Rawley dismounted in one fluid motion and crossed to the post. He examined the camera without touching it, then reached into his pocket for a knife. Three quick cuts, and the camera was free, the zip ties falling to the ground. He pocketed the device without a word, his face set in lines I’d seen before—the look of a man who’d just confirmed his worst suspicions.
I photographed the empty post, the cut zip ties, the angle of view. Then the fence cut again, getting close enough to capture the tool marks on the wire. Evidence. Documentation. The first step in whatever came next.
Neither of us said the obvious thing out loud—that Eleanor Peterson might be in jail, but someone was still watching the ranch. Someone with enough training to approach unseen, enough patience to set up surveillance, and enough motive to keep watching even with their employer behind bars.
We mounted again without speaking, turning our horses back toward the stable. The sun was fully up now, casting long shadows across the frost-covered grass, but the day felt colder than it had at dawn. Ahead of us, the ranch house sat peaceful in the morning light, unaware of the eyes that had been watching it.
Rawley’s hand moved to the rifle at his knee, checking the action with a casual touch that wasn’t casual at all. I did the same with the SIG under my jacket, feeling the reassuring weight against my ribs.
We rode back in silence, but the message was clear in every line of Rawley’s back, in the careful way he scanned the tree line as we passed: the threat was real, it was organized, and it was just getting started.
Rawley and Jojo’s farmhouse sat at the center of the ranch property, a two-story structure with a wide porch and forest green shutters that had seen better days.
We rode up the gravel drive in silence, our horses picking their way across the frozen ruts with careful steps. Rawley dismounted at the hitching post by the porch, his movements deliberate as he tied his gelding’s reins to the rail.
I followed, the mare standing patiently while I loosened her girth and checked her feet for ice balls. The morning had warmed enough to melt the frost on the higher ground, but the shadows under the trees still held pockets of cold that could freeze a horse’s hooves between steps.
Inside, the farmhouse was warm. The fireplace was crackling in the living room, the smell of coffee and fresh bread hanging in the air. Rawley led me to the kitchen without speaking, his boots leaving muddy prints on the hardwood floor.
The table was already set for three—plates, silverware, napkins folded into precise triangles—though it was only seven in the morning. Rawley moved a plate aside and unrolled ahand-drawn map across the polished surface, using coffee mugs as weights to hold the corners flat.
The map was pencil on butcher paper, the lines precise despite the medium—property boundaries marked in dark strokes, fence lines in lighter ones, the creek a wavy line that cut across the eastern edge.
Someone—Rawley, probably—had labeled each section in a tight, controlled script: North Pasture, East Tree Line, Creek Crossing, South Ridge.
“The camera was here,” Rawley said, tapping a point on the eastern boundary where the trees thinned. “Facing west-northwest. Clear line of sight to the front of the house.”
I nodded, studying the map. “Boot prints at the creek crossing,” I said, indicating the spot with my finger. “Two sets. Military tread, different weights. One carrying something heavy.”
“The cut in the fence was twenty yards north of the camera,” Rawley added, his finger moving up the map. “Clean cut, amateur repair. They came through, placed the camera, then went back out the same way.”
I looked at the map again, mentally connecting the dots: creek crossing to fence cut to camera position. A straight line, more or less, with clear sightlines to the house at every point. Not the path of someone who’d stumbled on the property by accident. The work of someone who’d studied the terrain, identified the optimal approach, and executed it with minimal exposure.
“Whoever planned this isn’t improvising,” I said, keeping my voice level. “They had intel on the property layout and the patrol schedule. Knew where to cut the fence without being seen. Knew exactly where to place the camera for maximum coverage.”
What I didn’t say—what I was still processing—was what the camera angle told me. The lens had been aimed directly at themain approach to the house, true, but also at a specific set of windows on the second floor. The windows that belonged to the master bedroom, where Rawley and Jojo slept. Where their infant son’s crib sat in the corner.
Someone hadn’t just scouted the property. They’d identified the most vulnerable point in the entire ranch—the room where a baby slept—and positioned their surveillance to watch it.
The kitchen door opened, and Jojo came in carrying two mugs of coffee. He set one in front of Rawley without being asked, the other at the empty place across from me, then stepped back, his eyes moving from Rawley’s face to the map on the table.
“I’ll be in the barn,” he said quietly. “Brandon’s down for his morning nap. Burke’s coming by at nine to look at the north fence.”
Rawley nodded once, not looking up from the map. “We’ll be done by then.”
Jojo nodded back, then left the room without another word, closing the door gently behind him. The whole exchange had taken less than thirty seconds—no discussion, no questions, just a clear division of labor and an obvious understanding of boundaries.
I’d seen it before—the way Jojo anticipated Rawley’s needs, the way Rawley made space for Jojo’s independence—but it still caught me off guard sometimes. The efficiency of it. The trust. The way they moved around each other like they’d been doing it for decades instead of just a couple of years.
Rawley was already moving on, his finger tracing the property boundary on the map. “We need to assume there are more cameras,” he said. “At least one covering the north approach, probably another watching the south pasture. Maybe more.”
I nodded, reaching for my coffee. “I can ride the north line this afternoon. Check the fence posts, look for fresh cuts or disturbed ground.”
“Burke’s covering the south pasture,” Rawley said. “Decker’s taking the western ridge. Macon’s handling the river access points.” He paused, then added, “Carter’s staying with Jojo and the babies.”
The unspoken message was clear: everyone had a job, everyone was accounted for, and no one was being left alone. Not with Eleanor Peterson’s people watching the house.
“What about the eastern approach?” I asked. “That’s still the most likely entry point. Creek for cover, trees for concealment, ridge for over watch.”
