Hudson glanced at him. “You’re late, aren’t you?”
Jericho glanced at the clock on the wall, the hands ticking past five. “Yeah.” He capped the mug. Eyed the burnt toast.
“Have at it,” Hudson said, flipping the eggs.
Jericho picked up the toast, stuck it into his mouth, then opened the fridge and grabbed a package of Orlando’s food.
“The dog eats better than I do,” Hudson said.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t had thousands of dollars of training behind you. Save some lives, then we’ll talk.” But he grinned at Hudson.
He didn’t hate being home. He headed toward the door.
“Be careful.”
Jericho turned on Hudson’s words, spotted him lifting eggs onto the plate. Hudson met his gaze. “Those Sorros boys don’t play nice.”
Right.
At the door, he pulled on his green parka, grabbed a wool hat, and shoved gloves into his pocket. Then headed out into the cold.
The night still bore down to the west, to the east, the golden simmer of a new day breaking through low clouds. Orlando jumped into the truck, riding shotgun.
The drive to Deke’s office cut through the heart of Copper Mountain, the river a shimmering ribbon to the west. Small, sleepy houses to the east. The clouds hung low, still teasing the threat of snow, the air biting as he waited for his heater to warm.
Starlight Pizza’s neon sign glared in the darkness, Bowie Mountain Gear a dark silhouette. He parked, then turned and fitted on Orlando’s harness, checking, then led the dog inside, his nails clicking on the hardwood, the bear bell on his harness jingling softly.
Conversation spilled out of the conference room, the air thick with the scent of burnt coffee. He walked in to see the sheriff and his deputy, Crew, along with two others standing in front of the map. A stained conference table held a coffeepot, the brew steaming in mismatched mugs.
“J, you made it.” Deke turned from the map. “Good. We’re just waiting on Harley.”
He gestured to the two others standing nearby.
“This is Rio. Local FBI. Worked with me last summer to round up the Sons of Revolution. He knows the area.”
Rio was a dark-haired FBI agent with a sharp jaw and a leather jacket, his dark eyes landing on Jericho, then his dog. “Hey.”
Jericho shook his hand.
“And this is Deputy Marshal Stevie Mills. You remember her, right? She was a couple years older than us in school. She’s in town for the weekend, said she’d help out.”
He turned to the woman, her blond hair pulled into a tight bun, her gray eyes assessing. “Stevie. Yeah. How are you?”
“Good. You’ve been gone a hot minute.”
He nodded. “So you’re a deputy marshal. Wow, I’ll betyour dad is ...” And then he stopped.
His last memory of her had been something about her father being arrested for an accidental homicide. So maybe he was still doing time.
“Dad died about a year ago. Cancer. But he was exonerated before he passed. And yes, he was proud of me,” she said, smiling.
“He was a good man,” Deke said.
Stevie nodded. Took a sip of her coffee. “Yeah, he was.”
“So,” Rio said, turning to the map, “according to my memory, there are two entrances to this old camp.” He glanced at Crew.
Crew stepped up to the map. “Yeah. Front gate is the first, and the second is over here, by the machine shed. There’s a burned cabin here.” He pointed out the locations.
