11. Brock
Brock
The roads are clear by the next afternoon, just like Mason promised.
I spend the morning prepping. Weapons check.
Truck inspection. Chains on the tires in case the higher elevations are still iced.
I load the emergency kit, top off the fuel from the reserve cans, and mount the sat phone in the center console with the intercepted frequency still set to scan.
Hazel watches me work from the porch with her notebook in hand, adding last-minute annotations to the route we mapped yesterday.
When I come back inside to grab the map folder she's standing by the table with her jacket on and her duffel packed.
"No," I say before she opens her mouth.
"I haven't said anything yet."
"You're wearing your jacket and your bag is packed. I can read the room." I take the folder off the table and tuck it under my arm. "You're staying here. I'll drive the route, check the sites, and be back before dark."
She doesn't flinch. She pulls out a chair, sits down, and folds her hands on the table like she's settling in for a negotiation she already knows she's going to win.
"Sit down, Brock."
"I'm not sitting down. We're not debating this."
"Then I'll talk while you stand." She opens her notebook to a page dense with handwriting.
"The route we planned hits four waypoints.
Two are locations you've physically scouted before.
The other two are sites I identified through shipping manifests and Cal's coordinates that you've never visited.
You don't know what the terrain looks like at those sites.
You don't know the approach angles, the sight lines, or the access points.
I do, because I spent three weeks studying satellite imagery and Cal's field notes before I even came to Timber Creek. "
I set the folder down. She's not wrong.
"I'm also the only person who can identify the Ridgeline Outfitters shipping labels on sight.
I've handled them. I know the dimensions, the color of the ink, the way they format the tracking codes.
If we find cargo, you'll need me to confirm whether it's connected to the ring or just some hunter's supply cache. You can't do that from a photograph."
My jaw tightens. She keeps going.
"And there's a practical problem with leaving me here alone.
The radio intercepts confirmed at least three operatives in the range.
If you're gone for eight hours on a solo recon and someone finds this cabin while you're away, I'm alone with a bolt lock and a self-defense lesson I've had exactly once.
The safest place for me is with the armed federal marshal, not in an empty outpost waiting to find out if the door holds. "
She closes the notebook and looks at me.
I stand there with my hand on the folder and run the tactical calculus.
She's right on all three points and she knows it.
The shipping label identification is genuine operational value I can't replicate.
The satellite imagery knowledge gives her terrain awareness at the two sites I haven't scouted.
And the security argument is sound. Leaving her alone for a full day with active hostiles in the area is a risk I can mitigate by keeping her with me.
What she's not saying, and what I can hear anyway, is that sitting in this cabin while someone else chases her story would feel worse than the danger. I understand that. I've been the man on the bench during active operations. It's its own kind of hell.
"Rules," I say.
She nods. "Name them."
"You stay in the truck unless I clear the area first. If I say get down, you get down. If I say run, you run back to the truck and you drive. Not toward me. Away. Back to the outpost. Call Mason. Don't wait for me to follow."
"Brock."
"Those are the terms, Hazel. If I'm telling you to run, it means the situation is beyond what I can control with you present. You leaving gives me room to operate. You staying makes you a liability I have to protect instead of a threat I can engage. I need you to understand the difference."
She's quiet for a moment. I can see her processing it, the journalist in her weighing the logic against the instinct to stay and document. Finally she nods.
"Okay. If you say run, I run. But I'm taking the sat phone with me and I'm calling Mason the second I'm in the truck."
"That's exactly what I want you to do." I pick up the folder, hold her gaze for a second longer, and head for the door. "Let's go."
The truck starts clean. I pull out onto the access road and head north, following the route we mapped.
The mountains are buried in white, branches heavy, the road scraped down to dark pavement with walls of plowed snow on either side.
I drive with both hands on the wheel, scanning every pull-off, every tire track, every break in the tree line.
Hazel rides with her notebook open on her lap and the map spread across the dashboard.
She calls out landmarks as we pass them: a distinctive rock formation, a creek crossing, a sharp bend where the road forks.
She's navigating from memory and from Cal's notes and she's precise about it.
Left at the split boulder. Two miles past the dead pine stand.
The logging road should branch off just past the next ridge.
We hit the first two waypoints without incident.
Saddleback Cut shows evidence of recent activity: tire tracks in the mud beneath the snow, boot prints near a cleared area, and the remains of a campfire that's been rained on but not old.
The crate cache I found five weeks ago is gone, moved since my last visit.
Someone cleaned the site. That tells me they're still using it and they know it's been spotted.
I photograph everything and log the coordinates while Hazel sketches the layout in her notebook, noting approach angles and sight lines the way I showed her.
The second waypoint is a dead end. The trail Cal marked doesn't match the current terrain. Either the coordinates were wrong or the access has been deliberately altered. We move on.
It's past noon when I spot it.
A dark pickup, older model, is parked halfway down a narrow access road that shouldn't see traffic this time of year.
It's tucked against the trees like someone tried to hide it, but the fresh tire tracks leading in are clean in the snow.
A tarp covers something in the bed that doesn't quite conceal the edges.
Rectangular. Heavy. The cab is empty but the hood is still warm enough to melt the snow that lands on it.
Whoever drove it here hasn't been gone long.
My gut tightens. I slow the truck and pull over fifty yards back on the main road.
"Stay in the truck," I tell her. "Lock the doors. This is one of those moments I was talking about."
She nods. No argument. No hesitation. She reaches for the sat phone and holds it ready. "I'll give you ten minutes. If you're not back or I don't hear from you, I'm calling Mason and driving."
"Make it eight."
I step out into the cold, draw my weapon, and move toward the parked truck in a low approach, using the tree line for cover.
The snow is deep enough to muffle my boots.
I clear the cab first. Empty. Fast food wrappers.
A pack of cigarettes. No registration visible.
I circle to the bed and lift the corner of the tarp.
Crates. Four of them. Heavy-gauge plastic with reinforced corners, the kind designed for military transport.
No shipping labels, but the packing materials inside match what I found at Saddleback Cut five weeks ago.
I photograph the crates, the tarp, the tire tracks, and the tree line.
Then I check the access road on foot, moving thirty yards deeper to where it bends out of sight.
Voices.
Two men, maybe three. They're somewhere past the bend, deeper in the trees.
I can't make out words from this distance, just the low murmur of conversation and the sound of something heavy being moved.
I hold position for sixty seconds, listening, then pull back.
I've got what I need. Photographs. Location.
Confirmation of active transport. Pushing further solo with Hazel in the truck is a risk I'm not taking.
I'm back at the truck in under seven minutes. Hazel unlocks the door the second she sees me and I slide into the driver's seat.
"Crates," I tell her, starting the engine and pulling out quiet and smooth. "Military transport cases. Same type I found at Saddleback. Fresh. Whoever dropped them is still on-site, past the bend. At least two voices."
She's writing before I finish the sentence. "Location?"
I read off the coordinates from the GPS. She logs them next to the ones from Cal's notes and draws a connecting line.
"Brock. Look." She holds up the notebook.
The line she drew connects the parked truck's location to one of Cal's GPS coordinates.
They're less than a mile apart. "Cal's coordinates aren't pointing to the storage site.
They're pointing to whatever is up that road past the bend.
The place those men are working right now. "
RC North. The site I couldn't reach before the snow closed the trail.
"We need to get closer," she says.
"Not today. Not with personnel on-site and no backup. But now we know exactly where it is, and Mason can put surveillance assets on it within twenty-four hours." I check the mirrors. No one following. The road behind us is empty. "You just connected the last dot, Hazel. That's the hub."
She closes the notebook and sits back, breathing hard, her eyes bright with the look I've come to recognize as the moment the story clicks into focus.
"We need to call Mason," she says.
"Already dialing." I reach for the sat phone. The road unwinds ahead of us, clean and empty, and for the first time in this case I can feel the net closing. Not on us. On them.