Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
At 7:00 PM, Amelia came downstairs. She was wearing a beautiful, midnight-blue silk dress—the one she usually reserved for high-end charity dinners in Missoula. Her hair was perfectly styled, and she smelled of expensive French perfume. She didn't look like a woman who lived in a rustic cabin with a mechanic. She looked like a woman who was preparing to step into a new life.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning a pair of old carburetor valves with a rag, still playing the role of the simple, unbothered husband.
"I’m going out, Logan," she said carelessly, adjusting her diamond earrings in the reflection of the microwave door. "A few of the girls from the country club are hosting a charity auction in town. Don't wait up for me."
"A charity auction," I repeated, my voice flat. "On a Thursday night?"
She paused, her shoulders stiffening for a fraction of a second before she turned around with a practiced, patronizing smile. "Yes, Logan. Some people actually care about contributing to this community. I know it's hard for you to understand since you're content with spending your life in a grease pit. I'll probably stay at the hotel in town if it gets too late. The mountain roads are foggy."
"Be careful out there, Amelia," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "Like the sheriff said, the roads can get very dangerous for people who don't know where they belong."
Her smile faltered, a flash of sudden, uneasy confusion crossing her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, but then her phone buzzed in her hand. She checked the screen, her expression instantly turning sharp and determined.
"Whatever," she snapped, turning on her heel. "Just lock the doors. I don't want any of your grease-monkey friends wandering onto the property while I'm gone."
She walked out, and a moment later, her luxury sedan kicked up gravel as she sped down the driveway.
The moment the sound of her engine faded into the distance, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a secure text from Admiral Brooks.
Logistics verified. NCIS Tactical Entry Team and FBI HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) are in bound via three unmarked transport birds. ETA to your location: 2330 hours. We have full federal warrants for Vance, your wife, and twenty-two members of the county syndicate. Hold your position until we arrive.
I stood up, tossing the greasy rag onto the table.
"Hold my position," I muttered, a grim smile spreading across my face. "That's a negative, Admiral. In the Teams, we don't wait for the cavalry. We are the cavalry."
I walked back to my office, unlocked the safe, and pulled out my gear. I stripped off my civilian clothes and pulled on the black, flame-resistant tactical combat uniform. I strapped the ceramic body armor over my chest, checked the night-vision optics on my helmet, and slung the suppressed HK416 rifle over my shoulder.
May you like
I loaded four extra magazines into my vest—one hundred and twenty rounds of black-tip armor-piercing ammunition.
To the town of Oakhaven, I was just a retired mechanic who could be humiliated with a strawberry milkshake. But tonight, the valley was going to remember what happens when you wake a sleeping monster.
