“Begin,” Thomas said quietly.
A man at the far end of the table tapped his screen.
In Eagle River, the first thread was pulled.
The sheriff’soffice received an anonymous tip just after nine a.m.
Not a threat.
Not a confession.
A concern.
A carefully worded message suggesting that former Army Rangers now operating a tavern had broughtoutside criminal attentioninto the quiet town. Names were included. Dates. A few facts that were publicly verifiable—enough to sound credible.
Not enough to be traced.
Thomas smiled faintly.
Truth, lightly twisted, always traveled faster than lies.
Next came the bank.
A routine audit flag. A paperwork discrepancy. Nothing illegal—just inconvenient. Accounts temporarily frozen pending review. Funds that paid for fuel, supplies, quiet logistics suddenly unavailable.
Pressure, applied gently.
Then came the whisper campaign.
A woman in town noticed a car she didn’t recognize parked too long near the school. Another mentioned unfamiliar men at the gas station weeks ago. Someone else remembered seeing Rylie arguing with a man before the wedding that never happened.
Fear didn’t need facts.
It just needed proximity.
Thomas watchedthe reports come in without expression.
“No direct contact?” one of his men asked.
“Not yet,” Thomas replied. “This is not punishment. This is conditioning.”
He stood and walked to the window, overlooking the courtyard below.
“They protect,” he continued. “That’s their instinct. They will shift resources. Spread themselves thinner. Worry about civilians instead of us.”
A pause.
“And the woman?” the man asked.
Thomas turned.
“She stays untouched,” he said. “For now.”
Because taking her would harden them.
Because hurting her would unite them.
And Thomas didn’t want unity.
