Guarding The Witness (GUARDIAN PEAK SECURITY #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DECK

The satellite phone buzzes against my thigh. Bad news.

Good news doesn't come at oh-four-hundred when you're three miles deep in the Nevada wilderness, tracking a bull elk through fresh powder. Good news waits for reasonable hours and cell coverage. Bad news finds you wherever you are.

I lower my rifle and pull the phone from my cargo pocket. Mace's name flashes on the screen.

"Cross."

"We have a situation." Clipped. Professional. The voice he uses when shit's about to get complicated. "Federal marshal called. They need an off-grid safe house for a high-priority witness. Forty-eight-hour notice."

I scan the tree line, breath frosting in the predawn cold. The elk is long gone, spooked by the electronic intrusion. Just as well. I wasn't hunting for food. I was hunting because sleep wouldn't come, and the nightmares waiting in my bed are worse than any cold.

"We don't do witness protection. Federal jurisdiction."

"They're compromised. Someone inside the marshals leaked the last two safe house locations.

Their witness barely survived the second attempt.

" A pause. "She's a federal prosecutor, Deck.

Witnessed a mob hit at the San Francisco courthouse.

The Castellano family wants her dead before she can testify. "

The Castellanos. Everyone in certain circles knows that name. Old-school Italian mob with new-school brutality and enough connections to make witnesses disappear from federal protection like smoke.

"How'd they get our name?"

"Tom Parker vouched for us. Said if anyone could keep someone alive off-grid, it's Guardian Peak."

Sheriff Parker. Good man. Doesn't call in favors unless it's serious.

I start the trek back toward my cabin, boots crunching through knee-deep snow.

The mountains are quiet at this hour. It’s that particular silence that only exists when the world is frozen and sleeping.

I built my life around this silence. Craved it after years of gunfire and screaming and the wet sounds of men dying under my command.

"Timeline?"

"She arrives tomorrow night. Marshal's transporting her personally, then pulling out. Complete blackout after that. No federal contact unless absolutely necessary."

Tomorrow night. Less than forty-eight hours to prepare the safe house, run background on the threat assessment, and mentally prepare myself for what I swore I'd never do again.

Take responsibility for another life.

"Put her in the guest cabin near the main lodge. Wolfe and Hayes can rotate—"

"Negative." Mace cuts me off. He never does that. "Marshal was specific. He wants your cabin. Most remote location on the property, hardest to access, easiest to defend. And he wants you personally on protection detail."

My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. "I run operations. I don't babysit."

"You're the only one the marshal trusts for this.

Your reputation preceded you." Another pause, longer.

"Deck, she's been through two assassination attempts in six weeks.

Last one, the shooter got inside her safe house.

She killed him herself with a lamp to the head, but she was inches from dead.

Marshal says she's holding it together, but barely. That’s still under investigation. "

A prosecutor who brained a hitman with a lamp. Respect flickers through me, unexpected.

"Fine. Send me everything you have on the Castellanos and their known associates. Threat assessment, communication intercepts, anything the feds will share."

"Already compiling. You'll have it by noon."

I stop at the ridge overlooking my cabin, watching smoke curl from the chimney I left burning. "Nobody else knows about this. Not even the team, unless absolutely necessary. Fewer people who know she's here, the better."

"Understood."

I end the call and stand there in the snow, watching dawn break over the Sierra Nevada.

Pink and gold light spills across peaks I've memorized over five years of self-imposed exile.

Every ridge, every valley, every game trail and water source.

I know this land like I know my own scarred body, and I've turned that knowledge into a fortress.

A fortress I'm about to share with a stranger.

The last time I was responsible for protecting someone. Twelve good men and women who trusted me to bring them home safe. The ambush in Kandahar that turned a routine extraction into a massacre because some analyst in Washington fed us bad intel.

Six of them died that night. Six people who followed my orders into a kill zone. I can still hear Martinez calling for his mother. Can still feel Rodriguez's blood on my hands as I tried to hold his intestines inside his body.

The nightmares haven't stopped in five years. They just learned to wait until I'm weak.

I force the memories down and head for my cabin. There's work to do.

Eighteen hours later, I'm standing on my porch in the dying light, watching a black SUV navigate the final switchback to my property.

The cabin is ready. I've moved nonessential gear to the storage shed, cleared the second bedroom that's been collecting dust for years, and run a full security sweep of the perimeter.

Motion sensors active. Cameras positioned.

Weapons cleaned, loaded, and staged at strategic points throughout the property.

Everything is in order.

Everything except the churning in my gut that won't settle.

The SUV pulls to a stop thirty feet from the porch.

Federal plates, tinted windows, armored without advertising the fact.

The driver's door opens first revealing a man in his fifties steps out.

Broad-shouldered, buzz cut going gray, alert eyes of someone who's been doing this long enough to develop a sixth sense for danger.

US Marshal David Taylor. We spoke briefly on the phone. Seems competent.

"Cross." He approaches with his hand extended, but his attention is already scanning the tree line, cataloging sight lines and potential threats. I respect that.

"Marshal." I shake his hand. "Any trouble on the road?"

"Clean transport. Switched vehicles twice, took counter-surveillance routes. If anyone followed us, they're better than I am."

They might be. The Castellanos have been evading federal prosecution for three generations. They can afford the best.

Taylor turns back to the SUV and opens the rear passenger door. "Ms. Russo, we're here."

For a moment, nothing happens. Then a pair of legs swing out, and a woman emerges that makes my brain short-circuit.

The file said thirty-four. It didn't mention she'd look like a pinup model crossed with a shark in a three-piece suit.

Maybe five-six, with curves her tailored blazer can't hide and legs that go on despite her height.

Black hair pulled back in a severe bun, olive skin, cheekbones that could cut glass.

Dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, scanning her surroundings with sharp assessment.

Those eyes land on me.

Heat. Immediate and unwanted. Electric. The kind of reaction I haven't had in years and sure as hell don't have time for now.

"Mr. Cross." Her voice is low, controlled. "Thank you for agreeing to this arrangement."

"It's just Cross. Or Deck." I keep my voice flat, ignoring what's trying to settle in my gut. "Let's get you inside. Standing in the open isn't smart."

Her expression shifts. Is that annoyance? She doesn't like the obvious restated. I file that away as she nods and moves toward the porch with a grace that shouldn't be possible in four-inch heels on uneven ground.

Who the hell wears heels to a mountain safe house?

Taylor follows with her bags. She travels light with one rolling suitcase, one messenger bag, one small cosmetics case. Smart. Someone who packs heavy thinks they'll have time to unpack.

Inside, she stops at the center of my living room and turns in a slow circle. Her eyes flicker to the wood-burning stove, the handmade furniture, the walls lined with books and tactical maps, the kitchen with its cast iron cookware and no microwave.

"Charming." I can't tell if she's being sarcastic. "Very... rustic."

"Generator's solar with battery backup. Water comes from a well.

Nearest neighbor is my security team, eleven miles south.

Cell service is nonexistent, but I have satellite coms for emergencies.

" I move past her to stoke the fire, catching her perfume.

Expensive. Doesn't belong here. "Second bedroom is down the hall on the right.

Bathroom is shared. I'll give you a security briefing after the marshal leaves. "

"I look forward to it." Definite edge now. "Though I should mention, Mr. Cross, that I've survived two assassination attempts in six weeks. I'm familiar with security protocols."

I turn to face her. Our eyes lock. She doesn't look away. Doesn't flinch. Just meets my stare with the stubbornness of someone who's been underestimated her whole life and learned to push back.

"Surviving isn't the same as understanding threat assessment. You got lucky. Twice. Luck runs out."

Her chin lifts. "I didn't get lucky. I adapted. First attempt, I noticed the waiter's shoes didn't match his uniform and got under the table before he drew. Second, I heard the lock pick two seconds before the door opened and had a weapon ready."

"The lamp."

"A heavy lamp. Marble base. He won't be picking locks anymore.

" Her face contorts into what looks like pride, maybe.

Or trauma dressed up as pride. "I'm not a damsel in distress, Mr. Cross.

I'm a federal prosecutor who's put forty-three violent criminals behind bars.

I may not have your military background, but I'm not helpless. "

Behind us, Taylor clears his throat. "I need to hit the road. Long drive back, and the less time I spend here, the less chance anyone tracks the vehicle. I didn’t trust anyone else with her transport after what happened in Sacramento."