Chapter 19
Nineteen
The motel room door clicks shut behind us. It's small, dated, and exactly what you'd expect in a town like this.
I keep my eyes on the window, scanning the parking lot for any sign of the sheriff or other watchers. Also, to keep my eyes off Naomi. Because it’s been hard enough to stay away from her since we’ve been traveling together.
But now that my lips have tasted hers?
It feels impossible.
"What do we do now?" she asks, breaking the silence.
I can’t speak for a moment. Her question doesn't feel like it's about the mission. It feels like it’s about us.
What do we do about that kiss?
What do we do about each other?
Instead of dealing with it head-on, like a coward, I tactically retreat to mission details.
I check my watch.
"I'm going to go out and recon. Something is in those houses. I'm going to find out what."
"I'm going with you."
I shake my head. "No, I need you here. Safe. Deadbolt the door. And don’t open it for anyone."
The thought of her out there, exposed and vulnerable, claws at my heart. I've killed men, faced death more times than I can count, but nothing terrifies me more than the idea of something happening to her. This new feeling is overwhelming. But I don't have the luxury of dealing with it right now.
"This is my fight, Walker," she argues, crossing her arms. “I know I enlisted you in it, but it’s not on you to take it on alone."
"I know. I don’t feel alone.” I meant it to assuage any guilt she might have for letting me go alone. But the words give away a little more than I intend. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.
I place my hands on her shoulders. “I need to know what we're dealing with first. I move faster alone.
I can get in and out without being detected.
" She's about to fight me on it; I can see it in her eyes, but I interrupt her before she can.
"Please, Naomi. As long as I know that no one can get to you, I'll be fine. Let me do what I do."
Something in my tone must convince her because her expression softens slightly. She doesn't like it, that's clear from the tight line of her mouth, but she nods.
"Fine. But you have two hours. If you're not back by then, I'm coming after you."
"Deal." I wouldn’t let her do that, but I’m not going to be away from her that long, so it won’t be an issue.
I check my weapon, holster it, but leave my Stetson behind.
Its profile isn’t going to help me stay unseen.
"Keep your gun close. Don't turn on the TV.
The noise will mask any sounds you need to hear. "
I move to the door, then hesitate. There's so much I want to say to her. About the kiss. About what she's come to mean to me in such a short time. About how protecting her feels like the most important mission I've ever had.
“Walker,” she says, but then stops. She looks like she wants to say something more, but her words look just as stuck as mine.
Instead, I simply say, "Lock this behind me."
After I step outside, I hear the deadbolt slide into place. The sound is reassuring and devastating all at once. She's as safe as I can make her, which isn't nearly secure enough.
Slipping into the growing darkness is like returning home. The night air feels cool against my skin as I become a weapon again—not Walker Cole, not the broken man from Montana, and not the man who can't stop thinking about the woman in that motel room. Just a shadow moving between shadows.
This is what I was made for.
I stick to the edges of properties, avoiding streetlights, moving only when the wind rustles nearby trees to mask any sound. My enhanced vision adjusts quickly to the early night, the world transforming into shades of gray and blue.
The abandoned houses form a small cluster at the edge of town, just beyond where the streetlights end. Perfect placement. Close enough to appear part of the community, far enough to operate unnoticed.
I settle into a watching position behind a large tree, my breathing slowing to almost nothing.
The houses remain dark, still. No movement is visible through the windows, and no sounds except the occasional desert breeze. But they don’t want us to look in there. That much was clear.
I check my watch. Only ten minutes have passed, but each second feels like torture.
Naomi is still safe in that motel room, waiting, but the thought of her sitting there, gun in hand, counting the minutes until my return, makes my stomach sink.
I could be there. Next to her. My hands in her hair.
My lips on hers again. And nothing would interrupt us.
I shake my head. The mission. That’s what she needs me to focus on right now.
A barely perceptible sound catches my attention: the soft hydraulic hiss of a garage door opening, but much quieter than normal. My eyes snap to the source: the third house from the left, its windows still dark.
The garage door has lifted just enough for a vehicle to slip through. A black SUV emerges, headlights off. It glides from the garage and onto the street.
I can’t make out the driver or the passengers through the tinted windows and the dark night. But I memorize the license plate automatically, though I don’t know whether that detail will matter later. The vehicle turns north, away from the border, still running dark.
I wait five minutes after it disappears, then move closer to the house it emerged from. The garage door is closed again, sealed tight as if nothing happened. I circle the property, staying in blind spots and looking for any signs of surveillance cameras or motion sensors.
Then I see it. A small black dome mounted under the eaves. And another at the corner of the house. That’s a lot for a dilapidated property in a fading town. I calculate the angles. There is a blind spot along the back side of the house.
I make my way closer, my movements fluid and silent. The lock on the back door is decent. Takes me half a minute to bypass it. I ease the door open, listening for any alarm systems or movement inside. Nothing.
The interior is dark, but I’m able to make out the room.
This place, like the town itself, wants to hide what it is.
On the surface, it’s a house where people lived, in a town that’s dying, a small family that maybe had to sell and move elsewhere to make ends meet.
There are no photos or mail, or personal touches.
But there’s still furniture. And plates by the kitchen. And appliances. Would a family who could afford this house and then not afford it leave so much behind? Unlikely.
I move methodically through each room, checking each.
Living room, kitchen, bathroom. All tell the same story.
Faded and unclean, looking like this place is abandoned.
But too many things inside the house tell a different story, that this place is still in use.
But while that’s strange, it’s certainly not enough.
The bedroom is last. Queen-sized bed with a plain comforter. Dresser with nothing in the drawers. Closet empty.
I don’t find what I’m looking for until my boot strikes something metallic beneath the bed. The sound is slight, but in the silent house, it might as well be an alarm. I freeze for a moment, listening for any reaction. Nothing.
I crouch down and lift the edge of the comforter.
Beneath the bed is a cage: metal, about six feet long, three feet wide.
It’s empty now. You could keep weapons or drugs in there.
But weapons or drugs don’t need to be forced to stay.
You don’t have to lock weapons or drugs in a cage because they won’t try to run away.
Naomi didn’t tell me she found any evidence of this. She only mentioned guns and drugs.
But there’s enough room for a person in that cage.
My jaw tightens as I stare at it. I've seen terrible things in my life. Done terrible things. But this ignites something primal in me. For a moment, I want nothing more than to burn this place to ash, to make sure it can never be used again.
But that wouldn't help Naomi clear her name. And that wouldn't stop the people running this operation. I promised her I'd do this her way: gather evidence, expose the truth. So that’s what I’ll do.
I pull out the secure phone Static gave me and take pictures of the cage. Multiple angles. Clear documentation.
But something still doesn't add up. This town is small, exposed. How are they moving people through here without anyone noticing? There's no heavy traffic, no warehouse district, no place to hide the kind of operation this cage suggests.
No evidence above ground, I realize.
I make my way to the garage, moving faster now. The garage is cluttered with typical junk: old furniture, boxes, and tools hanging on pegboard. Typical for a house that’s lived in, not one that’s abandoned. Too cluttered. Deliberately so.
I start moving things aside, searching for anything that seems out of place. The concrete floor looks uniform, but when I drag a heavy workbench away from the wall, I find what I'm looking for: a seam in the concrete, forming a rectangle about three feet by three feet.
A trapdoor.
There’s no lock. Why would there be? That’s the point of making this town, this house look normal and completely valueless. When I open it, I find a ladder descending into darkness.
I worry for a moment that I’m going to find poor souls trapped down here. But it’s not a cell. As soon as I feel the air, it reveals how cavernous it is. I snap my fingers, and the sound travels so far that I lose it.
A tunnel.
I peer down and risk turning on my flashlight. I find walls that are well-constructed, reinforced every few feet, and large enough to stand up in. This isn't some makeshift smuggling route. This took time and resources.
When I turn the beam down the tunnel, it’s so long I lose the light down it like I lost the sound.
I would bet good money it runs all the way to Mexico.
It all clicks. This isn't just a waypoint or a storage facility. This is a pipeline from Mexico to the US and maybe back again.
I take more pictures, documenting everything. I'm about to climb out when I hear it: the same hydraulic hiss from earlier but coming from a different house. I carefully replace the workbench, making sure everything looks undisturbed. I need to get back to Naomi. We need to plan our next move.
My footsteps make no sound as I glide through the house toward the back door.
I'm nothing but a shadow again, my breathing controlled, my movements liquid.
The back door closes behind me with the faintest click, and I melt into the darkness between houses.
I press myself against the side of a shed and wait to see what emerges from that second garage.
It’s another SUV, identical to the first, moving with the same careful precision. This one turns in a different direction, heading toward the edge of town where I spotted a truck stop earlier.
I feel a tremendous, almost animalistic need to get back to the motel, back to Naomi. I knew the forces arrayed against her were powerful. But I don’t think I knew just how big and deep this must run. Whoever is running this is high up and well-connected.
But what I have is not enough if I’m going to save her the way she wants to be saved. Using the system to bring justice. I should follow the SUV as far as I can.
I shift through the darkness. The SUV maintains a steady pace, never approaching the speed limit, making it easy to follow without drawing attention.
The truck stop appears ahead—a small collection of diesel pumps, the diner that's closed for the night, and a gravel lot where five semi-trucks are parked. The SUV pulls around to the back of the lot, where the lighting is poor. I circle wide, using the trucks themselves as cover.
Three men emerge from the SUV. Two from the front seats, one from the back. They carry heavy black duffel bags that are clearly weapons or drugs. Thankfully, not people, or I don’t know what I’d do.
The back doors of the semi open, revealing a hidden compartment built into what appears to be a legitimate cargo area. The bags are loaded inside, the compartment sealed, and the cargo doors closed again. The entire operation takes less than five minutes.
The men exchange no words, not even nods or hand signals. They clearly know this routine well. The driver of the semi, who hasn’t once looked back at the SUV or the men, climbs into his cab while the SUV team returns to their vehicle.
I need to know where that truck is headed. There must be some sort of manifest in the cab. If I can get a look at it, that might give us an idea of their network.
I wait until the SUV pulls away, until the men are gone, and only the truck driver remains. I slip forward, silent as breath. I don’t want to kill him. Not just because it would alert our presence here, but I don’t know the extent of this man’s involvement.
But I have a deep pit in my stomach, a sinking feeling that the only way I’m going to be able to protect Naomi is by killing. Lots of it.
But if I do that, become the monster again, I’ll lose what’s left of my soul. I could never be with Naomi. I couldn't poison her with my love. If I do it my way, I’ll save her life but lose any hope of being with her.
That decision is put off for now as the driver gives me an opening to gather evidence without bloodshed. He exits the cab and rounds the truck. I quickly locate the manifest hanging by the door. I don’t take the time to read it myself. I simply pull the phone out and take pictures of the pages.
I’m on the last page when I hear the trucker’s boots scuffing the ground around the front of the cab. I duck and roll underneath the cab just as he rounds the corner. I roll through the other side as he climbs in. He pulls away, and I slip back into town toward the motel.
I make my way back toward Naomi, desperate to see her.
Not just because I want to be close to her.
But because she’s changed everything. Had I been here alone, I would have had only one way to fix this.
The old, violent way. But with her help, maybe, just maybe, we can do this the right way.
End what evil is happening here—not with more evil, but with justice.
I hope.