Chapter 8 - The Reckoning at the Workshop
The night air was split by the wail of my workshop's fire suppression alarms as I crested the final ridge overlooking my property. Below me, the tin-roofed structure glowed with an eerie, orange light reflecting off the wet pine needles.
Two black SUVs were parked haphazardly across my gravel driveway, their hazard lights blinking rhythmically.
I didn't bother slowing down.
I slammed my foot flat on the accelerator, steering the heavy, reinforced steel bumper of the Ford Bronco straight toward the rear flank of the lead SUV.
CRASH.
The sound of shattering glass and crumpled sheet metal echoed up the canyon as my Bronco slammed the SUV sideways into a ditch, disabling it instantly.
Before the second operative standing near the open sliding door of the workshop could even turn around, I killed the ignition, kicked open my door, and hit the gravel in a low tactical slide.
“What the fu—”
The man never finished his sentence. I closed the distance in two strides, swept his legs out from under him, and slammed the butt of my tactical pistol against the side of his helmet. He collapsed onto the gravel, unconscious before he hit the ground.
I didn't pause. I vaulted through the smoking, splintered doorway of the workshop.
The interior was thick with acrid white smoke from a small chemical fire set near the front desk. Through the haze, I saw a second operative standing before the inner vault door, holding a propane torch and frantically trying to melt the locking mechanism.
“Hey!” I shouted.
The man whipped around, raising a 9mm pistol.
He was too slow.
Before his finger could squeeze the trigger, my sidearm barked once—a clean, precise shot that shattered the concrete wall inches above his head, showering him in gray dust.
“Drop the torch,” I commanded, my voice carrying the absolute, chilling authority of a combat veteran who had stared down worse than this in the dark.
The operative stared at the smoking crater in the wall, then looked down at his pistol, and slowly let it drop to the concrete with a dull clatter. He raised his hands above his head, trembling.
“Get on your knees! Hands behind your head!” I ordered, kicking his weapon across the floor.
Within three seconds, I had him zip-tied and secured against the heavy steel workbench.
I turned immediately toward the inner vault door, hammering my fist against the reinforced panel. “Rach! It’s me. It’s clear.”
A second later, the heavy steel deadbolt clicked from the inside, and the door swung open.
Rachel stood there, coughing slightly from the drifting smoke, her eyes wide but steady. She had the satellite phone clutched in one hand and a heavy steel wrench in the other.
She looked at me, took one ragged breath, and threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my jacket.
“You’re okay,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I murmured, holding her tightly for a brief, grounded second before pulling back. I looked down at the secure diagnostic console on the desk—miraculously untouched behind the reinforced vault wall.
The live tracking feed on the monitor was still blinking.
Sheriff Travis Cole’s cruiser had left the logging camp and was speeding down Highway 89 toward the county line, desperate to flee before federal backup arrived.
“He’s running,” I said, walking over to the console and tapping a single key.
The screen shifted, transmitting the encrypted audio files, GPS logs, and photographic evidence of the stolen military munitions directly to Captain Miller at the state police barracks in Bozeman, alongside a priority override code directly connected to my old command clearance.
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“Where is he going?” Rachel asked, standing beside me, her hand resting firmly on my arm.
“Nowhere,” I replied, pulling my jacket zipper up and checking the magazine of my sidearm. “Because the federal net just closed.”
