Chapter Four
By three in the morning, the wind had shifted out of the canyon, pushing the heavy pall of smoke down toward the river's flats.
Down at the mobile command post, the orange strobe lights of the forestry trucks flickered against the blackened cliff. Sheriff Pete Mercer stood near his cruiser, clutching a cup of cold black coffee; his face etched with three decades of unhealed grief.
Luke had given Mercer only what he needed to know to lock down the hollow: the vault was secure, state forensics was en route from Austin, and an armed suspect had scouted the perimeter.
He kept the details about Thomas Mercer’s badge quiet—for now.
A grieving lawman with a badge and a pump shotgun was a liability in the dark timber.
Luke stood beside her; his broad shoulder brushed against hers, his eyes watching the screen of her digital receiver. The heat of the night was still intense, but the close, heavy presence of her body was what made the air in his lungs feel tight.
"It’s not off-the-shelf ammunition," Maya said softly, her thumb making a small adjustment to the lens focus. "Look at the headstamp. The manufacturer's markings have been hand-lathed down. But the firing pin strikes on the primer... it has a distinct crescent notch."
"A custom firing pin," Luke noted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against her shoulder. "Someone built or modified that rifle in a home machine shop."
"And the radio frequencies from the scrambler in the bunker," Maya continued, turning her head to look up at him.
In the harsh white glow of the work light, her dark eyes were deep, clear, and unreadable.
"I cross-referenced the channels with the old state forestry spectrums from ninety-four.
Those weren't commercial frequencies, Luke.
They were internal DPS tactical channels. "
Luke’s jaw set into hard granite. "Meaning whoever built that vault didn't just ambush state officers. He was operating inside the network."
Maya set the tweezers down, leaning back slightly against the tailgate. The professional barrier she’d held up all night cracked just enough for the exhaustion—and the deep, unhealed scar of their past—to show in the slight drop of her shoulders.
"Four years ago in Fort Worth," Maya murmured, her voice barely carrying over the distant hum of a generator, "you told me that some truths cost too much to dig up. You walked away from the task force because the corruption went higher than the district attorney."
Luke stepped closer, pinning her gently against the steel tailgate, his body blocking the cold night wind. He reached out, his calloused fingers coming up to cup the side of her neck, his thumb resting gently over the rapid, fluttering pulse at her throat.
"I walked away from the task force, Maya," Luke whispered, his dark eyes burning with an intense, fierce light as he leaned down until his breath brushed her lips. "I never walked away from you. Not for a single second."
Maya’s breath hitched, her fingers coming up to press against the hard plane of his chest, feeling the steady, iron-solid beat of his heart through his western shirt. The four years of distance, anger, and longing collapsed into nothing in the space between them.
"Luke..." she breathed.
Before he could close the distance, the sharp, frantic yip of Buster’s alert bark echoed down from the northern timber, followed immediately by the crack of a high-powered rifle shot tearing through the canyon air.
Chapter Five
The heavy .45-70 round slammed into the side of a nearby forestry water tender with a sickening, metallic screech, spraying hot water and steam across the gravel.
Instinct took over before the echo of the shot could bounce off the limestone walls.
Luke grabbed Maya by the tactical vest, shoving her down behind the steel wheel well of his heavy F-250 and throwing his broad body over hers.
His Sig Sauer was out and leveled before the echoes of the report died in the canyon.
"Stay down!" Luke commanded, his body a solid, impenetrable shield pressing her flat against the dirt.
A second shot tore through the night, not aimed at them, but at the portable generator running near the cellar entrance. The engine exploded in a shower of white sparks and black smoke, plunging the gulley into immediate, pitch-black darkness save for the eerie red glow of the smoldering timber.
Radio static exploded on Luke's shoulder mic.
"Grayson! Shooter on the high ridge, two hundred yards north of the fire line!" Cole’s voice barked over the speaker, tight and clipped over the background sound of Buster’s sharp, rhythmic baying. "He’s using the smoke cover! He came down the draw!"
"Holt, Mercer, lock down the road!" Luke barked into his mic, his eyes scanning the pitch-black ridge line through the haze. "He's trying to blind us!"
Underneath him, Maya didn't panic. Her fingers hooked firmly into the front of Luke’s canvas shirt, her dark eyes wide and clear as she looked up into his face in the shadowy dimness. "He wasn't trying to hit us, Luke. He was destroying the lights over the bunker. He’s going back inside."
Luke’s jaw set like iron. "Over my dead body."
He shifted his weight, keeping his body between Maya and the open ridge as they both scrambled to their feet. Maya drew her standard-issue sidearm in one smooth, practiced motion; her movement fluid and devoid of hesitation.
"I'm covering your flank," she said, her voice dropping into a cool, steady register that matched his own tactical focus.
They moved together through the swirling smoke, keeping low behind the line of parked emergency vehicles.
The dark gulley was a maze of shadows; the stink of diesel and burnt oil heavy in the air.
High above them on the ridge, two more shots rang out—Cole returning fire with his shotgun to keep the shooter pinned against the upper cliff face.
When Luke and Maya reached the mouth of the subterranean vault, the concrete stairwell looked like a gaping black throat.
Luke pulled a tactical flashlight from his belt, snapping it on and casting a tight, intense beam of white light down the steps. The air blowing up from the cavern smelled heavily of fresh smoke and disturbed dust.
At the bottom of the stairs, the iron door hung wide open.
"Buster, heel!" Cole’s voice echoed from the timber behind them as the game warden sprinted down the slope, his Malinois tight at his side, his shotgun held at high-ready.
"He doubled around my position on the high ledge.
I saw a rig idling up on the old logging spur—a dark, lifted square-body truck. "
"He came down to finish what the fire started," Luke said, his voice cold enough to freeze blood. He looked at Maya, taking in the fierce, unyielding light in her eyes as she raised her weapon, ready to breach the dark.
Luke took the lead, stepping onto the stone stairs. "Watch the corners. If he’s still down here, he dies in the dark."