2. Brock
Brock
I keep both hands on the wheel and force my eyes to stay on the snow-slick road climbing into the Steel Mountains, but every damn second of the drive my attention keeps sliding sideways to the woman in my passenger seat.
Hazel Lowe. Journalist. Trouble wrapped in a flannel shirt and the kind of smart mouth that already has me grinding my teeth to keep from smiling.
She hasn't shut up for more than thirty seconds since I shoved her into my truck, and every quip that comes out of her is somehow both annoying as hell and the most interesting thing I've heard in months.
She's small next to me. Not fragile. Just compact.
Dark hair messy from the wind and snow, cheeks pink from the cold, bright eyes that keep darting around like she's cataloging every pine tree and rock face for some future article.
Her duffel bag sits between her boots, scuffed and overstuffed, and she keeps fidgeting with the strap like her hands need something to do.
She's chaos in cute packaging, and the attraction hit me like a gut punch the second she climbed into my truck and waved at me like we were meeting for coffee instead of a federal extraction.
That's a problem I don't need right now.
I check the rearview mirror. No headlights.
I check the side mirrors. Nothing but the dark tunnel of pines closing behind us and the road disappearing into white.
Good. I've been checking every thirty seconds since we pulled out of Timber Creek, because the people she just exposed don't operate like amateurs.
I've spent seven months tracking fragments of this ring through my mountains.
Unmarked crates dropped at trailheads. Shell casings in clearings that don't see legal hunters.
GPS pings from encrypted sat phones bouncing off towers that shouldn't be carrying traffic at three in the morning.
I've been building a file on them piece by piece, and then this woman went and kicked the whole hornet's nest with one article.
What worries me isn't the foot soldiers.
It's what I don't know about the top. Her article named mid-level players and exposed the routes, but whoever's actually running this operation stayed invisible.
No name. No face. Just a shadow pulling strings through layers of cutouts and shell companies.
Her piece mentioned a front called Ridgeline Outfitters, and I've seen that name before.
On a shipping label in a burned-out cabin six months ago.
On a fuel receipt at a supply depot near the north ridge.
Whoever owns Ridgeline has infrastructure in these mountains that goes deeper than a smuggling side hustle.
That's the part that keeps nagging at me.
This feels bigger than weapons and wildlife.
It feels organized in a way that means money, reach, and the kind of connections that can make problems disappear.
Including journalists who publish the wrong story.
I glance at Hazel again. She's twisted toward me now, one boot tucked under her thigh on the seat. The motion makes her flannel ride up and I force my gaze back to the road before I do something stupid.
"You always talk this much when people are trying to kill you, or am I special?" I ask.
"Oh, you're definitely special," she says, voice light and a little breathless from the altitude already.
"Most people don't show up looking like they wrestle grizzlies for fun and then order me into a truck like I'm already theirs.
I'm just trying to keep the panic at a manageable level by using my words.
It's either that or I start humming show tunes, and trust me, nobody wants that. "
A chuckle escapes me before I can lock it down. She's funny. And brave in that reckless way that gets people killed if they don't have someone watching their six.
I adjust my grip on the wheel as the road narrows and the snow thickens.
Tall pines crowd both sides now, their branches heavy with white, creating a tunnel of dark green and silver.
The headlights cut through swirling flakes.
Rock outcroppings rise on the left, jagged and black.
On the right the mountain drops away into a valley filled with trees and the occasional flash of a frozen creek.
I'm watching all of it. Every pull-off. Every stand of trees thick enough to hide a vehicle.
Every place where the road bends blind and someone with a rifle could set up with time and a clear sightline.
This is what I do. I read terrain like other people read newspapers. Twelve years in Special Forces taught me that the ground tells you everything if you know how to listen. And right now the ground is telling me we're exposed on this road for another twenty minutes and I don't like it.
"We're thirty minutes out," I tell her. "My outpost sits higher. One road in. Solar and generator. Stocked for weeks. You'll be safe there."
She goes quiet for a beat, staring out at the wilderness. When she speaks again her voice is softer, still wry but with a thread of real fear underneath.
"Safe. Right. With the growly marshal who already decided I take the only bed. Do you practice that whole protective thing in the mirror, or does it just come naturally?"
I glance at her. Hold her gaze for a second longer than I should.
"Naturally. And I don't practice anything. When I say you're taking the bed, you're taking the bed. My job is keeping you alive. Everything else is secondary."
She bites her lower lip and looks away, but not before I catch the spark of heat in her eyes.
I reach for the sat phone mounted in the center console and key in Mason's direct line. He picks up on the first ring.
"Savage. Status."
"I've got the package. En route to the outpost. No tails.
Roads are getting heavy with snow, might be looking at a storm system by morning.
" I keep my voice even, professional, the same voice I've used on a hundred extraction calls.
"I need you to run something for me. Ridgeline Outfitters.
It showed up in her article as a front company, but I've seen that name on my end too.
Shipping label at the Harker Creek burn site last spring.
Fuel receipt near the north ridge depot.
If that company has a paper trail, I want to see all of it. "
Mason's quiet for a second. I can hear him writing it down. "Ridgeline Outfitters. Got it. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Her article blew up the mid-level guys, but whoever's actually running this thing isn't in her story.
No name, no alias, nothing. That means the top is still out there and they're going to be pissed and looking for someone to blame.
I want a threat assessment on every known associate of the ring within a hundred miles.
And I want to know if anyone's been asking about her. Phone records, tip lines, anything."
"Copy. I'll have something for you by morning. Keep her locked down, Brock. This one's got heat on it."
"I know." I end the call and set the phone back in the cradle.
Hazel is watching me with those sharp eyes. "That sounded very official. Should I be more scared or less scared?"
"Less. It means people are working on this. You're not alone in it."
"Just alone with you in a cabin in the middle of nowhere."
"Outpost," I correct. "And you could do worse."
She laughs. Short and surprised, like it slipped out against her will. "Fair point."
The last stretch of road is pure mountain. Steep switchbacks. Snow deeper. No other tire tracks, which means no one's been up here since the last melt. Perfect. I ease the truck around the final bend and the outpost comes into view.
It's not a pretty cabin. It's a solid log structure built for function and survival, tucked against a rock face with a clear view of the approach.
Solar panels on the roof. A generator shed to the east. A small covered porch with sightlines in three directions.
Thick trees on three sides, which is good for concealment but means I'll need to clear them on foot regularly.
The single road ends right in front. No neighbors for miles.
I kill the engine. Silence rushes in, broken only by the wind through the pines and the tick of cooling metal.
"Stay in the truck until I clear it," I tell her.
I don't wait for agreement. I step out into the snow, boots sinking deep, and draw my weapon.
I move to the porch first, checking the door seal.
Intact. The thin strip of tape I left across the bottom of the frame last week is still in place, which means no one's opened it.
I clear the interior anyway because assumptions get people killed.
Main room, clear. Bathroom, clear. Loft, clear.
I check the window latches, test the generator connection, and scan the tree line from the front window before I go back for her.
When I return she's already opening her door, duffel in hand, eyes wide as she takes in the place.
"Home sweet fortress," she mutters. "Do all US Marshals live like mountain kings, or is this just a Brock Savage special?"
I take the bag from her without asking. Our fingers brush and the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm that I don't let show on my face.
"Inside. Now."
She follows me up the steps and through the door.
I close it behind us and throw the heavy bolt.
The outpost is one big main room with a loft above for storage.
Stone fireplace along one wall. Small kitchen with a propane stove and stocked pantry.
A solid wood table. Two chairs. A worn leather couch.
And in the far corner, the bed. King-sized.
Heavy frame. Thick quilts. The only one.
She stops dead when she sees it. Her gaze flicks from the bed to me and back again. A nervous little laugh bubbles out of her.
"Yep. There it is. One bed. Just like the blurb promised. I swear if you start growling about how I'm yours now I'm going to write a very strongly worded letter to the US Marshals Service about workplace romance policies."
I set her bag down. "You're not writing any letters. You're staying right here where I can keep eyes on you. The bed is yours. I'll take the couch."
"That's very direct of you," she says. "Also slightly terrifying. In a hot way. Which I'm absolutely not thinking about while people want me dead. Nope. Focusing on the death part. Very focused."
"Good. Stay focused on staying alive." I hold her gaze and let her see that I mean every word. "Because the second those bastards come for you, I'm going to make sure they regret it. You're under my protection now, Hazel. That's not a suggestion."
She recovers fast. Lifts her chin. That spark of fire I already like too much flashes in her eyes.
"Well then, Marshal Savage. I guess I better unpack. And try not to trip over my own feet while you're busy being all protective and intimidating. Fair warning, I trip a lot. It's part of my charm."
I almost smile. Almost.
"Unpack. Get comfortable. I'm going to secure the perimeter and check the generator. Don't open that door for anyone but me. Understood?"
She salutes with two fingers, completely ridiculous and somehow perfect. "Yes sir. Door stays closed. No wandering. No writing exposés about the marshal who kidnapped me to the mountains. Got it."
I step back out into the snow, the wind cutting across my face, and force myself to focus on the job.
Perimeter first. I move through the trees in a wide circle around the outpost, checking for tracks, broken branches, anything that says someone else has been up here.
The snow is clean and undisturbed. I find the motion sensor I mounted on the north approach last month and confirm it's still active, green light blinking steady under its weatherproof housing.
The south approach has a natural choke point between two rock faces that I can monitor from the porch.
East and west are thick timber, harder to watch but harder to move through quietly too.
Anyone coming through those trees in the snow is going to leave tracks and make noise.
I check the generator. Fuel's at eighty percent. I top off the backup cans from the reserve and run a test cycle. Everything turns over clean. Solar batteries are holding a full charge despite the cloud cover, which gives us redundancy if the generator goes down. Good.
I stand at the edge of the tree line for a minute, breath fogging in the cold, and stare down the mountain.
The road below is disappearing under fresh snow.
By morning it might be impassable without chains, and by the look of that sky we could be in for something bigger than a dusting.
Part of me likes that. A storm seals us in, but it seals everyone else out too.
No one's driving up that road in a blizzard.
It buys me time to get a full threat picture from Mason and figure out how deep this thing goes.
The other part of me knows that being snowed in with Hazel Lowe in a one-room cabin is going to test my self-control in ways no mission ever has.
I push that thought down where it belongs and head back inside.
There's a weapons cache to inventory, comm protocols to set up with Mason's team, and a perimeter alarm system I've been meaning to extend to the western tree line.
Plenty to keep me busy. Plenty to keep my head in the job and off the woman who just walked into my outpost and made it feel less empty than it has in years.
I climb the porch steps and reach for the door.
Through the window I can see her standing by the fireplace, notebook in hand, already writing something down. Even from here I can tell her hands are still shaking. She's scared. She's trying not to show it. And she's working anyway, because that's who she is.
I've protected a lot of people in my career. Witnesses. Informants. People who made enemies they couldn't handle alone. I've kept them all alive and handed them off when the job was done. Clean. Professional. No attachments.
Something tells me this one's going to be different.
I open the door and step inside, locking it behind me, and get to work.