Chapter 13 #2
"Understood." I throw back the covers and reach for my clothes.
The team arrives in two vehicles just before seven.
Rook and Torque come through the cabin door first, Torque carrying a hard case of equipment balanced on one shoulder.
Hawk and Cipher follow, and Hawk positions himself near the window without being asked, scanning the tree line the way Rook scanned the quarry walls yesterday. Old habits, all of them.
Cipher is set up at the kitchen island within minutes, his tablet and laptop arranged in a configuration that tells me he's been working since well before sunrise. He glances up when I pour coffee, his expression alert and curious behind wire-rimmed glasses I didn't notice yesterday.
Jesse gathers Rook, Torque, and Hawk near the door. He gives assignments in clipped sentences, each man nodding as he absorbs his piece of the operation. No wasted language.
Jesse crosses to me, slides his hand around the back of my neck, and kisses me. It's slower than last night, more deliberate. The kind of kiss that stakes a claim in front of a room full of trained killers and doesn't apologize for it. When he pulls back, his thumb traces along the line of my jaw.
"Keep your head down." His eyes cut to Cipher, then back to me. The message underneath those four words doesn't need to be spoken aloud.
Then they're gone, the door closing behind them. Engines start outside, and the sound of tires on gravel fades into the morning quiet.
Cipher clears his throat. "So. Where do you want me to start?"
I pull out the stool across from him and open my laptop. "Tom Pritchard. He’s the rancher who died three weeks ago, supposedly crushed by his own tractor. Harlan ruled it accidental after less than an hour on scene."
"The Pritchard ranch." Cipher's fingers hover over his keyboard. "What am I looking for?"
"Everything tied to that property that didn't make it into the official record.
" I lean forward. "Permits, installations, service contracts.
Utility hookups, contractor invoices, any paper trail that shows what was happening on that ranch in the weeks before Pritchard died.
The circumstantial case against Harlan and Alvarez is good, but a prosecutor needs documentation that can't be dismissed as coincidence. "
Cipher nods and starts typing, his fingers moving across the keyboard with the fluency of a man who thinks in code. I turn back to my own screen, pulling up the Pritchard file and reading every detail for the fourth time, looking for the thread I know I've been missing.
The morning passes in concentrated silence, punctuated by the click of keys and the occasional murmured question from Cipher when he needs context on a name or a date.
I work through Uncle Robert's files while Cipher runs his queries, and the kitchen fills with the focused energy of two people hunting the same target from different angles.
Around ten, I find it.
A contractor invoice filed six weeks before Pritchard's death for the installation of a surveillance camera system on the ranch.
Attached to the invoice is a notation that Pritchard had contacted the Gillespie County Sheriff's Office to report suspicious activity on his property.
Tire tracks near his barns. Evidence of nighttime trespass.
He'd been worried enough to install cameras and file a formal complaint, which means he was paying attention, which means he saw faces or vehicles or both.
The report had been filed and buried. No follow-up or investigation. No response from Harlan's office. The cameras Pritchard installed were never collected as evidence after his death, because the death was ruled accidental by the same sheriff Pritchard had reported the trespass to.
"Cipher." I turn the laptop toward him. "Tom Pritchard installed a surveillance system on his ranch six weeks before he died.
He'd noticed tire tracks around his barns and filed a report with Harlan's office about suspicious activity.
The report went nowhere." I lean back on the stool.
"When I walked that property, there were no cameras visible anywhere. Someone pulled them."
Cipher leans in and reads the invoice. "Multi-camera perimeter system, motion-triggered recording." His eyebrows lift. "Cloud backup."
I go still. "If the footage was backed up before anyone could delete it locally..."
"Then there might still be copies sitting on the provider's servers." He's already typing. "Blue Ridge Security Solutions. Give me ten minutes."
It takes closer to thirty, and I don't rush him.
Blue Ridge runs their operations through a modest server infrastructure, and Cipher navigates it with a methodical patience that tells me he's done this kind of work in far more hostile digital environments than a small-town security company.
I watch over his shoulder as he moves through layers of access, each one yielding to his tools with barely a pause.
"I'm in." His voice is tight with controlled excitement. "Their system architecture is basic. Client accounts, installation records, billing. The Pritchard account is flagged as inactive."
"When was it deactivated?"
"One day after the death." Cipher scrolls through the account logs. "Someone accessed the system remotely and deleted all locally stored footage. The deletion was executed from an IP address I can trace."
"Trace it later. Right now, I need the cloud backup."
Cipher navigates deeper, hunting for the backup infrastructure.
"The backup service uses a third-party provider.
Separate servers, separate access credentials.
" His fingers pause over the keyboard, then resume at double speed.
"I'm in the provider's system now. Searching for the Pritchard account data. "
His voice shifts as he digs, the calm professional tone giving way to the focused intensity of a man who can see what he's chasing.
"There are inactive storage buckets, mislabeled archives, old server mirrors.
Any one of these could hold a cached copy if the automatic purge cycle hasn't caught up yet.
The provider likely has redundant backups they don't even realize exist, and if the retention policy has a lag period, or if the data got shunted to a cold storage tier before the deletion order propagated through the system. .."
"Cipher." I put a hand on his shoulder. "Take a breath and keep looking."
He exhales, steadies, and refocuses. Minutes pass. The only sounds in the cabin are his keystrokes and the faint hum of the laptop's fan working overtime.
"Found them." The words come out barely above a whisper. "Buried in a cold storage bucket that wasn't included in the deletion sweep. I'm pulling the file from the morning of his death."
The recovery takes another fifteen minutes. Cipher works with the kind of surgical focus that tells me he knows exactly what's riding on this. When the first file renders on screen, the footage is grainy but clear enough.
A wide-angle view from a camera mounted on the roof of the Pritchard barn. The frame captures the gravel approach, the barn doors, and a wedge of the driveway beyond. The date stamp in the lower right corner reads the morning of Pritchard's death. The timestamp reads 5:02 a.m.
We watch in silence.
The barn sits dark and still for several long seconds.
Then a figure appears from the direction of the house, walking toward the barn with the unhurried gait of a man starting his workday.
Tom Pritchard. Jeans and a flannel shirt, a coffee mug in one hand, keys in the other.
He reaches the barn doors, sets the mug on a fence post, and works the padlock with familiar hands.
Headlights sweep across the frame.
A truck pulls up the gravel drive and stops near the barn. The vehicle is large and dark-colored, and the light bar mounted on the roof is visible even in the low resolution.
Cipher's finger taps the screen. "Police lights."
Pritchard turns toward the truck. His posture stays relaxed. He lifts a hand in greeting, the easy wave of a man who recognizes the driver and has no reason to be afraid of him.
My stomach drops.
The truck door opens. A figure steps out, tall, wearing a light-colored shirt and dark pants. The star badge on his chest catches the dawn light.
Sheriff Wade Harlan walks up to Tom Pritchard and extends his hand. Pritchard shakes it without hesitation, his body language open and trusting. The two men exchange words the camera can't capture, and then they walk together through the barn doors and out of frame.
"Pull up the interior camera." My voice comes out controlled despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
Cipher switches to the second file. The interior camera is mounted high in the barn's far corner, angled to cover the main floor and the tractor parked to the left of the doors. The footage picks up as Pritchard and Harlan enter the frame from the left, walking side by side.
They're talking. Pritchard gestures toward the far wall, and Harlan nods. The conversation continues for roughly five minutes, and the body language between them reads as cordial. Neighborly, even. Two men who know each other discussing county business on an ordinary morning.
Then Pritchard's posture changes. He shakes his head and backs away from Harlan, his hands coming up in front of him. Even without audio, the shock on his face is visible from across the barn.
Harlan follows him. The sheriff's stance shifts in the same breath, shoulders squaring, weight rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. Every line of his body says the conversation is over and what comes next isn't going to involve words.
Harlan reaches behind his back and pulls a compact dark object from his belt. A taser. He raises it and fires.