The man opened his mouth and Break stepped closer.
“You say one more thing to my CO, and I’ll walk away right the fuck now,” Breakneck snarled, his fists tightening. He glared, and something in the agent’s eyes shifted.
The guy shrugged. “You got it, Petty Officer.” They turned to go, but Ice slid in front of them as slick as black ice, blocking their path with that cold, carved-from-granite stillness that made operators sit straighter. “If anything happens to him, I will find you. But no one will find your body.”
The agent glanced at his pal. The look they exchanged was cryptic.
Ice’s eyes narrowed and he turned to Breakneck. “Junior. With me.”
Breakneck followed him out of earshot.
“I don’t want you to go,” Ice said. He held up his hand. “I know. We’ll face a shitstorm, but they went over my head and got Preacher and Boomer pulled from the detail.” Ice paced away, ran his hand through his blond Mohawk, his handsome features tightening. “Everything tells me to watch your six. I want to know why they want you alone. Why they’re doing this quietly. Why they keep going over my head.”
Breakneck swallowed. “I can take care of myself. Don’t you tru?—”
“That’s not the point,” Ice snapped. “The point is they don’t want eyes on this op. Not mine. Not your team’s. Not Canada’s.”
Breakneck went still.
Ice lowered his voice until it rumbled like distant thunder. “Stay sharp until we get boots on the ground. Something smells wrong.”
Breakneck nodded once.
Ice wasn’t paranoid. Ice was rarely wrong. If Ice didn’t trust the DEA? Breakneck wouldn’t either.
Stone Creek Ranch sprawled across the valley like an old scar carved into the British Columbia wilderness. Weathered timber fences cut long lines through open pasture, grass beaten down by cattle and ATV tracks, dirt roads hard-packed from years of ranch trucks hauling hay, feed, and whatever else needed to move quietly under a legitimate name. Low hills rose around the property, their shadows stretching in the late-afternoon light. Damp earth and cedar drifted through the barn where Breakneck stacked bales like he’d been born doing it.
His boss Michael Ryker was the kind of man cartels used when they wanted problems handled quietly and permanently. A mid-level enforcer running courier routes through the remote wilderness of British Columbia, he supervised drop points, vetted new recruits, and kept the pipeline moving through a mix of intimidation and calculated violence. Ryker wasn’t high enough in the hierarchy to see the whole operation, but he knew enough to make himself dangerous.
Lean, tattooed, and always coiled like a spring, he carried the reputation of a man who enjoyed testing people until they broke. Couriers feared him, prospects avoided him, and when Breakneck entered the pipeline, Ryker was the man assigned to decide whether he lived long enough to earn the cartel’s trust.
Three weeks in and he still hadn’t gotten close to the precursor flow. He’d learned more about horses, pasture rotation, and fence repair than about how the cartel moved product. Every lead dead-ended. Every suspect watched him too closely. Every shed or outbuilding had locks that didn’t match their hinges, and every time he drifted near them, Ryker’s shadow wasn’t far behind.
Today was no different.
He stacked the new hay shipment, dust floating in thin shafts of light between warped boards. The barn smelled of alfalfa, manure, diesel, and that faint metallic tang he couldn’t place. Outside, cattle called over the hum of ATVs. Inside, his boots echoed steady and unhurried, the rhythm of a man with nothing to hide.
He lifted another bale, set it down, adjusted the edge, and used the movement to slide his hand beneath the platform under the stack. Nothing. No taped bricks. No hidden bags. No residue. Whoever was using this place cleaned well. He straightened, wiped sweat from his jaw, reached for another bale?—
“What are you doing?” Ryker’s voice cut through the dim.
“Stacking the hay that came in this morning,” he said calmly.
Ryker stepped into the barn, blocking part of the light, arms folded. “I didn’t tell you to.”
Breakneck shrugged, balanced a bale on his thigh. “Just doing my job.”
Ryker watched him too long. “Most guys don’t work unless they’re told.”
“Most guys ain’t me.”
Ryker’s mouth twitched. “You’re eager.”
Breakneck met his gaze, mild irritation and boredom masking everything else. “You pay me to work, so I work.”
Ryker stepped closer, boots grinding hay into the floor. “You get paid the same as the rest of us?”
“Far as I know.”
