Chapter Five #4
Nobody spoke. No need to. We’d done this often enough that words were redundant—each man knowing his role, each movement flowing into the next without conscious thought.
Two minutes after landing, we were packed and moving, chutes secured, harnesses stowed, weapons checked and ready.
I stood up in the dark with Montana soil under my boots and cold air hitting the back of my throat.
The smell of it was grass and creek water and something faintly like wood smoke from somewhere far off—not the mustiness of the Belarus safe house or the processed recirculation of the military transport, but something cleaner, sharper, more specific.
The kind of smell that belonged to a place rather than just existed in it.
The mountains were a dark outline against a sky packed with stars—no moon tonight, just the cold, clear light of stars too numerous to count. To the west, the valley opened into the wider plain where Black Butte Ranch sat, the main house just visible as a cluster of lights half a mile distant.
To the south, barely visible through the tree line, a single light burned—Jackson’s farmhouse, the ten acres he’d bought with the money he’d saved from twenty years of careful living.
The place where, if my calculations were right, he was sleeping right now, unaware that five men had just dropped out of the night sky less than a mile from his front door.
The team gathered around me, their faces invisible in the darkness, their presence marked only by the occasional creak of equipment or soft exhalation of breath. Sterling moved to my side, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my flight suit.
“Team’s moving to the main house,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Rivera and Torres will secure the perimeter, check for additional cameras. Harker’s taking the eastern approach, making sure our landing didn’t trigger any alerts.
” He paused, then added, “You’re clear for the farmhouse. ”
I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak. It was more than I’d asked for—more than I had any right to expect—but Sterling had made the call without being asked. Had looked at the situation, assessed the risks, and decided that Jackson’s safety was worth bending protocol for.
It was why we followed him. Why, when things went sideways, his word was law.
“Thank you,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I’d intended.
Sterling nodded, then moved away, joining the rest of the team as they started toward the main house. I watched them go—four dark shapes moving through the tall grass with practiced efficiency—then turned my attention to the single light burning in the distance.
Jackson’s place. Ten acres of carefully tended land, a house he’d built with his own hands, a vineyard that existed mostly in his head, but was already taking shape in the four greenhouses behind the main structure.
The place where, three months ago, I’d spent a night that had somehow become the thing I thought about when I let my mind wander from whatever mission Sterling had sent me on.
The place where, if my calculations were right, Jackson was sleeping right now—one arm flung across the empty side of the bed, his face turned toward the window that looked out on the eastern pasture.
The place where, in approximately twelve minutes, I’d be standing on the porch, hand raised to knock, heart doing something complicated in my chest.
I checked my watch—0230, local time—then my bearing, making sure I had the right approach.
The farmhouse was southwest of my position, half a mile as the crow flies, slightly longer on the ground with the creek to navigate.
I could be there in ten minutes if I pushed, fifteen if I took the time to check for cameras or tripwires along the way.
Fifteen, then. Better to arrive intact than fast.
I started walking, my boots silent in the tall grass, my eyes on the light in the distance.
Around me, Montana spread out in all directions—valley to the west, mountains to the east, sky overhead so clear I could pick out individual stars without trying.
Somewhere to the north, a coyote called, the sound carrying across the open ground with unnatural clarity.
I’d chosen pasture for the insertion because it was far enough from the ranch to avoid detection, close enough to reach on foot before dawn.
Because it put me on the eastern approach—the same one Peterson’s people had used—giving me a chance to check for additional cameras or cut fence lines before alerting Jackson to my presence.
Because it meant I could see the farmhouse from here—could pick out the pattern of shadows that meant Jackson’s place rather than just any building in the darkness. Could track my progress toward it with each step, could watch the distance shrink with each passing minute.
Could imagine, maybe, what would happen when I reached it—Jackson opening the door, surprise flashing across his face, then something else replacing it.
Something I wasn’t ready to name, even to myself.
The creek appeared ahead of me, a silver line cutting across the pasture.
I crossed it at the narrow point—the same one Peterson’s people had used, if Jackson’s description was accurate—my boots silent on the flat stones that made a natural bridge.
On the far side, the grass gave way to scattered trees, then to the proper tree line that marked the eastern boundary of Jackson’s property.
I moved through it with care, each step placed with deliberate precision, each breath controlled to minimize sound. Not that it mattered—Jackson would hear me coming regardless.
Another SEAL habit. Another thing we had in common.
The trees thinned as I approached the property boundary, the darkness lifting enough that individual features became visible—the gravel drive leading to the front porch, the greenhouse roofs catching the starlight, the pattern of shadows that meant windows rather than just walls.
And beyond it all, the single light burning in what I knew was the kitchen—Jackson awake at 0230, moving through his house with the careful attention of a man who’d spent too many years sleeping with one eye open.
I reached the fence line—six strands of barbed wire stretched between cedar posts—and paused, checking for cameras or motion sensors. Nothing visible, but that didn’t mean nothing present.
I’d have to check the entire perimeter tomorrow, make sure Peterson’s people hadn’t placed additional surveillance while Jackson was focused on the eastern approach.
For now, though, the coast was clear. No cameras, no tripwires, no signs that anyone had been here since Jackson’s last perimeter check.
I slipped between the strands of wire with practiced ease, then straightened on the far side, my eyes on the farmhouse fifty yards ahead.
The kitchen light was still burning, a golden rectangle in the darkness, but nothing moved behind the glass—no shadow crossing the lit space, no silhouette visible against the drawn curtains.
Jackson was there, though. I could feel it—the awareness that came with knowing exactly where someone was, even when you couldn’t see them.
The same sense that had kept me alive through a dozen deployments, that had let me track movement through smoke and darkness and the confusion of close-quarters combat.
He was there, and in approximately ninety seconds, he’d know I was here too.
I started walking, my boots silent on the gravel drive, my eyes fixed on the light in the window. Behind me, Montana spread out in all directions—valley and mountains and sky full of stars—but I didn’t turn to look.
My attention was entirely on the farmhouse ahead, on the man waiting inside it, on the moment when distance would become proximity and wondering would become knowing.
Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten.
The porch steps creaked under my weight—the third one from the top, I’d noticed the first time—but I didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t do anything but put one foot in front of the other until I was standing at the front door, hand raised to knock.
The moment stretched between one heartbeat and the next—Montana quiet around me, the farmhouse silent ahead, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against my chest. Then I knocked, three firm raps that carried in the still air, and waited for whatever came next.