39. Rhett
RHETT
“My advance team was spotted,” Novak says after I get him up to speed on the attack and the captured radio.
“You knew?”
“We suspected. Turner’s cartel contacts have been in emergency communication for the last twelve hours. We didn’t have confirmation.”
“Now you do. How long to move?”
“I need forty-eight hours to reposition the tactical team without making him scatter.”
“No.”
“Rhett—”
I’m standing in my kitchen with glass under my boots and bullet holes in my walls, and Wren is kneeling beside my brother with blood on her hands. “You have twenty-four.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is now.” I step away from the others, but there’s no privacy in this cabin. “Turner’s people just tried to kill us in our own home. This was not a probe. The next attempt will be heavier, or he’ll be gone before you’re ready.”
“We’ve got it covered.”
“No, you don’t.”
Novak’s voice hardens. “Careful.”
“You want careful? Use the people who know the terrain. Cade has better data than your drones. Wren knows where the men have been moving. Boone knows extraction points your medevac plan probably doesn’t include.
I’ve been poring over maps for so long, I could find my way to the staging area with my eyes closed. ”
“You’re emotionally involved.”
“Yes.”
The simple and honest answer stops him. I look at Wren again. Boone’s hand is wrapped around hers now, and he’s holding her in place as much as she’s holding pressure to his wound. Cade’s working over the radio, but his attention’s on the call, too.
“Yes,” I say again. “I am emotionally involved, and I’m also right.”
Novak doesn’t say anything.
“We’re going to be involved,” I continue. “This is our mountain, and we’re defending our woman.”
Everyone else in the room with me goes still for a second, and Wren’s eyes are shining.
Novak sighs like I’m aging him. “If I say that to my tactical commander, he’ll bench all of you on principle.”
“Then translate it for him. Make it palatable.”
After a pause, he says, “I can use you as terrain consultants.”
“Armed terrain consultants.”
“Under federal direction.”
“If federal direction is competent.”
“Wilder.”
“I didn’t hand you all the intel so we can sit in our cabin and wait for Turner to send six men here next time.”
There’s another longer silence, then Novak says, “I’ll do what I can. And if Turner moves before we’re in position, do not engage alone.”
“If Turner comes back to this cabin, all bets are off.”
Novak mutters something under his breath about twenty-four hours, and we end the call.
We spend the rest of the day cleaning up, repairing the windows, reinforcing the perimeter, checking weapons, and walking Wren through every possible contingency protocol, until she can answer every scenario.
“If the north alarm is tripped, I go to the safe room,” she says. “If the safe room’s compromised, I follow the crawl access to the split boulder, not the treeline. If comms fail, I wait three minutes, unless there’s fire. If we separate, I go to the root cellar first, creek bend second.”
Despite his injury, Boone insists on helping with all the preparations, until Wren finally threatens to staple him to the couch.
We reset the perimeter alerts farther out, move the go bags, check rifles, sidearms, radios, batteries, and tourniquets.
Turner’s moving his final shipment early, and Novak’s repositioning under pressure. We’re all racing the same clock.
Turner thinks he’s racing the DEA, but he’s wrong. He’s racing us, and he’s out of time.