Chapter Five
The surveillance was patient.
Lockjaw had been watching Tamsin's cabin for eighteen hours, and in that time he'd counted six different vehicles making passes on the forest road. Two trucks he recognized from the standoff. A sedan with Duluth plates. Three SUVs that circled wide before disappearing toward the highway.
Bryce Hedlund wasn't just watching.
He was mapping.
"Movement on the north access." Tundra's voice crackled through the radio, flat and professional. "Black pickup, two occupants. They're checking the logging road that connects to Highway 1."
"Copy." Lockjaw marked the location on his map, adding it to the pattern he'd been building since dawn. "That's the fourth vehicle on that road today."
"They're being thorough."
"They're being patient." He scanned the tree line, looking for the glint of binoculars or the shadow of a spotter he might have missed. "Pruitt's got time. He thinks we're just posturing."
"Are we?"
"No."
Static, then Tundra's dry laugh. "Good. I was getting bored."
The radio went silent, and Lockjaw settled back into his position.
He'd set up in the tree line fifty yards from Tamsin's cabin, close enough to respond to a direct assault but far enough to spot approaching vehicles before they reached the clearing.
Coldstart had rigged motion sensors on the main approach.
Ironside was holding a position on the southern ridge, covering the back door.
Permafrost had approved the operation that morning—turning Tamsin's homestead into an armed outpost, rotation support from brothers who understood that territorial respect started with protecting what was yours.
What was yours.
Lockjaw's jaw clenched at the thought.
She wasn't his. Not officially. Not in any way that mattered beyond the protective instinct that had been building since he'd watched her inventory damage on her truck with fury in her eyes and spine in her posture.
But she was at the compound right now, surrounded by brothers and old ladies, safe in a way she hadn't been for weeks.
And he was here, watching her empty cabin, because letting Pruitt's people take it felt like letting them take something that belonged to him.
His phone buzzed.
Another cancellation. Third client this week. They're getting to my booking contacts.
Tamsin's text was clipped, frustrated. He could picture her pacing the compound, restless energy with nowhere to go, independence chafing against the necessity of protection.
Insurance? he typed back.
Doesn't cover "criminal intimidation." Trust me, I asked.
We're handling it.
A pause. Then: I know. That's what bothers me.
He almost smiled.
She hated this—being sidelined while others fought her battles.
He'd seen it in her face when she'd climbed onto his bike, in the way she'd gripped her rifle like letting go meant losing herself.
Tamsin Rowe had built a life on self-sufficiency, and every hour she spent at the compound was an hour she wasn't proving she could survive alone.
Your dog okay? he sent.
He's in love with Maren. She keeps feeding him scraps from the bar.
Good dog.
Traitor dog. A pause. When are you coming back?
Lockjaw looked at the cabin, at the forest road, at the map covered in marks that told a story of patient encirclement.
When this is secured.
That's not an answer.
It's the only one I've got.
No response for a long moment. Then: Be careful.
Two words. Simple. They shouldn't have hit as hard as they did.
Always, he sent back, and pocketed his phone.
The probing started at dusk.
Tundra called it in first—headlights on the logging road, moving slow, stopping at intervals like someone was checking distances.
Ironside reported similar movement on the southern approach twenty minutes later.
By full dark, Lockjaw had tracked four separate vehicles making passes that had nothing to do with legitimate traffic.
They were measuring response times.
Testing sight lines.
Mapping the approaches they'd use when the real assault came.
"They're not subtle," Ironside's voice rumbled through the radio. "Two men on foot, moving through the trees on the south ridge. I count rifles."
"Don't engage."
"Wasn't planning to. Just wanted you to know—they're getting confident."
Confident was dangerous. Confident meant Bryce thought he had the numbers, the positioning, the element of surprise. Confident meant the patient surveillance was about to become something else.
Lockjaw studied his map, seeing the pattern emerge.
Three access roads. Two forest approaches.
One main driveway that any assault would have to use for vehicle support.
If Bryce was smart—and the lodge manager had proven he was methodical, if not brilliant—he'd hit from multiple directions simultaneously.
Overwhelm the defense. Create chaos. Finish the job before backup could arrive.
The same tactics Lockjaw had used a hundred times pulling repos from armed debtors.
Cut off escape routes. Control the approaches. Move fast enough that resistance couldn't organize.
He knew this playbook.
Which meant he knew how to counter it.
"Tundra." He keyed the radio. "I need you to pull the sensors on the north road and move them to the logging access. That's their primary approach."
"You sure?"
"It's what I'd use." He marked the position on his map. "Straight shot to the cabin, tree cover on both sides, connects to the highway for quick extraction. They'll come from the north."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then Ironside catches them on the south ridge and we adjust."
Static. Then: "Copy. Moving sensors now."
Lockjaw stood, stretching muscles that had been still for hours. The night was settling in—that particular Minnesota darkness that swallowed everything, broken only by stars and the distant glow of Ely's lights on the horizon.
Tamsin's cabin sat empty and dark, a target waiting to be hit.
He wasn't going to let that happen.
The defensive positions took shape over the next three hours.
Lockjaw worked with methodical precision, using the skills he'd built over seven years of repo work—reading terrain, calculating sight lines, identifying choke points where superior numbers meant nothing.
The cabin's clearing became a kill zone.
The tree line became cover. The forest road became a trap waiting to be sprung.
Ironside arrived at midnight with supplies—ammunition, food, a thermal scope that Coldstart had "borrowed" from a contact in Duluth. The massive Swede surveyed Lockjaw's work with the critical eye of a man who'd survived mine collapses and economic collapse with equal stubbornness.
"Good positions," Ironside said finally. "You've done this before."
"Different context." Lockjaw accepted a thermos of coffee, felt the warmth seep into his hands. "Same principles."
"The repo work."
"Yeah."
Ironside settled against a tree, his bulk somehow managing to blend into the shadows despite his size. "Permafrost says you walked away from that life. Left everything—job, apartment, woman."
"I left a job that made me hate myself." Lockjaw's jaw tightened. "The rest was just collateral damage."
"And now?"
"Now I'm doing the same work for different reasons." He looked at the cabin, at the positions he'd built, at the trap he was laying for men who thought they could take what didn't belong to them. "Protecting something instead of taking it."
Ironside was quiet for a long moment.
"She's strong," he said finally. "The guide. Not many women would tell Pruitt's people to get bent and mean it."
"She's been surviving on her own for years."
"And now she's not." Ironside's voice held something that might have been approval. "That bothers her."
"It does."
"Does it bother you?"
Lockjaw considered the question.
Did it bother him that Tamsin chafed against protection? That she'd rather face Pruitt's entire operation alone than admit she needed help? That every text she sent carried an undercurrent of frustration at being sidelined?
No.
It made him want her more.
"She's not weak," he said slowly. "She just hasn't had anyone worth trusting. When she figures out that accepting help isn't the same as giving up control—" He shrugged. "We'll see what happens."
Ironside made a sound that might have been a laugh.
"You've got it bad, brother."
"Maybe."
"No maybe about it." The big Swede pushed off from the tree, preparing to return to his position. "Just don't let it make you stupid. Bryce is coming, and he's bringing enough muscle to make this ugly."
"I know."
"Good." Ironside disappeared into the darkness, his footsteps silent despite his size. "Stay sharp."
Lockjaw turned back to his map, to the positions he'd built, to the trap he was laying for men who'd threatened a woman who deserved better than to be hunted in her own home.
His phone buzzed again.
Still awake?
Tamsin's text glowed in the darkness.
Still here, he sent back. Your cabin's secure.
That's not what I asked.
He stared at the screen for a long moment.
Yeah, he typed finally. Still awake. Probably will be for a while.
Me too. A pause. This is the worst slumber party I've ever been to.
Despite everything—the surveillance, the threat, the violence that was coming—Lockjaw felt his jaw unclench.
Just slightly.
It gets better, he sent.
Promise?
He looked at the cabin. At the defensive positions he'd built with the same care he'd once used to map repo routes. At the forest road where Bryce's people were probing, testing, preparing for an assault they thought would go unanswered.
They were wrong.
Promise, he typed, and meant it.
Whatever was coming, he was ready.
And when Bryce made his move, Lockjaw was going to show him exactly what happened to men who threatened what was his.