet authority that few men could challenge. “I’ve got department business to handle after this.”
“Always the dedicated lawman,” Moss mocked, gesturing to the table where a metal briefcase sat unopened. “Even when you’re on my payroll.”
Wyatt moved to the table and flipped the latches on the case. Inside, neatly arranged packets of cash stared back at him—payment for services rendered, for routes cleared, for a blind eye turned. It was all part of his cover, the corrupt cop on the take. Every dollar would be cataloged as evidence, every transaction documented and reported to Kwan.
“It’s all there,” Moss said, lighting a cigarette. The smell of cheap tobacco filled the small space, mingling with the damp wood and mildew. “Twenty-five thousand, as agreed. Plus a bonus for your help with that shipment last week.”
Wyatt closed the case without counting. To appear too eager or too careful would raise suspicion. “What’s next?”
“Big shipment coming in Thursday. Biggest we’ve moved yet.” Moss exhaled a stream of smoke that hung in the air between them like a phantom. “I need guaranteed clear passage through the north checkpoints between midnight and four a.m. Can you manage that?”
“The sheriff’s department runs those checkpoints,” Wyatt said, mind calculating rapidly. “I can arrange to be on duty, adjust the patrol schedule.”
“And the DEA?” Moss pressed, his eyes never leaving Wyatt’s face. “I hear they’ve been sniffing around.”
This was dangerous territory. Wyatt had maintained his cover by positioning himself as a DEA agent who could be bought, feeding Moss just enough legitimate information to establish trust while protecting the actual operation.
“Nothing to worry about,” he assured Moss. “They’re focused on a trafficking ring out of Boise. I’ve made sure our activities stay off their radar.”
Moss studied him for a long moment, the cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dim light. “You know, O’Hara, I’ve been doing this a long time. Made it this far by trusting my instincts about people.” He tapped ash onto the floor. “And my instincts tell me you’re holding something back.”
Wyatt met his gaze steadily, his heart rate controlled despite the surge of adrenaline. The moment stretched between them, a high-wire act where the slightest misstep meant death. “We all hold things back in this business. That’s how we survive.”
A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof and the distant rumble of thunder. Then Moss laughed, the sound harsh and jarring in the quiet cabin.
“That’s why I like you, O’Hara. Always the perfect answer.” He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot. “Thursday. Midnight. I’ll text the exact route two hours before. Be ready.”
“I’ll handle it,” Wyatt confirmed, picking up the briefcase. The weight of it—the literal and figurative cost of his deception—pulled at his shoulder. “Same drop point for the product?”
“Same as always.” Moss moved to the door and opened it. The storm had intensified, rain pelting the wooden porch like bullets. “Give my regards to that pretty wife of yours. Raven, isn’t it? Saw her at that boutique of hers yesterday. Quite the businesswoman.”
Ice slid down Wyatt’s spine, but his expression remained impassive. The threat was clear, though delivered with casual precision. Moss knew about Raven, had been watching her. It was a reminder that in this world, no one was untouchable, no loved one safe.
“I’ll do that,” he replied, voice steady despite the rage building beneath his calm exterior.
He stepped past Moss onto the porch, the briefcase clutched in his right hand. The drive back would be treacherous, but he needed to get this intel to Kwan immediately. Thursday’s shipment would be their opportunity to bring down Moss’s entire operation. And the mention of Raven—that veiled threat—had just raised the stakes significantly.
As he reached his truck, his burner phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Kwan: Conversation recorded. Teams ready for Thursday. Meeting at safe house tomorrow, 0600.
The operation was entering its final phase. Just two more weeks, he’d promised Raven. Two more weeks to save his career, his marriage, and possibly his wife’s life.
He started the engine and eased the truck back onto the muddy track, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge. In the rearview mirror, the cabin’s lights grew smaller until they disappeared entirely, swallowed by the night and the storm.
Like his double life, it existed in shadows—visible only to those who knew where to look, dangerous to all who wandered too close. And Raven had just been pulled into its orbit.
The thought chilled him more than the mountain rain ever could.
The Murphy cabin was eerily silent after O’Hara’s departure. Moss stood at the window, watching the taillights of the truck disappear into the storm. Only when they had vanished completely did he turn to the figure emerging from the back room.
“You were right,” he said. “He’s playing us.”
Viper’s angular face twisted into a humorless smile. “Told you. That DEA badge of his is more than just a paycheck. He’s running an operation.”
“Are you sure?”
“My contact at the field office confirmed it.” Viper moved to the table, spreading several surveillance photos across its scarred surface. “O’Hara’s been meeting with a female agent—Kwan, out of the Seattle office. Specialist in deep cover operations.”
Moss studied the images—grainy but clear enough to show Wyatt meeting with a petite Asian woman at various locations around the county. In one, they appeared to be examining documents—in another, exchanging what looked like a flash drive.
“What about the sheriff?”
“Blaze O’Hara? He’s in on it too. Coordinating with the DEA, providing local resources.”
Moss considered this, anger simmering beneath his controlled exterior. He’d suspected there was more to Wyatt O’Hara than met the eye—the man was too sharp, too careful, too perfect in his corrupt cop role. But he’d been useful, providing genuine information about checkpoints and routes, seeming to play both sides with practiced ease.
“What do you want to do?” Viper asked, his hand drifting to the gun at his waist, eager as always for violence.
“Nothing yet.” Moss gathered the photos into a neat stack. “Thursday’s shipment is too important to jeopardize. We proceed as planned, but with adjustments. And we keep an eye on Mrs. O’Hara.” His smile was cold. “Every man has a pressure point. We’ve just found his.”
“And after Thursday?”
Moss lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face in the growing darkness. “After Thursday, we teach Agent O’Hara the price of betrayal. Starting with what he loves most.”
Outside, lightning split the sky, followed by a thunderclap that shook the cabin’s weathered walls. The storm was directly overhead now, wild and merciless—much like the retribution Moss was planning for the man who had dared to infiltrate his operation.
Two could play at the deception game. And Moss intended to win, no matter the cost.