“No,” he said finally. “I don’t suppose you do.”
He lifted the phone to his ear. “Start packing. We may have a situation.” A pause. “Strip the compound. Move everything to the backup location.”
He ended the call and slid the phone away.
Bishop spoke for the first time since reporting on the license plate. “What about the buyers? The demonstrations we had scheduled?”
“Postponed. An inconvenience, nothing more. We’ll reschedule once things settle.” His eyes cut to me. “Walk with me, Coop.”
Not a request. I fell into step beside him, acutely aware of Bishop trailing behind us. The weight of his attention pressed between my shoulder blades like a targeting laser.
The trek back to the compound took hours. Hours of silence where anything could happen—where Oliver could decide I was more liability than asset, where Bishop could put a bullet in my spine and claim I’d tried to run. My Glock was back in the cabin. I had nothing but my hands and much more of a desire to make it out of this mission alive than when I’d started it.
But that wouldn’t stop a bullet.
I cataloged every sound. The crunch of our boots on gravel. The rhythm of Bishop’s breathing behind me, steady and controlled.
Oliver didn’t speak until we crested the last ridge and the compound came into view.
The place swarmed with activity—men loading crates into trucks, carrying equipment from buildings, shouting orders at each other. Not panic, exactly. More like a well-rehearsed evacuation, everyone moving with purpose. Oliver had clearly planned for this contingency.
The buyers’ expensive vehicles were already streaming down the mountain road. Several of the men required assistance getting to their cars—the Russian with cracked ribs, the yakuza’s translator cradling his dislocated shoulder. A few others sported black eyes and split lips. Trophies from my efforts to slow them down during the hunt.
One of them—the Hong Kong buyer whose jaw I’d nearly broken—paused to stare at me as we passed. Pure hatred in his eyes. He said something to his companion in rapid Cantonese, and they both looked at me like men memorizing a face for later.
Oliver noticed. Of course he did.
“You made enemies tonight,” he observed.
“They were between me and my property. Didn’t take kindly to being moved.”
We stopped at the edge of the compound. Oliver surveyed the organized chaos, his expression unreadable. The Gathering was over. His carefully orchestrated weapons demonstration, his entertainment, his profitable weekend of illegal arms dealing—cut short because his prey had escaped.
“This is your fault.” His voice was quiet. Controlled. More dangerous than shouting. “If you hadn’t brought her?—”
“If I hadn’t brought her, you’d have used some other woman, and the same thing might have happened.” I met his glarewithout flinching. “You threw her into an impossible situation, then acted surprised when she did whatever it took to survive. Any woman with half a brain would’ve done exactly what she did.”
“She was supposed to be caught. The hunt?—”
“How about next time, you focus on business first and games later.” I stepped closer, using my height. “Half your buyers didn’t care about chasing some woman through the woods. They came for weapons. For deals. Give them what they want before you play with your food.”
Bishop’s hand moved toward his gun. I saw it in my peripheral vision, felt the shift in the air behind me. One wrong word and this went sideways. One wrong move and I ended up like Snake.
Oliver raised a hand, barely a gesture, and Bishop went still.
The silence stretched. I could hear my own heartbeat, steady despite everything. Could feel the absence of my Glock like a missing limb. If I had to kill Oliver right now—if Bishop drew and I had to move—I’d go for the throat. Collapse the windpipe before Bishop could get the shot off.
If I was going to die here, this fucking bastard was going down with me.
Then Oliver laughed.
Not warmth. Nothing like warmth. But something that might have been amusement.
“You know what I like about you, Coop?” He shook his head slowly. “Everyone else trips over themselves to tell me what I want to hear. You tell me I’m wrong to my face.”
I waited. Still not sure this wasn’t ending with a bullet in my brain.
“I’ve been thinking about expanding operations. I need men who don’t flinch when things get complicated.” Oliver’s pale eyesheld mine. “I want you on my team. Full time. Not just weapons consulting—running things. Building something that lasts.”
