10. Hazel
Hazel
Brock dials Mason on the sat phone and puts it on the table between us. I've got my notebook open to the summary I drafted, four pages of organized intel ready to deliver. My hands are steady. My brain is sharp. Whatever happens next, we're not going into it blind.
Mason picks up fast. "Savage. Status."
"Outpost secure. Storm's cleared. I've got Hazel with me and we've got a significant intel package for you. You're on speaker." Brock leans forward, forearms on the table, all business. "Go ahead, Hazel."
Something about the way he says it, like he trusts me to deliver a federal briefing from a kitchen table in the middle of nowhere, makes my chest do something complicated. I push the feeling aside and focus.
"Three things," I say, keeping my voice level.
"First, we intercepted radio traffic on an unsecured handheld frequency during the storm.
At least three individuals operating in the range, taking orders from someone they refer to as Voss.
They know the Marshals Service is involved in my protection but don't have a specific marshal or location.
They're backtracking my movements in Timber Creek to find a trail.
And they've accelerated their shipment timeline.
Direct quote: 'Voss wants this wrapped up before the roads clear. '"
Mason is quiet for a beat. I hear him writing. "You got the frequency?"
Brock reads it off the sat phone log. Mason confirms.
"Second," I continue. "While going through your regional case files, I found an incident report from two years ago filed by a wildlife officer named Calvin Hutchins, documenting unauthorized vehicles on a restricted trail near Crescent Fork.
The report was logged and then nothing happened.
No follow-up. That same officer was my primary source for the article.
He went silent three days after passing me key evidence. "
"Hutchins." Mason says the name like he's placing it. "I remember the name. Wildlife services. Good reputation."
"He was good. He was also right. The trail he reported matches one of the delivery waypoints in the Ridgeline Outfitters shipping manifests I obtained independently.
" I glance at Brock. He nods. "Which brings me to the third thing.
The interagency memo from eighteen months ago requesting reclassification of five separate suspicious activity reports.
All documenting activity on trails connected to the smuggling network.
All reclassified as 'resolved, no further action. ' All signed by the same person."
I pause to let that land.
"Deputy Jeffrey Pruitt,” I say. "Senior deputy, Timber Creek district. Second in command of the county sheriff's office."
The silence on the other end stretches long enough that I start to wonder if we lost the connection. Then Mason exhales. "You're telling me we've got a county deputy suppressing federal reports connected to an active smuggling operation."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you. And in one of the radio intercepts, they referenced 'the deputy' without naming him.
If Pruitt is the law enforcement contact inside this network, he has access to incident reports, case files, evidence logs, and interagency communications.
He could have been protecting this operation for years. "
Mason's voice goes flat and hard. "This changes the operational picture. If Pruitt’s compromised, anything routed through the Timber Creek sheriff's office is potentially exposed.
Case files. Witness information. Your location protocols.
" A pause. "Brock, is your outpost in any system Pruitt could access? "
"No," Brock says. "It's off the books. Personal property, not a registered safe house. Only you, Colt, and my immediate team know it exists."
"Good. Keep it that way. I'm going to run Pruitt through every database I've got.
Quietly. No flags, no alerts, nothing that pings the county system.
If he's dirty I want to know how deep it goes before he has any idea we're looking.
" Another pause. "Hazel. That was a clean brief.
You ever want to switch careers, I've got a desk for you. "
I blink. "Thank you. I'll stick with journalism, but I appreciate the offer."
"Roads should be passable by tomorrow afternoon once the plows finish the lower elevations.
Brock, I want you mobile as soon as it's safe.
Drive the back roads. Hit the higher clearings.
Between Hazel's source material and your ground knowledge, see if you can confirm active sites.
Especially that RC North location you haven't been able to reach. "
"Copy," Brock says. "We'll check in before we roll out and after every stop."
"One more thing. The article's making waves.
Three federal agencies are now running parallel investigations based on Hazel's reporting.
ATF, Fish and Wildlife, and the Bureau. That's good and bad. Good because resources. Bad because more agencies mean more communication channels, and if Pruitt’s plugged into any of them, he'll see us coming.
Keep your circle tight. Trust nobody outside this line. "
The call ends. Brock sets the phone down and we look at each other across the table.
"Three federal agencies," I say. "Because of my article."
"Your article." He nods. "You kicked open a door that a lot of people have been trying to find for years. That matters, Hazel."
The words settle into me in a place I didn't know was empty. I've spent my whole career writing stories that felt important in the moment and disappeared into the news cycle within a week. This one stuck. This one moved something. It's terrifying and validating in equal measure.
We spend the rest of the morning preparing.
Brock maps out a driving route that hits the locations where his patrol data and my shipping manifests overlap, prioritizing Saddleback Cut and the approach to RC North.
I organize all our combined intel into a single timeline, cross-referencing dates from the Ridgeline manifests, Brock's patrol logs, the suppressed incident reports, and the radio intercepts.
Laid out chronologically, the pattern is unmistakable.
The ring has been operating for at least four years, steadily expanding its routes and volume, with evidence being suppressed at regular intervals to keep the trail cold.
It's midafternoon when we finally stop and eat something. I'm standing at the kitchen counter assembling sandwiches when Brock comes up behind me and leans against the counter beside me, close enough that our arms touch.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"You're going to whether I say yes or not."
His mouth twitches. "When you published the article. Did you know how dangerous it would be? Or did you find out after?"
I set down the knife and think about it honestly.
"Both. I knew it was risky. Cal warned me before he went silent.
And I'd read about the other journalists.
The hiking accident. The carjacking. I knew the template.
" I pick up the knife again and cut a sandwich in half.
"But knowing something is dangerous and feeling it are different.
I grew up as an only child with two parents who were always at work.
I spent a lot of time alone, making up stories in notebooks, teaching myself to notice things because noticing things was the only way I could make the world feel less quiet.
By the time I was old enough to call that journalism, the habit was already hardwired.
I notice things. I dig. I publish. The consequences are always theoretical until they're not. "
He takes the sandwich I hand him. "Your parents know where you are?"
"They know I'm somewhere safe with federal protection.
They don't know the details. My dad's a professor, my mom runs a nonprofit.
They're good people who have no framework for 'our daughter is hiding in the mountains because she exposed a criminal network.
' I call them when I can. Keep it light.
" I take a bite of my own sandwich and chew.
"What about you? Any family that worries? "
"A sister. Younger. She teaches elementary school in Colorado. We talk every couple of weeks." He eats standing up, the way he does everything, efficiently and without ceremony. "She's the only person who still calls me by my full first name when she's angry."
"What's your full first name?"
"Brockton."
"Brockton Savage." I test it out, grinning. "That's somehow even more ridiculous than Brock Savage. Your parents really committed to the whole thing."
"My father was military. Named me like he was filling out a requisition form.
" His voice is even but I catch the way his jaw shifts, the slight tension that tells me there's something harder underneath.
"He was infantry until a back injury sent him home.
Didn't handle it well. Took it out on everything within arm's reach. "
I go still. He says it matter-of-factly, the way people do when they've processed something enough to state it but not enough to make it painless. I don't push. I just wait.
"Mom worked double shifts to keep us fed.
I learned early that if I wanted something done right I had to do it myself.
Enlisted at eighteen. Special Forces after that.
The mountains always felt more like home than any house I grew up in.
" He finishes the sandwich and brushes his hands off. "That's the short version."
"Thank you for the short version." I mean it. "You don't owe me the long one."
He looks at me. Something moves behind his eyes, the careful part making room for something less guarded. "Maybe I'll give you the long one someday. When we're not in the middle of a federal case."
"Deal." I hold up my sandwich in a mock toast. "To someday. And to surviving long enough to get there."
He doesn't smile exactly, but something eases in the set of his shoulders.
He picks up both our plates and takes them to the sink.
I dry. We stand side by side at the counter the same way we worked side by side at the table all morning, easy and practiced, like we've been doing this longer than four days.
When the dishes are done I lean against the counter and cross my arms. "So. Tomorrow. We drive into territory controlled by a smuggling ring with a corrupt deputy covering their tracks, looking for active weapons caches in the mountains. And our only backup is a sat phone and each other."
"That's about right."
"Great. Very reassuring. Exactly the kind of plan a responsible adult makes." I push off the counter. "I'm going to review the route one more time and prep my go-bag. If we're doing this, I want to be ready."
"Hazel." His voice catches me before I reach the table. I turn. He's standing by the sink, dishtowel over his shoulder, looking at me with an expression I'm learning to read. Not the guarded professional. Not the conflicted protector. Just the man.
"Tomorrow's going to be a long day," he says. "Tonight we rest. Both of us. Whatever's coming, we face it sharp."
"Agreed." I hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "For the record, I'm glad it's you. Out of all the marshals who could've shown up at that diner, I'm glad it was the one who lets me work the case instead of locking me in a closet."
"Most marshals would've locked you in a closet."
"I know. That's why I'm glad it's you."
We look at each other in the late-afternoon light.
The cabin is quiet. The mountains outside are white and still.
Tomorrow everything changes. But right now, in this moment between the storm and the fight, there's just the two of us and the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
I sit down at the table and open my notebook. He settles onto the couch with the sat phone, monitoring the frequency.
We work in comfortable silence until the light fades and the fire needs feeding, and when we finally sleep, it's with a plan, a target, and something between us that feels less like attraction and more like trust.