Snake shot him a look that could’ve peeled paint. Tommy’s mouth snapped shut.
The lodge door opened before we reached it. The man who stepped out made every instinct I’d developed over years of military special operations screamthreat approaching. Six-foot, maybe six-one, built lean but solid. The kind of build that came from functional strength, not gym vanity. Dark hair going silver at the temples, cut military short. Clean-shaven. Pressed khakis and a button-down that belonged in a boardroom, not a militia compound.
But it was his eyes that marked him as apex predator. Pale gray, almost colorless, with the kind of focus that catalogedeverything while revealing nothing. I’d seen eyes like that before—in Fallujah, interrogating men who collected ears. In Helmand, facing down a warlord who fed enemies to his dogs.
Julian Oliver didn’t look like a domestic terrorist. He looked like a Fortune 500 CEO who happened to murder people on weekends.
“You must be Coop.” His voice carried educated precision, Northeast corridor accent worn down but not erased. “Snake’s told me interesting things.”
I kept Mia behind me as he offered his hand. I took it, matching his grip pressure for pressure. Testing without making it obvious. He had calluses in all the right places—trigger finger, knife hand, the ridge that came from thousands of hours on the range.
I held his gaze, neither challenging nor submitting. “Interesting good or interesting bad?”
“That remains to be seen.” His attention shifted to Mia like a spotlight swinging on to a new target. Fuck. So much for just trying to ease her into the compound without much fuss. “And who is this?”
Everything in me wanted to keep myself between them, to shield her from that calculating stare that stripped away layers looking for weaknesses to exploit. Instead, I shifted just enough to establish possession without blocking his view. The kind of subtle dominance display that spoke louder than words.
“This is Mia.” I kept my tone flat, bored even. “She’s with me.”
“Is she now?” Oliver moved closer, and I saw Mia’s shoulders tighten. He circled her slowly, a buyer examining merchandise. “How delightful. We don’t often have such…lovely company. Although we will have some other ladies here this week.”
His fingers lifted a strand of her blonde hair, letting it fall through them like water. Mia stayed frozen, smart enough not toflinch, but also not to show any provocation. But I could see her pulse hammering in her throat.
“Soft.” Oliver’s observation carried weight, implications. “I have a weakness for soft things, Coop. They break so beautifully.”
“Some things are worth more intact.” I put just enough edge in my voice to establish a boundary without making it a challenge. “Especially when they belong to me.”
Oliver’s laugh was cultured, controlled, completely without humor. “Of course. Property rights are sacred after all. That’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? The right to own what’s ours without government interference?” He looked to me for a reaction, but I stared back impassively.
“My people tell me you’re quite the weapons expert. Former military turned arms dealer.” Oliver’s pale eyes studied me like I was a specimen under glass. “They say you can evaluate our inventory, verify authenticity, price it properly for the market.”
“That’s right.”
Six weeks of groundwork had led to this moment. Six weeks of Warrior Security and the federal task force building my legend—the disgraced Marine who’d been scapegoated for a friendly fire incident in Helmand. Discharged without benefits, turned bitter, turned mercenary. They’d seeded the story through the right channels, created digital footprints, even staged a couple of small arms sales in Spokane and Coeur d’Alene that would check out if Oliver investigated.
This evaluation was supposed to be straightforward. Verify Oliver’s weapons cache, document everything for the task force, then fade out before the tactical teams moved in. Clean. Simple. Professional.
Except now Mia was here, and nothing mattered more than keeping her alive. Not the mission, not the months of preparation, not even taking Oliver down. Every tacticalassessment I made now had to factor in her safety first, the operation second.
Exactly the kind of thinking that got operators killed.
“And your connections? I’m told you’ve moved product through Washington, Idaho, even down to Nevada.”
“I’ve got buyers who trust me. Militia groups, motorcycle clubs, some cartels near the border. They know I deliver quality merchandise without federal attention.” I let Coop’s arrogance bleed through. “Six years building those relationships after the Corps fucked me over.”
Oliver nodded slowly. “A man with grudges and connections. My favorite combination. Let me show you around. I think you’ll appreciate what we’ve built here.”
The tour confirmed what I’d suspected—Oliver was paranoid but not infallible. Security cameras covered the main approaches but had blind spots where the terrain got rough. Motion sensors on the primary buildings, but the perimeter relied on human sentries posted at key points. How often they rotated, whether they got lazy during night shifts—that intelligence would have to come later.
The third storage building held the real prize. Behind a false wall that would fool a casual search, crates of military-grade weapons. M4 rifles, Glock handguns, enough ammunition to sustain a prolonged firefight.
“Impressive.” I ran my hand along a crate of rifles, each one missing its serial number. “This is just the overflow inventory?”
“A sample.” Oliver’s smile belonged on a shark. “The main cache is elsewhere. Somewhere even my own men don’t know about. Trust is a luxury I can’t afford.”
Smart. Paranoid, but smart. Even under torture, his people couldn’t reveal what they didn’t know.
“You’ll evaluate a portion tomorrow,” he continued. “Authenticate, estimate value. Then we discuss expansion.”
