Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Darkness clung to the mountains like a lover unwilling to let go, the predawn air sharp with the scent of pine and approaching rain. The O’Hara ranch hummed with quiet efficiency—voices kept low, movements precise, the atmosphere charged with purpose and adrenaline.
Raven stood at the command center they’d established in Mick’s study, multiple screens glowing with camera feeds and topographical maps bathing her face in bluish light. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, checking and rechecking the communication system that would keep all teams connected. She wore black—not from any tactical necessity, but because it felt right for the gravity of the day that stretched before them.
“Ranch command online,” she said, her voice clear and professional. “Family security team, check in.”
Tommy and the ranch protection detail confirmed their positions, while a separate feed from Blaze provided limited updates on the sheriff’s department perimeter team. The DEA operation itself ran on a separate, secure channel—Raven could see the basic positioning on a shared tactical map that Blaze had authorized, but the federal teams maintained their own communications network.
She watched the limited data available to her—enough to know that Wyatt’s team was approaching Blackwell’s hunting lodge, that Kwan’s agents were surrounding the Murphy cabin. Her fingers hovered over keys that would relay any threat information to the family security team, her eyes constantly scanning the ranch surveillance feeds for any sign of movement.
And the operation began.
Blackwell’s hunting lodge loomed against the pale dawn sky, its glass and stone facade glowing with the first golden rays of sunlight. From his position among the dense pines that surrounded the property, Wyatt had a clear view of the main structure and the two black SUVs parked in the circular drive.
“Two vehicles confirmed,” he murmured into his comm. “Matching the make and model Hammer reported from previous surveillance.”
“Copy that,” Kwan’s voice came through, crisp and professional. “We’ve got movement at the Murphy cabin. Counting four tangos unloading crates from a delivery truck. Operation proceeds on schedule.”
Wyatt signaled to the team spread out among the trees—DEA agents interspersed with highly trained deputies from Blaze’s department. Through his scope, he could see movement inside the hunting lodge—shadows passing behind the massive windows, the occasional flash of light on metal.
“Moss is inside,” he confirmed. “I’ve got visual on the subject through the east window. He appears to be monitoring something on a laptop.”
“Boutique surveillance feed shows Moss’s men still in position,” Raven’s voice came through his earpiece, sending an unexpected wave of comfort through him. “Two in a sedan across the street, one positioned at the coffee shop with line of sight to the front entrance.”
“They’re buying the decoy,” Blaze added. “Continue as planned.”
Wyatt checked his watch. Five minutes until synchronized breach—Kwan’s team at the Murphy cabin, his at the hunting lodge. Five minutes that stretched like an eternity as he watched Moss move through the great room, occasionally speaking to someone out of sight.
“Command center to all teams,” Raven’s voice came suddenly, a new tension evident. “We’ve got new vehicle movement on the north road approaching the Murphy cabin. Black van, no plates, moving fast.”
“Unauthorized approach,” Kwan confirmed. “Possible reinforcements for the targets.”
Wyatt’s mind raced through implications. “This changes the timeline. If those are reinforcements, Kwan’s team could be outnumbered.”
“The shipment’s already at the cabin,” Blaze’s voice cut in. “We need to move now before they distribute it.”
“Agreed,” Kwan said. “Alpha team moving in. Breach in thirty seconds.”
Wyatt made a split-second decision. “Bravo team initiating simultaneous breach on the lodge. All units move on my mark.”
The next moments unfolded with the controlled chaos of well-trained units executing a carefully choreographed plan. Wyatt led his team through the underbrush, approaching the hunting lodge from the service entrance Duncan had identified. Through his earpiece, he could hear the organized ballet of Kwan’s team at the Murphy cabin—commands issued in clipped, professional tones, the dull thud of a breaching charge.
“Alpha team breaching now,” Kwan announced.
“Bravo team in position,” Wyatt responded, crouched by the service door with his team fanned out behind him. “Breaching on three, two, one?—”
The door gave way under the controlled force of their entry tool, and Wyatt moved through the opening with practiced efficiency, weapon raised, senses hyperalert to any movement. The service area opened into a gleaming kitchen with copper pots hanging from a rack overhead and marble countertops glowing in the morning light.
“Clear,” murmured the agent behind him as they swept the space.
They moved toward the main great room where Wyatt had seen Moss earlier. Through his earpiece, he could hear the controlled chaos from the Murphy cabin—Kwan’s clipped commands, the sounds of resistance, the declaration as each room was secured.
“Alpha team has secured the shipment,” Kwan reported. “Four suspects in custody, one attempting to flee on foot. No casualties.”
A small relief washed through Wyatt as he approached the arched doorway that led to the great room. He signaled to his team to hold position, then risked a glance around the corner.
The space was exactly as Duncan had described—soaring ceilings, glass walls offering panoramic views of the mountains and valley below, rustic luxury in every detail from the massive stone fireplace to the antler chandelier overhead. Moss stood at a large wooden desk, his back to Wyatt, focused on a laptop screen where Wyatt could see multiple video feeds—including one of what appeared to be Raven’s boutique.
Two armed men flanked him, their weapons not drawn but within easy reach. A third man sat on a leather couch, speaking rapidly into a satellite phone.
Wyatt pulled back, signaling the count to his team. Four targets. He held up three fingers, then two, then one?—
They moved as a unit, bursting into the great room with coordinated precision.
“Police! DEA! Hands where I can see them!” Wyatt’s voice boomed through the space as his team fanned out, weapons trained on the surprised occupants.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. The man on the couch dropped the phone and reached for his weapon. One of Moss’s guards did the same. The second guard dove behind a massive leather chair.
Wyatt focused on Moss, who had spun around at their entrance, his expression shifting from shock to calculated rage in an instant.
“On the ground, Moss. It’s over.”
For a moment, it seemed Moss might comply. His hands raised slightly, his body tensing as if to lower himself down. Then his eyes flicked to something behind Wyatt and narrowed.
“I don’t think so, O’Hara,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Not while I still have leverage.”
The laptop screen behind him flickered, and Wyatt’s blood ran cold as the camera feed shifted to a live image of the O’Hara ranch.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t have a contingency plan?” Moss sneered. “I’ve had men watching your wife’s movements for weeks. When she suddenly appeared at the ranch yesterday—such an obvious change in pattern—I knew it was significant. My men are already on their way there. One word from me, and everyone at that precious family gathering?—”
Wyatt never let him finish the sentence. Later, he would recall the surge of protective rage that overwhelmed his tactical training, the split-second decision that put his family’s safety above protocol. He lunged forward just as Moss reached beneath the desk.
The room erupted in chaos—agents engaging the other men, furniture toppling as bullets splintered wood and thudded into walls. Wyatt tackled Moss with enough force to send them both crashing into the desk, the laptop shattering as they fell. Moss was stronger than his lean frame suggested, managing to get his hand on a weapon from a hidden holster beneath his jacket.
They grappled for control, rolling across the polished wood floor. Wyatt felt the searing heat of a bullet as it grazed his upper arm—too close. He locked his hand around Moss’s wrist, slamming it against the floor until the gun clattered away.
“Command center to all teams,” Raven’s voice came suddenly through his earpiece, a new tension evident. “Perimeter sensors show vehicle movement approaching the ranch from the north access road. Two SUVs, moving fast.”
“Copy that,” Tommy responded immediately. “Security teams moving to intercept. Maintain position in the secure room.”
“Tactical teams be advised,” Blaze’s voice cut through. “Possible additional hostiles en route to the O’Hara ranch. Ranch security teams engaging.”
Moss was on his feet now, diving for the gun that had slid beneath a chair. Wyatt launched himself forward, ignoring the burning pain in his arm, his focus narrowed to a single imperative: stop Moss before he could communicate with his team at the ranch.
His shoulder connected with Moss’s midsection just as the man’s fingers closed around the weapon. They crashed through the glass coffee table, shards slicing through clothing and skin. Wyatt barely felt the cuts, adrenaline numbing all but the most urgent signals from his body.
Somehow, impossibly, Moss maintained his grip on the gun. He brought it up, aiming directly at Wyatt’s chest from point-blank range, his face contorted with hatred.
“Should have taken the money and looked the other way, O’Hara,” he snarled. “Now you lose everything.”
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Wyatt could see Moss’s finger tightening on the trigger, could hear the continued fight between his team and Moss’s men across the room, could feel the warm trickle of blood down his arm from the earlier graze.
In that stretched moment, his mind filled with Raven—her smile on their wedding day, the scent of her hair when he held her, the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. The silent promise he’d made to come home to her.
He moved on pure instinct, twisting his body as the gun discharged. The bullet tore through his shoulder instead of his heart, the impact slamming him backward. White-hot pain exploded through his body, but he forced himself forward through sheer will, crashing into Moss with his full weight.
The gun skittered across the floor as they fell. This time, Wyatt didn’t relent. Despite the agony radiating from his shoulder, he pinned Moss to the ground, his knee pressed into the man’s chest, his uninjured arm securing Moss’s hands.
“It’s over,” he growled. “Your operation is shut down. Your shipment is seized. Your men are in custody.”
“My team at the ranch—” Moss began, still defiant.
“Walked straight into our trap,” Wyatt finished for him, the ghost of a smile touching his lips despite the pain. “We wanted them to know exactly where Raven was. The ranch has been prepared for this since yesterday.”
Moss’s face contorted with desperate calculation. “I can still be valuable to you, O’Hara. You haven’t caught everyone. Gregory Weber from the Planning Commission. He’s been my access point for years—property records, building permits, transit routes. He approved the hunting lodge renovation specifically for our operation. He’s got his hands in half the development projects in the county.”
Wyatt committed the name to memory, though he kept his expression unmoved. Weber had been on the Planning Commission for nearly a decade, his signature on countless permits, including the renovations for both The Reading Nook and Raven’s boutique. The respected community figure who’d presented at town council meetings about sustainable development had been facilitating a drug operation through the same channels. Another betrayal to process later, when his shoulder wasn’t burning with white-hot pain.
“Trying to bargain won’t help you now,” Wyatt said, tightening his hold as Moss struggled beneath him. “But thanks for tying up that loose end.”
Through his earpiece, he could hear the confirmation—Tommy’s team had neutralized the threat at the ranch. Raven was safe. The relief nearly made him collapse, the adrenaline that had been sustaining him beginning to ebb.
“Wyatt!” Agent Kwan’s voice cut through the haze of pain. She appeared beside him, quickly cuffing Moss before turning her attention to Wyatt’s injuries. “We need a medic here!”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, though the room had begun to tilt oddly around him.
“You’ve been shot, and you’ve got glass embedded in half your body,” Kwan countered dryly. “Your definition of fine needs work.”
The rest of the room came into focus as the immediate threat subsided. His team had subdued the other men, the great room now a battlefield of broken furniture, shattered glass, and blood-smeared marble.
“Bravo team, report status,” he managed, trying to stay upright as Kwan applied pressure to his shoulder wound.
“All hostile elements contained,” came the response. “Area secure.”
The relief was overwhelming, but one concern overrode all others. He reached for his comm unit with his good hand. “Command center, what’s your status? Raven, do you copy?”
The seconds of silence stretched unbearably before her voice came through, clear and steady despite the undercurrent of worry. “We’re secure. Tommy’s team has three hostiles in custody. What’s your status, Bravo leader?”
Despite the pain, despite the blood loss that was making the room spin around him, Wyatt smiled. “Mission accomplished. Coming home.”
He never felt himself hit the floor.
Raven’s heart stopped when Wyatt’s comm went silent. One moment his voice had been there—strained but triumphant—and the next, nothing. Just the background sounds of agents calling for medical assistance, the controlled urgency in their voices telling her more than words could have.
“Blaze,” she said frantically, and then she put her hand to her head, trying to force her brain to work. “I mean Bravo team, status report on Agent O’Hara.” Her fingers were white knuckled on the edge of the desk. “Please.”
It wasn’t Blaze who answered. “Agent down, medic en route,” came the clipped response. “GSW to right shoulder. Stable but unconscious.”
The clinical assessment did nothing to ease the vise grip of fear around her heart. Gunshot wound. Unconscious. But alive. She clung to that last word like a lifeline.
The door to the command center burst open, and Anne rushed in, her face pale with concern. “The team at the north gate has three of Moss’s men in custody,” she reported. “Tommy says they never even made it past the first line of defense. What’s happening with Wyatt?”
Raven took a deep breath, compartmentalizing her fear the way she’d watched Wyatt do countless times. “He’s been shot.”
Anne’s hands flew to her mouth, but she steadied herself visibly. “I’ll get Mick. We’ll take my car.”
“I’m coming with you.” Raven was already shutting down systems, transferring command functions to Tommy’s secondary team. Her hands moved with mechanical efficiency while her mind raced ahead to the hospital, to Wyatt, to the long hours that would follow.
“Of course you are,” Anne said, her voice gentling. “He’ll need you there when he wakes up.”
When, not if. The certainty in Anne’s tone provided a small measure of comfort as they rushed from the command center. Outside, the morning had fully broken, sunlight streaming across the ranch in golden shafts that seemed obscenely beautiful against the backdrop of violence and fear.
In the distance, Raven could hear the distinctive thrum of helicopter blades cutting through the air—the medevac unit racing toward the hunting lodge. Toward Wyatt. She closed her eyes briefly, sending a silent prayer to whatever forces might be listening.
God, bring him back to me. Please. We’ve only just found each other again.
The drive to the hospital passed in a blur of silent prayers and half-formed thoughts. Anne’s hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, her usual grace replaced by focused determination as she navigated the mountain roads faster than Raven had ever seen her drive.
Mick sat in the passenger seat, his face set in lines of grim concern. Unlike his wife’s expressive worry, his fear manifested as stillness—a contained energy that reminded Raven so much of Wyatt that her throat tightened.
They reached the hospital just as the medevac helicopter touched down on the landing pad. Raven was out of the car before Anne had fully stopped, racing toward the entrance.
“They’re bringing him in now,” Colt said, catching Raven’s arm as she tried to push past him toward the emergency entrance. “Let the trauma team do their job, Raven. They’ve already called in the best shoulder specialist in the state—she’s on her way from Boise.”
“I need to see him,” Raven insisted, a desperate edge creeping into her voice.
“You will,” Colt promised. “But first, let them stabilize him.”
The next hours stretched into an eternity of waiting room vigils, hushed conversations, and the steady influx of O’Haras as word spread through the family. Hank and Sophie arrived with coffee and sandwiches no one ate. Duncan and Hattie came next, the latter’s advanced pregnancy doing nothing to slow her determination to be present. Aidan paced the waiting area like a caged predator, while Blaze cycled in and out between coordinating the aftermath of the operation and checking on his cousin.
Through it all, Raven sat eerily still, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the doors through which news would eventually come. She’d been through this before—the waiting, the uncertainty, the helplessness. It was an unfortunate side effect of loving a man who put himself in danger for others. But this was different. This was after they’d finally found their way back to each other, after promises of new beginnings and second chances.
The surgeon had allowed Colt in the operating room, and when Colt finally emerged through the double doors, the entire family rose as one.
“He’s stable,” Colt announced, the collective exhale of relief almost a physical force in the room. “The bullet tore through muscle but missed the major arteries and nerves. Dr. Brenner was able to repair the damage. He lost a lot of blood, and there were multiple lacerations from the glass that required stitching, but the prognosis is good. Full recovery expected with physical therapy.”
Raven swayed slightly, Anne’s arm instantly around her shoulders providing support. “When can I see him?”
“He’s in recovery now. Once he’s moved to a room, you can go in.” Colt’s expression softened. “He was asking for you when he briefly regained consciousness in the ER. First word out of his mouth was your name.”
Something tight and cold that had been lodged in Raven’s chest since Wyatt’s comm went silent finally began to thaw. He was alive. He was going to recover. They would have their second chance after all.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the words wholly inadequate for the depth of her gratitude.
Colt nodded, understanding what she couldn’t articulate. “He’s tough, Raven. Always has been. And he has something worth fighting for.”
The family gradually dispersed as the hours wore on, heading home for showers and changes of clothes, taking shifts so Wyatt would never be alone. But Raven remained, refusing to leave even when Anne gently suggested she get some rest.
“I promised him I’d be here when he woke up,” she said simply.
And so she waited, through the transfer from recovery to a private room, through the nurses’ regular checks and the doctor’s evening rounds. She sat beside his bed, holding his hand, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket.
Outside, darkness fell over Laurel Valley, stars appearing one by one in the velvet sky. Inside, Raven kept her vigil, drawing comfort from the steady beep of the monitors and the warmth of Wyatt’s hand in hers.
“You kept your promise,” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “You came back to me. Now I’m keeping mine. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Sleep eventually claimed her, her head coming to rest on the edge of his bed, their fingers still intertwined. And through the long night, as Wyatt fought his way back to consciousness, that connection remained unbroken—a lifeline drawing him home.