The flush deepened by a shade. But his shoulders dropped a fraction—tension releasing—and he nodded. "We're good."
I nodded back. Turned to leave. Stopped in the doorway.
"How long were you standing there?"
The question landed. I watched it register—the slight widening of his eyes, the half-second delay before his expression recalibrated. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Not long."
Not a lie. Not the full truth either. The space between the two was information enough.
I drained the rest of my coffee and set the mug in the sink. Pulled my boots from beside the door, laced them tight, and stepped outside into the brightening desert. The sky was shiftingfrom black to the dark blue that preceded sunrise by twenty minutes, the air still carrying the mineral cold of a desert night.
Dawn patrol. Same route every morning—a mile loop around the property, checking for tracks, disturbances, anything the night had left behind.
Half a mile northeast of the cabin, where the scrubland gave way to a ridge with a direct sightline to the property, the routine ended.
Tire tracks. Two vehicles, wide wheelbase, tread pattern consistent with tactical SUVs—heavy-duty all-terrain, the same tires used by private military contractors and federal tactical units. The tracks ran parallel for two hundred feet along the ridge, then looped back toward the highway. Twelve hours old. Maybe less.
Surveillance. Not approach. Someone had driven up, observed, and left.
I followed the tracks on foot to the ridge's highest point. Two sets of boot prints in the hardpack, military-grade soles, deep toe impressions indicating prolonged standing. Rectangular depressions in the dust where binoculars had been set down and picked up. Seven cigarette butts, crushed flat. I picked one up and turned it in my fingers. Djarum Black. Indonesian brand. Popular in Eastern Europe.
Someone had stood here for hours. Counting our windows. Mapping our approaches. Timing our movements.
I collected the cigarette butts in a plastic bag and walked back to the cabin at a controlled pace—not because I wasn't urgent, but because running attracted attention, and if there were eyes on the ridge right now, I needed to look like a man on a routine patrol.
Sean was at the kitchen table when I came through the door. His eyes tracked me immediately—the pace, the set of my jaw, the plastic bag in my hand. He knew my face the way I knew his. Nearly eight years of reading each other.
"What happened?" No grin. No deflection. He'd already shifted.
I pulled out the sat phone and dialed Hawk. Put it on speaker.
"Tire tracks," I said when Hawk answered. "Half a mile northeast. Ridge with direct sightline to the cabin. Two vehicles, tactical tread, military boot prints. Seven cigarette butts—European brand. Someone's been watching us."
Hawk didn't waste time. "Timeline?"
"Tracks are twelve hours old at most. They've completed their reconnaissance. Next phase is approach—tonight at the earliest."
Sean's jaw tightened. His hand moved to his hip—an unconscious reach for the weapon holstered on the back of his chair. Across the room, a door opened. Nolan appeared in the hallway, drawn by the tension in my voice. He stopped at the kitchen entrance, reading the room in two seconds flat.
"Options." Hawk's voice was flat, operational. "You run, they follow. You've got a federal whistleblower with evidence that can bring down a Deputy Assistant AG. They won't stop."
"We don't run," I said. "We use the ground. The cabin's compromised as a safehouse, but it's defensible if we have numbers. They don't know we found the tracks. If we bring inbackup and position them before the strike team arrives, we catch them in a crossfire they're not expecting."
Silence on the line. Hawk processing.
"The alternative," I continued, "is we pull back to the clubhouse and they follow us there. Next time they come with more men and heavier hardware, and the fight's at our front door. We put a dent in Holt's hired muscle now, on ground we've already mapped, and we show him we're a step ahead."
"I'll send everyone I can spare. Axel leads the backup team. Tank, Ghost, Tyler, and Kai—you'll need a medic." He paused. "The rest stay at the clubhouse. I've got Mesa and Dagger running the Tucson pipeline, and I need bodies here in case this is a feint to draw us out. That's five plus your three. How many hostiles?"
"The truck stop was a four-man team. This is the next level. I'd plan for twelve to sixteen. Possibly more."
"Then eight has to be enough."
"Understood."
"Three hours for the team to reach you. Axel will call when they're close. Brief him on positioning."
