He turned and walked out, expecting us to follow. I grabbed Mia’s arm in that possessive grip that had become our cover, guiding her outside. Snake led us across the compound toward the storage bunkers, his stride unhurried but purposeful. Other militia members watched from various positions—two by the lodge, one on the roof with a rifle, another working on a truck. Everyone tracking our movement.
The storage bunker sat half buried in the hillside, concrete walls thick enough to survive anything short of a direct strike. Snake pulled a key from the chain around his neck, working the heavy lock. The mechanism was well-oiled, clicking open smooth and quiet.
“Two hours,” Snake said, his eyes sliding over Mia again with obvious intent. “You need more time than that, you’re either stupid or stealing. Neither ends well for you.”
“Two hours is plenty.”
He pushed the steel door open, revealing the interior. Concrete walls painted government gray, metal shelving units reaching to the ceiling, crates stacked with military care. An old laptop sat on a battered metal desk, looking like surplus from the early 2000s. The air smelled of gun oil and Cosmoline, that particular combination that meant serious hardware.
I moved to the laptop, booting it up while Snake positioned himself by the door, his AR-15 casual across his chest. The rifle was loaded—I could tell by how he held it, the practiced ease of someone ready to swing it into action. He pulled out his phone, thumbing through what looked like a game, but his peripheral attention never left us.
The laptop wheezed to life, running some ancient version of Windows. The inventory program was basic—an Excel spreadsheet with categories for weapon type, quantity, serial numbers, condition. Legitimate enough on the surface, exactly what you’d expect for black-market weapons tracking.
“All right,” I said, loud enough for Snake to hear. “Let’s see what Oliver’s been collecting.”
I started with the nearest crate, prying it open with a crowbar from the desk. M4 rifles, still coated in protective grease, serial numbers filed off but not completely—ghost impressions still visible if you knew how to look.
I made legitimate notes on the laptop while angling my belt buckle toward the crates. The camera built into it was nearly invisible—Travis, our reclusive tech expert at Warrior Security, had outdone himself. The kind of tech that would make the CIA jealous. Each photo captured details Oliver wouldn’t want documented.
Mia stayed close but not in the way, smart enough to look bored rather than interested. Snake glanced up occasionally from his phone, those flat eyes checking our position, our actions, then returning to whatever game held his attention.
Forty minutes in, I’d documented three crates of rifles, two of handguns, and enough ammunition to supply a small war. The laptop had been sluggish at first, but I’d noticed something—hidden partitions on the hard drive, folders that didn’t show up in the normal directory. Not connected to any network, but storing files locally.
I palmed a mini-USB drive from my pocket—one with military-grade encryption that would look blank if anyone found it, but capable of copying everything on a hard drive in minutes—also thanks to Travis. If he were here, he’d probably be able to decipher everything on this computer by working his voodoo in minutes, no USB drive needed.
I didn’t have the same skill level. Hell, nobody had the same skill level as Travis when it came to computers. So downloading onto this USB was my only option. I just needed an opportunity when Snake wasn’t looking.
It came a few minutes later when Snake’s nicotine craving finally won. “Need a smoke,” he announced, moving toward the door. “Don’t touch shit you’re not supposed to. I’ll know.”
He stepped outside, leaving the door open but moving far enough away that I could hear the flick of his lighter, the first exhale of smoke. Maybe three minutes were all we had. Four if he was really enjoying it.
I moved fast but smooth, nothing that would look panicked if he glanced back. I pulled Mia close, speaking directly into her ear like I was whispering something crude.
“Going to plant a tracker,” I breathed, barely making a sound. “Keep an eye out for Snake coming back.”
She nodded against my shoulder, understanding immediately, then moved closer to the door. I grabbed the tracker, this one sent from the federal task force I was working for, no bigger than a quarter. Moving to the largest weapons crate like I was checking something underneath, I pressed thetracker against the metal frame. The magnetic backing clicked softly into place. It would transmit location data, letting the feds track if Oliver moved his arsenal.
Then the laptop. USB drive in, automatic program launching. The download bar appeared—buyer lists, delivery schedules, payment records. Everything Oliver thought was secure because it was offline.
47%… 52%… 61%…
“Someone’s coming,” Mia whispered, her face draining of color as she watched the door. “But it’s not Snake. It’s that other guy that stays around Oliver a lot.”
Bishop.Fuck. He wasn’t going to be easy to fool.
The download bar read 78%. Stopping now would corrupt the files, make the whole thing worthless.
I made a decision that tasted like battery acid. I yanked Mia onto the desk before whoever it was could round the corner, crushing my mouth to hers. She made a surprised sound that I swallowed, positioning her body to block the laptop screen. Her legs came around my waist automatically, selling the performance even as I felt her confusion.
I heard footsteps in the doorway, but I kept kissing Mia.
“Mr. Oliver know you’re using his inventory for foreplay?”
I pulled back just enough to speak, keeping Mia pressed against me, one hand behind her back near the laptop. The download bar crept higher—89%.
“Man’s gotta multitask,” I said, injecting the right amount of crass humor into my voice. “Checking all the merchandise, you know?”
God, this shtick of pawing Mia to distract the bad guys was getting damned old. But once again, there was no other option.
