Chapter 6 - The Logging Camp Rendezvous
The digital map on my workbench refreshed every three seconds, plotting the amber dot representing Sheriff Cole’s cruiser as it wound its way deeper into the timber country north of Livingston.
According to the live audio feed streaming through my earpiece, Cole wasn't heading back to the courthouse. He was furious, screaming curses into his radio dispatch, demanding that someone named "Vance" meet him immediately at the old Miller Creek logging mill.
Miller Creek was abandoned back in the nineties after the spotted owl restrictions hit the valley. It was a sprawling complex of rotting timber sheds, rusted sorting cranes, and overgrown gravel yards surrounded by dense pine forest—the kind of place where things could disappear permanently and nobody would ever ask questions.
“He’s meeting his handler,” I muttered, locking a suppressed tactical pistol into my thigh holster and pulling a weather-resistant canvas jacket over my shoulders.
Rachel stood by the heavy oak desk near the back of the shop, her hands steady as she handed me a spare radio comms earpiece. “Ethan, if this Vance character is tied into whatever smuggling ring Cole is running, he won't be alone. You can't just walk in there.”
“I’m not walking in,” I said, adjusting the secure earpiece and syncing it with the diagnostic console. “I’m going in blind from their perspective, but with full overhead situational awareness. You’re going to stay right here at the console, Rach. If I lose signal or if county dispatch reports any sudden movement toward the shop, you lock the deadbolt, grab the emergency satellite phone from the floor safe, and call Captain Miller at the state police barracks in Bozeman. Give him encryption key Delta-Nine.”
She grabbed my hand before I could turn away. Her grip was firm, warm, and entirely steady. “Be careful, Ethan. I finally got my husband back. I’m not letting some corrupt sheriff take him away now.”
I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, turned on my heel, and stepped out into the cool Montana night rain.
Twenty minutes later, my Ford Bronco was parked two miles down the logging access road, hidden beneath a thick canopy of Douglas firs. The rest of the journey was made on foot, moving through the dripping underbrush with the silent, practiced precision of a man who had spent years navigating hostile terrain without leaving a single footprint.
When the rusted corrugated metal roofs of the old Miller Creek mill came into view, the rain had slowed to a heavy, damp mist.
Two vehicles were idling in the central loading yard: Sheriff Cole’s Ford Explorer and a black, unmarked Chevy Tahoe with out-of-state plates from Washington.
I crouched behind a stack of rotting cedar pallets twenty yards from the main sorting shed. Through the gaps in the rotted wood, I had a clear view of the loading bay doors.
Sheriff Cole was pacing back and forth in the mud, smoking furiously, while a tall, broad-shouldered man in an expensive wool trench coat stood leaning against the hood of the Tahoe, arms crossed over his chest.
“I told you to handle the mechanic quietly, Travis,” the man in the trench coat said. His voice was cold, clipped, and carried the unmistakable cadence of corporate or governmental authority—not some backwoods thug. “We don't need local heat. The munitions shipment from the rail depot needs to move across the Canadian border by Thursday night. If an overzealous local cop or some retired vet starts poking around your cruisers with a magnetic bug, the whole operation goes sideways.”
“He’s just a mechanic, Mr. Vance!” Cole protested, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You don't understand how arrogant the son of a bitch is. He just sat there while I poured a milkshake over his head! Normal men don't do that. Something’s off about him.”
Vance pushed off the hood of the Tahoe, stepping into the yellow glare of the overhead work lights. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a filtered smoke, and lit it with a gold Zippo.
“Then we remove the variable,” Vance said smoothly, exhaling a thin cloud of blue smoke into the damp night air. “Accidents happen all the time on these logging roads, Sheriff. A drunk driver hitting a utility pole. A tragic fire at an old workshop. Pick your poison. But that mechanic cannot be alive by Friday morning.”
My finger rested lightly against the comms mic hidden inside my collar.
Back at the garage, Rachel was listening to every single word.
Before I could unholster my sidearm and initiate the takedown, the radio in my earpiece crackled to life with Rachel’s sharp, urgent whisper.
“Ethan! Look at your secondary monitor feed! A second vehicle just tripped the seismic sensor at the property line two miles south of your shop. Someone is heading toward the house!”
May you like
My blood ran cold.
Cole hadn't just sent Vance to the logging camp; he had sent a cleanup crew to my home while Rachel was sitting alone at the console.
