Chapter 24
One year ago:
Mercury: Do you play chess?
Binary: I learned the rules. Found it inefficient.
Mercury: Inefficient, how?
Binary: Too many variables left to chance. I prefer systems where preparation guarantees outcomes.
Mercury: That’s not how chess works. That’s not how anything works.
Binary: It’s how I work.
Mercury: Must be nice, living in a world where surprises don’t exist.
Binary: It is, actually.
Lincoln had been sitting in his SUV outside Callum Webb’s house for eleven minutes.
He needed Callum’s help. There was no way around that in order to successfully defeat Jason Randall in Denver tomorrow.
Lincoln had calculated the optimal time to arrive here—late enough that Callum would be home from the station, early enough that he wouldn’t have settled into his evening routine.
He’d mapped out the conversation in his head, identified the key points he needed to make, anticipated the likely objections, and prepared responses for each.
None of that preparation made it easier to get out of the SUV.
The house was modest. Single story, well-maintained lawn, a porch light already on against the gathering dusk. Through the front window, Lincoln could see movement—Callum crossing the living room, probably heading for the kitchen. Normal life. The kind of evening Lincoln was about to interrupt.
Twelve minutes now.
He forced himself to step out of the vehicle, walk up to the front door and knock before he could talk himself out of it.
The door opened faster than he expected. Callum stood in the frame, still in his work clothes, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. His expression cycled through surprise and wariness before landing on something that looked almost like amusement.
“Lincoln.” He leaned against the doorframe. “You know, most people just call.”
“I was in the area.”
“You live on the opposite side of town and have never once been in the area.” Callum stepped aside. “Come into the kitchen. Sloane is putting the baby to bed, and I was about to make coffee. You look like you need it.”
Lincoln followed him through the house. The interior was practical, uncluttered—a few photographs on the walls, a bookshelf heavy on procedural manuals.
Callum moved to the coffeemaker and started measuring grounds with the deliberate precision of someone giving his guest time to figure out what he wanted to say.
“I lied to you. When you came by the house the other day.”
Callum’s hands didn’t pause. “I know.”
“I figured as much.” Lincoln made himself stand still instead of pacing. “The woman on the federal bulletin. Morgan Reese. She is the one I brought to the Eagle’s Nest.”
“Uh-huh.” Callum finished with the coffeemaker and turned around, leaning back against the counter. “And she’s been at your place this whole time.”
“Yes.”
“While every agency in the country is looking for her.”
“Yes.”
Callum crossed his arms, but there was no heat in it.
“You know, your uncle Finn pulled something similar years ago, back when I was federal rather than sheriff. He hid a witness from a federal case because he didn’t trust the Marshals handling it.
I’m pretty sure the other Linear guys were in on it too, although no one could prove it and everything worked out in the end. ”
Lincoln blinked. “I didn’t know that.”
“Your uncle Ian still gives him grief about it.” Callum shook his head. “Bollingers. You’re all the same. Rules apply until they don’t.”
Callum turned toward the coffeemaker.
“She didn’t do what she’s accused of.” Lincoln heard the edge in his own voice and made himself dial it back. “Morgan was kidnapped. Held captive. The people who took her framed her for the fire sale. Every piece of evidence pointing to her was planted.”
“And you can prove this?”
“I can prove who actually did it. His name is Jason Randall. Former private military contractor, current evidence destruction specialist. He runs a business helping criminals make their legal problems disappear—stealing evidence from federal facilities, destroying case files.” Lincoln paused.
“Randall has an operation happening in Denver in just a few hours. I’ve mapped his facility, identified his methodology. I’m going to catch him in the act.”
Callum leaned back against his kitchen counter and studied him for a moment. “You need backup.”
“I have backup. Bear, Derek, Theo.”
“So why are you here?”
The question hung between them. Lincoln could dance around it, but Callum would see through that in about three seconds.
“I need your help. Your tactical expertise. And probably your contacts in federal law enforcement once all this is done.” Lincoln made himself hold Callum’s gaze. “And I couldn’t ask for that without telling you the truth first. You gave me a chance before, and I didn’t take it. That was wrong.”
“No, you didn’t take it.” Callum’s tone was mild. “You also looked me dead in the eye and did a terrible job of it. Worst poker face I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t play poker.”
“Which is probably why you still have your life savings.” The coffeemaker beeped. Callum poured two cups and handed one to Lincoln. “Like I said at your house, you’ve helped me more than once. That woman and baby in the other room are here because of you.”
“The situation with Sloane was different.”
“Was it?” Callum took a sip of his coffee.
“Lincoln, I’ve known you since you were a weird kid following the adults around Linear Tactical, asking questions about security protocols that no twelve-year-old should’ve known to ask.
You’ve always been…” He waved a hand vaguely.
“You. But you’ve never lied to me before. ”
“I know.”
“Which means whatever’s going on with this woman is different.”
Lincoln stared at his coffee. The words he needed weren’t organizing themselves the way data did. “She’s… I’ve never…” He stopped. Tried again. “My brain goes quiet when I’m with her. That’s never happened before. With anyone.”
Callum was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, as if that explained more than Lincoln had intended to say.
“All right.” He set down his cup. “So. Denver. What’s the plan?”
Lincoln felt something loosen in his chest. He’d prepared for arguments, justifications, having to defend his choices. He hadn’t prepared for Callum to simply move forward.
“I’ll brief everyone at the compound. Two hours.”
“I’ll be there.” Callum walked him toward the door, then paused. “Lincoln. This woman—Morgan. She matters to you.”
It wasn’t a question. Lincoln didn’t treat it like one.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Callum clapped him on the shoulder—brief, solid. “Then let’s make sure we don’t screw this up.”
Two hours later, Lincoln stood at the head of his command center, surrounded by the people he trusted most.
Bear and Derek occupied the chairs closest to the main display. Theo had claimed the spot near the door, arms crossed. Callum stood slightly apart from the others, hands in his pockets, taking in the setup with the quiet assessment of someone who’d run his share of operations.
And Morgan. She sat at her usual workstation, the box of letters from Montana resting beside her keyboard. The bruises around her nose had faded completely, and the cuts on her arms had healed to thin lines that would eventually become scars. She looked stronger than she had two weeks ago.
She also hadn’t taken her eyes off the Denver coordinates since Lincoln had pulled them up.
“Meet Calvin Driscoll, operating under the alias Jason Randall for the past ten years.” Lincoln displayed the photograph—corporate headshot, expensive suit, the kind of polish that came from money. “Former private military contractor.”
He pulled up the network diagram. Shell companies, property records, financial flows.
“Officially retired five years ago. Unofficially, he pivoted to something more profitable. Twenty-three shell corporations across twelve states. Most listed as document storage facilities. Boring on paper.” Lincoln highlighted several nodes.
“Less boring when you overlay his companies’ locations with federal cases that collapsed due to evidence problems.”
“How many cases?” Bear asked.
“Seventeen confirmed. Probably more.”
“He’s fixed evidence at least seventeen different times?” Derek whistled low. “That’s a hell of a business model.”
“He’s not destroying evidence for fun. He’s running a service. Wealthy clients facing serious charges hire him to make the evidence disappear instead of fighting it in court.”
“What’s his rate?” Theo asked. “Asking for a friend.”
Lincoln ignored the chuckles and switched to the Denver location intel. “This is where Randall is meeting his next clients in just over twelve hours.”
The image showed an abandoned industrial building on the outskirts of Denver—weathered brick, boarded windows, the kind of place that looked forgotten.
“We found data that he’s handing off some stolen evidence—letting the clients decide what to do with it.
The warehouse is neutral ground. Not connected to any of Randall’s shell companies, not on any radar.
He uses it specifically because it’s deniable. ”
“How’d you find it?” Bear leaned forward.
“The facility codes Morgan remembered included logistics data—dates, times, locations for client handoffs. This address appeared multiple times.” Lincoln highlighted the building schematics he’d pulled from old permit records.
“He doesn’t bring his full operation here.
Just himself and maybe one or two people. Keeps it clean, keeps it professional.”
“So he’ll be exposed,” Callum said slowly. “Minimal security.”
“Exactly. This is the best chance to stop his organization cold, before he realizes anyone is onto him.”
“What’s our play?” Derek asked.