Chapter 41
The North Line
The woods around the landing strip were a graveyard of silence.
Scout Wilson moved like a shadow through the hemlocks, his breathing synchronized with the wind. He’d rappelled down the shale face of the ridge an hour ago, his movements mechanical and silent. He knew the camera loops—Grant had mapped them, and Scout had memorized them.
He waited until the last security guard, a man lighting a cigarette and looking bored, climbed into a golf cart and headed back toward the main house. The hum of the electric motor faded, leaving only the distant, ghostly vibration of the jazz band from the gala.
Scout reached the building, corrugated steel cold to the touch.
The main loading doors were deadbolted, but the high ventilation louvers near the back weren’t designed to keep out a man with Scout’s reach.
He used a collapsible shim to bypass the latch on the side personnel door—a trick he’d picked up in a different life—and slipped inside.
The air in the warehouse was dead. It smelled of ozone, industrial plastic, and something chemically sweet.
He clicked on a low-lumen red penlight. The beam swept across the floor, landing on the rows of plastic-wrapped pallets. He found them in the third row.
V. VARGA / VANGUARD.
Scout pulled a serrated blade from his belt and made a clean, four-inch slit in the shrink wrap. He peeled back the plastic. Inside weren’t paintings or antiques. They were reinforced crates, and inside those were vacuum-sealed bags of a fine, crystalline powder.
He didn’t need a lab to know what it was. This was the “expensive mistake” Wade had talked about.
Scout pulled a small glass tube from his tactical vest. With gloved hands, he took a sample, capped it, and slid it into a padded pocket.
Suddenly, the heavy roll-up door at the far end of the building groaned.
A truck engine rumbled outside, its headlights cutting through the gaps in the door like white blades.
Scout’s heart kicked into a high, steady rhythm.
He didn’t panic. He moved. He stayed low, sliding behind a stack of crates labeled Furniture Refinishing and pressed his back into the shadows just as the side door he’d come through flew open.
Two men walked in, their voices loud and jagged compared to the jazz at the lodge.
“Move the Varga pallets to the front,” one of them growled. “The plane returns at 0400, and if the count is off again, it’s our heads.”
Scout stayed motionless, his hand hovering near his sidearm.
He was a shadow among shadows. He waited until they moved toward the forklift at the opposite end of the floor, the engine’s roar drowning out the sound of his retreat.
He slipped out the side door, merged into the treeline, and didn’t stop until the warehouse was a dark memory behind him.
He pulled his phone, shielded the screen with his jacket, and sent a two-word text:
SAMPLED. CLEAR.
* * *
The Hollis Estate
Inside the Great Room, Burke felt his phone vibrate against his thigh. He didn’t pull it out immediately. He stayed perfectly still, his eyes tracking Wade Hollis across the room, but the tension that had been holding his shoulders like a vise finally broke.
He looked over at Caitlin. She was standing near a vase of cream peonies, looking like a dream in that hunter green silk. The jazz band had shifted into a slow, classic standard.
The mask was still on, but the mission was half-won.
Burke walked toward her, the silver star on his shirt catching the light. He offered her a hand, his voice low and for once, devoid of the Sheriff’s weight.
“They say the first dance is for the guests,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers. “And I’m tired of standing by the wall, Caitlin.”
Caitlin smiled, her hand sliding into his. “I thought you’d never ask, Sheriff.”
As he led her onto the floor, Burke caught Grant’s eye near the terrace. Grant gave a microscopic nod. He knew. The sample was moving.
For the first time all night, the air in the place felt like it might actually be worth breathing.
* * *
The jazz band shifted into a slow, syrupy ballad. On the floor, Burke was lost in Caitlin’s eyes, his hand steady at the small of her back. He looked like a man who had forgotten the world was on fire.
Grant didn’t have that luxury.
He was dancing with Naomi, her head barely reaching his chest. Her height was a blessing—it gave him a clear, unobstructed line of sight over the crowd. He scanned the room, his eyes moving like a predator’s, until he saw them.
The two men from the Hollis Country Club.
They had entered from opposite sides of the Great Room. They weren’t wearing the “Lodge” style; their suits were too sharp, their eyes too hungry. They weren’t looking at the peonies or the champagne. They were clocking Izzy.
Grant looked at Burke, trying to catch his eye, but the Sheriff was hooked, line, and sinker by the woman in green.
“Grant, you’re killing me,” Naomi hissed, stumbling as he stepped too wide. “Can you focus? You’re leaden-footed.”
Grant didn’t answer. He watched Cal spin Izzy toward the open terrace doors. The midnight blue of her dress caught the moonlight, and then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the veranda.
A moment later, Cal stepped back into the room alone, heading toward the bar.
Then, one of the Florida men adjusted his jacket and slipped out onto the terrace.
“Go break in on Burke,” Grant commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “Tell him ‘Terrace.’ Now.”
Naomi looked confused for a split second, her brow furrowed. Then she saw the direction of his gaze. Her expression sharpened into that of the partner he trusted. “Oh. Yeah. Got it.”
She dropped his hand and moved through the dancers like a heat-seeking missile toward Burke.
Grant cut toward the open doors with quiet, dangerous intent. He stepped out into the mountain air, cutting off the Florida man before he could get within ten feet of her.
“Isabella,” Cal said, stepping between them with a proprietary smoothness. He handed her a flute of champagne, his thumb grazing hers. “Grant was just leaving. He’s got a farm to run, and I’ve got the prettiest girl at the ball to escort to the stage. It’s time for Dad’s big moment.”
Grant stood his ground, his shadow falling long across the stone. He was an inch taller than Cal, broader in the shoulder, and a hundred times more grounded. He didn’t look at the champagne. He looked at Cal like he was a problem that needed solving.
A waiter appeared, gliding through the terrace doors with a silver tray. He offered a glass to Grant, the bubbles hissing in the mountain air. Grant didn’t move a muscle.
“I’m fine,” Grant said, his voice a low rumble.
“Suit yourself,” Cal smirked. He tucked Izzy’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Let’s go, darlin.”
They stepped back inside, Grant following like a silent, charcoal-clad ghost.
The Great Room had gone quiet. Wade Hollis stood on the small riser near the fireplace, looking every bit the benevolent king. He raised his glass, his voice booming with a practiced, politician’s warmth.
“Friends, neighbors,” Wade began. “We all know the toll this valley has taken. For too long, our families have had to drive to Asheville or Charlotte for cancer treatment. But not anymore. Tonight, I am proud to announce that the new wing of Jackson Valley Hospital is officially fully funded.”
A cheer went up, but Grant’s eyes were on the men from Florida standing near the exits.
“We’re naming it in honor of the woman who raised me with the grit of these mountains,” Wade continued. “The Evelyn Hollis Memorial Wing. To progress, to health, and to the folks in Sylva who made this happen. Eat, drink, and dance!”
The band kicked into a lively swing. Wade stepped off the riser and headed straight for Izzy.
“My turn, darlin, I believe,” Wade said, sliding a hand onto her waist.
Grant watched from the edge of the floor.
One snake to the next. Wade didn’t dance like a host; he danced like an owner.
He pulled Izzy closer than was polite, his hand moving slow and heavy across the small of her back.
Izzy kept her face a perfect, polished mask of Denver-bred charm, but Grant saw the way her shoulders stayed braced.
She’d dealt with men like Wade in the high-stakes galleries, men who thought their checkbooks bought them a woman’s dignity.
She played it flawlessly, but Grant was done watching.
As the song shifted into something slower, Grant moved. He didn’t ask. He simply stepped into Wade’s space, his presence an immovable force.
“Excuse me, Wade. I believe I’m owed a dance.”
Wade’s eyes narrowed, but with the town watching, he let out a sharp, ugly laugh and stepped back. Grant pulled Izzy into his arms. He didn’t hold her like the Hollises did. He held her with a firm, protective strength that anchored her.
Izzy didn’t expect him to be able to move, but Grant led her with a surprising, effortless grace, spinning her away from the center of the room. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear.
“Don’t look now,” he whispered, his voice vibrating against her skin. “But those men from Florida—the ones from the landing strip—they’re in the room. And they’ve been clocking you since you walked in.”
Izzy’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on his shoulder.
Across the room, Cal stood by the bar, his face darkening as he watched Grant whisper to her. He looked like a man watching his favorite toy being handled by a stranger.
Wade appeared at Cal’s shoulder, his voice a lethal, low hiss that only his son could hear.
“Don’t stand there looking like a kicked dog, Cal. You’re a Hollis. Don’t let another man take what belongs to you. Get your ass out there and claim what’s yours.”
* * *
Spurred by his father's venom, Cal marched across the floor. He practically dragged Izzy away from Grant, his grip on her wrist a fraction too tight, his pride wounded by Grant’s interference.
"We need a quiet minute," Cal snapped, pulling her away from the ballroom and down the corridor toward the private library.
The air in the library was cooler and a world away from the jazz band’s upbeat tempo.
Grant reached the heavy mahogany doors as they were clicking almost shut. He paused, his hand hovering over the brass latch. Through the sliver of space left by the frame, he saw them.
Cal wasn’t talking anymore. He had Izzy pulled flush against him, his hands tangled in her hair. Her eyes closed. From where Grant stood, it didn’t look like a woman being guarded. It looked like a woman who had made a choice.
The white-hot protective flare in Grant's chest didn't turn into anger. It didn't turn into a fight. It turned into a hollow, sinking weight—regret. It hit him that while he'd been busy playing soldier and chasing ghosts, Cal Hollis had been offering her the kind of life she understood.
Grant stepped back, the shadows of the hallway swallowing him.
As the library door latched shut, Izzy immediately stepped back and pulled her wrist free.
"What was that? You grabbed me like I was property."
Cal's jaw tightened. "I didn't want to share you with half the county all night."
"That's not your call to make."
"You didn't stop me."
"No." Her gaze never left his. "I didn't. There's a difference."
Grant walked back down the corridor toward the noise of the gala, the music louder with every step.
He found Burke near the bar and leaned in close.
"She's in the library with Cal," Grant said, his voice stripped of emotion.
"Keep an eye on the door. I've seen enough of his hands on her for one night. "