Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ethan hadn’t said a word since they’d pulled off the blacktop.
Juniper’s sleek blue Lexus crawled over the forest path—chrome rims gritting through clay and rock, the dying sun painting the hood in molten gold. They’d passed the old split-rail marker twenty minutes back. Nothing but tree shadow and tire ruts since.
And still no text from Amara.
He’d sent three.
She’d read none.
He didn’t like that. Not one fucking bit.
The leather seat creaked as he shifted, jaw tight, thumb flicking back to the tracker app. That watch was still pinging. Same dot. South pasture. Near the barn.
The farm.
Of course.
“Jesus Christ, Amara,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” Juniper asked.
“Nothing.” His voice came sharp. “You were saying?”
She hesitated. He could see it on her, even in the mirror-light—how whatever she was about to say scared the hell out of her.
“I found them together,” she said finally. “At William’s place. My fiancé and my father. Fighting.”
Ethan turned his head, slow. “When?”
“Four days ago. I dropped by unannounced. That’s when I knew something was off.” Juniper’s voice was crisp. Like a blade. She wasn’t unraveling—she was executing.
Ethan respected that. “What were they fighting about?”
“At first? Construction permits. Some state land dispute.” Her knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Then it got worse. I heard my father say, ‘I don’t care how we get it, we get it. By any means necessary.’”
Ethan stared.
Juniper pushed on. “He meant the land off the James property. That corridor. The south line.”
Ethan exhaled through his nose. Low. Controlled.
“I asked William about it afterward. He lied. Badly. I know when he’s lying. He tried to spin some crap about rezoning. But his eyes… I’ve known Will a long time. He’s scared.”
Ethan’s voice was quiet. “How long has he been on your father’s payroll?”
Juniper didn’t answer right away.
“Juniper.”
“At least two years,” she said. “Maybe longer. I always thought it was just political favors. But it’s more. Kickbacks. Quiet deals to keep Hollis Whiskey out of regulatory heat. You think Calhoun County wants to lose its biggest employer?”
Ethan didn’t blink.
“He covered things up,” she said. “I don’t know what, exactly. But when I heard about Amara’s house burning…when I heard Amara went missing…” Her voice cracked. “It all started clicking into place.”
“Sarge,” Ethan said flatly. “You think Thetus had something to do with his death?”
“I don’t think anymore,” Juniper said. “I know. My father has always been ruthless. But this? This is different. This is violent. Targeted.”
“And what about Wooldridge?” Ethan asked. “The overdose?”
Juniper’s foot eased off the gas. “Same pattern. Same silence. Same way William rushed to close the file.”
Ethan dragged a hand down his face, the adrenaline sharpening behind his ribs like a blade. The dots were lining up. They always fucking did—right before the fall.
The strange thing about it all was that Houston had called Ethan to come. To investigate. To help. And that was the one piece not lining up. Why would Houston do that? Ethan didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer, especially ones as critical as this.
“You realize what you are now?” he said.
“I’m a whistleblower,” she replied. “Maybe an accomplice. Depends how the feds play it.”
He stared out of the windshield, pulse thudding.
She drove them deeper into the trees. Somewhere behind them, smoke still curled over a lost dream. Ahead of them, the forest pressed in tight.
“I need to show you something,” she said. “What I found out here. After I heard about the fire, I came looking.”
“You came here alone?”
“I had to.”
Ethan rubbed his thumb along the grip of the Glock tucked in his waistband. His Marine senses prickled— never letting his gaze off the trees, the bend in the trail, the heavy quiet.
Juniper turned to him. “I think there’s a line being built, Ethan. From the south line right up into the ridge. Off the grid. No permits. No oversight.”
His stomach turned to stone. “Then let’s find it,” he said. “Before someone else tries to bury the evidence.”
In the shadows of the Hollis empire, the hunt began. Yet the farther they got into it, the worse the reception became. Ethan’s phone had already blinked out twenty minutes back. GPS gone. There was nothing but instinct and the lay of the land now.
Juniper kept her hands firm on the wheel, but he didn’t miss the tremor in her jaw. Girl was running on grit and nerve. He respected that.
The trail narrowed. Shrubs clawed at the sides of the Lexus, but she didn’t flinch.
He clocked it first. A glint—too square to be natural—half-buried in brush, nailed high to a birch.
“Slow up,” he said sharply. “Pull over. Now.”
Juniper braked and eased the car off the trail.
“What?” she whispered.
He pointed, leaning toward the windshield. “Deer cam. Left side. See it?”
She followed his gesture. “Shit.”
“Could be theirs. Could be nothing.” He unbuckled, eyes scanning the tree line. “But whatever’s past this point? It’s worth watching. Might be suicide to stumble on it.”
Juniper cut the engine.
Wind moved through the trees. Not a bird in earshot.
Ethan’s muscles coiled tight. That sixth sense—trained from warzones and safehouses and dark alleys—was humming now.
Juniper reached beneath the seat in one clean move. Came up with a black SIG Sauer. Checked the mag. Full. Slapped it home.
Ethan arched a brow. “Didn’t think you were packing.”
“I’m done being the pretty face at fundraisers,” she snapped, eyes gleaming. “If I’m gonna lead Hollis Whiskey out of this hell—or straight into it—I’ve got to know what my father’s been hiding. And I’ve got to know who’s helped him do it.”
Her voice didn’t shake. Not once.
“I’ve been the daughter. The fiancée. The prop. I’m done.”
Ethan looked at her a long second.
Then he cracked a grin. Just a little. Just enough. I like this chick.
He nodded back to the road. “Right. Let’s fucking go.”
Whatever was out there in the deep backwoods of Calhoun County—deals carved into pine, sins buried under moss—they were into it now.