Chapter 2
Amber”s eyelids fluttered open to the first blush of dawn sneaking through the canvas flaps of her cabin. The glamping retreat held a serenity that now contrasted with the tumultuous storm raging within her. She’d come here to find peace and now… The warmth from Hunter”s touch still lingered on her skin, a phantom caress that sent a shiver down her spine as she lay tangled in the sheets—unable to shake the memories of the previous night”s passionate encounter.
Hunter brought her to orgasm.
During sex.
With penetration.
To say her mind was blown was an understatement. Before their night together, she didn’t know that was even possible. She’d had excellent lovers in the past, sure. But it took toys or clit stimulation to come. For the last fifteen years, she’d assumed she was incapable of orgasming from good, old-fashioned, missionary style sex.
Hunter taught her something new about herself.
A stranger played her body like he owned it.
Sure, they’d had dinner together, much like a first date and spoke around the fire for an hour or more. Still, she didn’t have sex on the first date…normally. One-night stands were clearly defined with set expectations and rules.
She hadn’t simply orgasmed. She’d shattered apart underneath him, her limbs shaking like leaves in a storm. It was single-handedly the best climax she’d ever experienced.
With a deep breath that did little to steady her, Amber sat up, her heart beating an erratic rhythm against her ribcage. She was no stranger to intense situations; her work on crime documentaries had seen to that. Yet nothing had prepared her for the internal chaos Hunter had ignited. The soft glow of morning could not chase away the shadows of doubt that clung to her thoughts.
“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath, her words sharp puffs of white in the chilly air. This wasn”t her—she wasn”t the type to give into reckless impulses. She was Amber Ross, composed, articulate in six languages, a woman whose mind was her greatest asset. But last night, she”d let desire speak louder than reason, and it terrified her.
She threw back the covers, her movements abrupt, as if she could shake off the remnants of vulnerability that clung to her like the scent of Hunter”s cologne. The floorboards of the platform were cold beneath her feet, grounding her to the moment, to the decision she knew she had to face. It wasn”t just about indulging in a one-night stand; it was about losing control, something Amber never allowed herself to do.
Her reflection in the mirror was a stark reminder of the divide between her public persona and the woman who had surrendered to a stranger”s arms. There was a rawness in her brown eyes, usually so guarded and calculating, that didn”t fit the image of the fearless investigative journalist who chased down leads with relentless determination.
Out here, she didn’t have a team seeing to her makeup and hair. She kept her blonde hair shoulder length in a fashionable layered bob, easy to do. She kept her makeup natural, no flashy colors or contouring. There weren”t enough hours in a day for her to learn the newest techniques. Peering closely, she saw the beginning of age lines around her eyes. As a child, she wanted to be a wife and a mother. As an adult, she’d pushed those desires down as far as she could. Her career didn’t give her time for a relationship, let alone children.
“Get it together, Ross,” she scolded herself, her voice a hushed whisper betraying the turmoil inside. She couldn”t afford distractions, not with the dangers her line of work constantly skirted around. The guilt gnawing at her conscience wasn”t just moral; it was professional. What if last night”s slip made her vulnerable? What if Hunter was more than just a chance encounter? Why couldn’t she shake him the way she had every other man she’d fucked? Because, that’s what they did. They fucked. He hadn’t made love to her. There’s no connection there beyond the physical…right?
Pushing back the tangle of blonde hair from her face, Amber forced her features into the familiar mask of composure. She needed clarity, and she”d find it—not here, surrounded by the echoes of a night best forgotten, but out there, where the crisp mountain air could cleanse her thoughts, where she could rebuild the walls that Hunter had so effortlessly torn down.
“Time to move on,” she whispered, a resolve hardening within her. After all, Amber Ross didn”t run from her mistakes—she faced them head-on, with the same tenacity she brought to everything else in her life. And this time would be no different. She”d put Hunter and whatever weakness he represented behind her. Because survival, whether in the wilds of the mountains or the perilous depths of human emotion, was something Amber Ross excelled at.
Amber stepped out of the cabin, her hiking boots crunching against the frost-kissed gravel. The morning sun spilled over the jagged peaks of the Rockies, casting a golden sheen on the world that seemed to hold a promise—one of new beginnings, of washed-away sins. She inhaled deeply, the pine-scented air filling her lungs and, for a moment, displacing the noise raging in her heart.
She moved with purpose, navigating the rough terrain with ease, adept at finding her path through chaos, whether it be threading through the complexities of language or dissecting the intricacies of crime. Nature”s embrace was a cathedral of solitude, and Amber sought absolution within its hallowed bounds. No matter what was going on in her life, if she could escape for a few minutes in nature, she’d find her way again. Amber’s mother used to tell the story about her as a colicky infant. Amber would scream and scream, and the only thing that would calm her would be if one of her parents took her outside. They’d spend hours on the porch, holding her tightly in their arms, marveling at how it calmed her.
The forest she’d explored as a child welcomed her home with open arms, the aspen leaves whispering secrets as they fluttered in the wind. Shafts of light pierced the canopy, spotlighting the emerald undergrowth and glistening dewdrops that clung like diamonds to spiderwebs. Every step took her deeper into the serenity, away from the shadows of regret that nipped at her heels. Not only regret from the one-night stand, but from the promises she’d made to the girls, promises of justice and retribution. Promises she’d broken.
She scanned the terrain, not just as a spectator, but as a guardian of her own safety. Even in the silent watchfulness of the woods, Amber was continuously alert and prepared. It was this instinct that had served her well, both in the wild and when uncovering the darkest corners of human depravity.
Amber paused by a babbling brook, the sound of water over stone a soothing symphony to her frayed nerves. She crouched down, her fingers skimming the surface, sending ripples across the liquid mirror. Here, enveloped by the grandeur of the Rockies, she could feel the weight of her emotions ebb just a little—the guilt, the longing, and the relentless drive that both fueled and consumed her.
Nature had no judgment; it simply was. And within its boundless beauty, Amber allowed herself a fleeting respite. She was a creature borne of resilience and resolve, and though the tempest of her encounter with Hunter lingered, she knew the tranquility of the forest would clear her mind.
Silence was a shirt she wore comfortably, yet the stillness of the woods was not emptiness—it was full of life, pulsating with unseen energy that resonated with her own. The rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, each note etched into the symphony of survival that played around her. A squirrel ran up the side of a tree, chasing his friend.
Amber”s breath misted in the crisp morning air as she ventured deeper into the forest, her footsteps muffled by a carpet of pine needles. She inhaled deeply, the scent of earth and evergreens as familiar as an old friend. A sudden crack snapped her head up. Her pulse quickened. She stilled, listening intently. Voices carried on the breeze, an intrusion that made her heart hitch. Caution draped over her as she crept forward, her muscles tensing with each silent step. A decade spent investigating the international underworld conditioned her for stealthiness.
Through a copse of aspen trees, the scene unfolded. An ATV, its engine idling, sat like a dark sentinel among the foliage. Men, clad in leather and denim stained with the marks of the road, moved with purposeful haste around the vehicle. A tattoo on the neck of one man caught her attention. She’d seen it before. Amber”s mind raced—the Los Pedro cartel, notorious, ruthless; their reputation preceded them in every whispered story of the underground. Last year, she filmed an episode in Mexico, tracing the fentanyl trafficking business. Several members of the cartel had agreed to being interviewed, anonymously, of course. They’d wrapped their faces in bandanas and production disguised their voices on the broadcast, but she’d seen the same tattoo on all of them…a brand of sorts.
She crouched behind a thick tree trunk, her breathing shallow. The Hell Speed motorcycle club members, identifiable by their insignias, were unloading packages from the ATV—small, nondescript parcels wrapped tightly in plastic. But it was what they contained that made her stomach churn—a white powdery substance that could only spell trouble. The exact same packages she’d followed. Fentanyl.
“Got everything?” one gruff voice cut through the stillness, laced with authority.
“Si, pronto para distribuir,” another replied, his tone eager, the Spanish rolling off his tongue as effortlessly as any of the six languages Amber spoke fluently.
Her eyes widened, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Shock rooted her to the spot. These men were discussing distribution, openly orchestrating the spread of poison. They were strategizing the demise of countless lives with the same ease as one would plan a picnic. Unlike the story she’d told, where she’d been invited into this world, this time she was spying, an unwanted witness. Anger curled into her stomach. How dare they do this on her grandparent’s land. Her family land. Her haven of escape from the evils of the world.
Amber”s journalistic instincts flared—the story was right before her, dangerous and potent. Yet, her sense of self-preservation screamed at her to flee, to become a phantom in these woods she knew so well.
Her breaths came in shallow gasps as she crouched behind a thick Bristlecone pine, its ancient bark rough against the palms of her hands. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and earth, tinged now with the sharp odor of fear…or her own sweat. From her vantage point, she could hear two men arguing—a low, dangerous rumble that suggested a storm brewing.
“Ramos, you”re pushing too hard on this.” The man’s voice cut through the stillness like a knife. He wore a black motorcycle cut and based on the way the surrounding men acted, was the head of Hell Speed. “Grand Ridge ain”t just any drop. It’s filled with former special forces operators who have claimed it as their own. They protect it as they would any military base, maybe more.”
“Your caution will cost us, Scar. We are ready to move big, and Grand Ridge is ripe for the taking. The massive truck stop off the interstate is a perfect location for a base of operations,” Ramos countered, his tone laced with barely contained impatience.
Amber discerned the power struggle at play. Ramos, with his bold strategies, seemed eager to expand their dark empire. Scar, the more seasoned predator, appeared to understand the risks better.
She knew the significance of what they discussed—Grand Ridge, a tranquil town whose name now seemed a cruel irony, teetering unknowingly on the brink of becoming a narcotics hub. And as much as her instincts screamed at her to run, there was a stronger force at work within Amber—the relentless drive to uncover the truth.
Her fingers trembled—not from the chill of the Colorado morning, but from the gravity of what she was about to do. Carefully, she slid her phone from the pocket of her jacket. The screen seemed impossibly bright against the muted colors of the forest floor, and she dimmed it to the lowest setting with practiced ease. She flipped it quickly to airplane mode, not needing a call to give her location away.
Amber angled the lens through a natural lattice formed by the branches. She held her breath, steadying her hand as much as she could, and pressed record. The red dot blinked into life, a silent witness to the illicit transaction unfolding before it.
The device captured everything—the stacks of white packages, the faces of the men, and their heated conversation. Each second of footage was incriminating, a thread that could unravel the operations of the Los Pedro cartel if placed in the right hands.
Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm, thrumming against her ribs with the urgency of a wild thing caged. She was acutely aware of the risk, of the slim line between being a spectator and becoming a victim. But as she filmed, something settled within Amber. She had the evidence now, a way to remove these men from using her family’s woods as a meeting place.
Her thumb hesitated over the stop button, the tension in the air thick enough to suffocate. Amber”s instincts were a live wire, every sense amplified as she watched through the digital eye of her phone. She could feel the undercurrents of power between Ramos and Scar, volatile and unpredictable.
Scar turned sharply, a ripple of movement that drew Amber”s gaze. His eyes flicked to the periphery, narrowing on something unseen. A shiver raced down her spine—the sensation of being watched, vulnerable under an unseen predator”s gaze. Her breath caught in her throat; had he seen her?
“Qué fue eso?” Ramos”s voice was low, a growl that bled suspicion.
“Probably just some animal,” Scar replied with a dismissive wave, though his hand rested uneasily on the pistol at his hip.
“Check it out,” Ramos commanded, not fully convinced.
Amber”s mind whirred into action, her body already retreating quietly. Silent as a shadow, Amber moved, her every sense heightened. Leaves rustled underfoot, threatening to betray her presence. Each snap of a twig beneath her sneakers felt like a gunshot. She needed to vanish, to become one with the whispering pines and the secrets they held. She knew these woods, had run their trails, and studied their secrets. Every rustling leaf and snapping twig beneath her boots could be a death sentence, and yet she moved with a grace honed by years of athleticism and survival training.
The Colorado Rockies loomed above, indifferent to the human drama unfolding within their embrace. Amber knew she was on her own, her survival hinging on her next moves. And as she slinked away from the crime scene, a primal fear took hold—one wrong step could mean her last.
Finding a dense thicket, she ducked behind it, her movements reduced to slow precision. The earthy scent of pine needles and damp soil filled her nostrils as she pressed herself against the cool forest floor. The foliage masked her form, cloaking her in nature”s camouflage.
Through a narrow gap in the greenery, Amber kept her eyes fixed on the clearing, now a stage for the unfolding drama. Her phone lay clutched in her palm, its screen a portal to potential ruin or redemption.
She didn”t dare breathe too loudly, her chest rising and falling with shallow intent. Scar”s figure prowled the edge of the trees, his senses alert like a hunter zeroing in on its prey.
“Nothing here,” said a voice, eventually—one of Scar”s men returning from a cursory search.
“Keep your eyes open,” Scar ordered, still not satisfied, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the spot where Amber had stood.
As the voices faded, replaced by the natural whispers of the forest, Amber allowed herself the smallest exhale. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she took a second breath.
Amber Ross was no stranger to danger, but today the stakes were higher than any story she”d ever told. Today, she was the story, and she needed to ensure it had an ending that didn”t finish with the closing of a casket.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears, a staccato rhythm syncing with the rustle of leaves around her hidden form. Her muscles tensed as she waited, every sense heightened to the movements and murmurs that filtered through the foliage.
“Let”s move out,” Ramos commanded. The sound of footsteps grew fainter, ATV engines roared to life, and the scent of exhaust fumes into the crisp mountain air as the vehicles departed.
She remained motionless, a statue in the underbrush, counting the agonizing minutes until the forest reclaimed its silence. Finally, she dared to shift her weight, the ache in her limbs protesting the prolonged stillness. She peered cautiously from her hideout, scanning the clearing for any sign of the cartel members.
They were gone. At least, for now.
Her breath came easier, yet her mind raced faster than before. She had to get back to the safety of her cabin, but then what? Go to the local authorities with the evidence? Or talk to Hunter—the man whose arms had offered solace just hours ago, before this nightmare began? After all, he was a Navy SEAL.
She knew one thing for certain—she couldn”t let the Los Pedro cartel poison these serene heights with their darkness. Her family’s land had been a sanctuary for decades. She wouldn’t let it be marred by crime. The Lookout had become a stage for a deadly game. And Amber Ross was now an unwilling player.