We jumped into Montana in the dead of night—high altitude, oxygen masks until the drop altitude, then chutes opening low over a dark stretch of valley pasture well east of Black Butte Ranch’s main drive.
I’d chosen the insertion point on the flight over, specifically to stay outside the ranch’s natural sight lines and clear of whatever camera positions Peterson’s people might still have running on the property.
The C-130 had approached from the north, flying with running lights off and radio silent, following the topography rather than the established flight paths.
Twenty thousand feet up, the air was thin enough that breathing required concentration, cold enough that the heated flight suit barely took the edge off.
I’d checked my gear three times before stepping to the ramp—main chute, reserve, oxygen system, radio, the SIG in its thigh holster—then taken my position in the stick with the rest of the team.
Sterling had gone first—always did, that was the deal—followed by Rivera, Torres, then me bringing up the rear with the communications equipment in a padded case strapped to my chest. Five seconds between jumpers, enough to avoid mid-air collisions, not enough to lose visual contact.
The green light had come on. Sterling had stepped off the ramp without hesitation, his body disappearing into the darkness beyond the plane’s running lights. Rivera followed, then Torres, then Harker, and then it was my turn—one step,two, and then nothing but air under my boots and the roar of the wind in my ears.
Freefall was its own kind of precision—body position dictating speed and direction, small adjustments changing your entire trajectory. I’d fallen into the standard stable position automatically—belly to earth, arms and legs spread to maximize surface area, head up to maintain visual contact with the other jumpers.
Around me, the team had done the same, five dark shapes falling through the night in perfect formation.
At ten thousand, I’d checked my altimeter—still falling, still on course, the pasture I’d selected as our landing zone just visible as a darker patch against the surrounding terrain.
At two thousand feet, I’d pulled—right hand reaching for the ripcord, the familiar jolt as the chute deployed, then the sudden silence as the freefall ended and the controlled descent began.
Around me, four other chutes had opened in sequence—Sterling first, then Rivera, Torres, and Harker, each canopy catching the starlight as it filled with air.
The ground had come up fast—as it always did on a HALO—the dark shape of the pasture resolving into individual features: tall grass bent by the wind, the silver thread of a creek cutting across the eastern edge, the darker line of trees beyond.
I’d flared at fifty feet, killing my forward momentum, then hit the grass in a clean PLF roll—feet, calf, thigh, hip, shoulder—the impact traveling up my body in a sequence I’d practiced a hundred times on drop zones across three continents.
I’d collapsed my chute in four practiced pulls—gathering the lines, bundling the canopy, securing the whole package with the straps from my harness. Around me, the team had done the same, five operators moving through the familiar post-jump routine with the efficiency of long practice.
Nobody spoke. No need to. We’d done this often enough that words were redundant—each man knowing his role, each movement flowing into the next without conscious thought.
Two minutes after landing, we were packed and moving, chutes secured, harnesses stowed, weapons checked and ready.
I stood up in the dark with Montana soil under my boots and cold air hitting the back of my throat. The smell of it was grass and creek water and something faintly like wood smoke from somewhere far off—not the mustiness of the Belarus safe house or the processed recirculation of the military transport, but something cleaner, sharper, more specific. The kind of smell that belonged to a place rather than just existed in it.
The mountains were a dark outline against a sky packed with stars—no moon tonight, just the cold, clear light of stars too numerous to count. To the west, the valley opened into the wider plain where Black Butte Ranch sat, the main house just visible as a cluster of lights half a mile distant.
To the south, barely visible through the tree line, a single light burned—Jackson’s farmhouse, the ten acres he’d bought with the money he’d saved from twenty years of careful living.
The place where, if my calculations were right, he was sleeping right now, unaware that five men had just dropped out of the night sky less than a mile from his front door.
The team gathered around me, their faces invisible in the darkness, their presence marked only by the occasional creak of equipment or soft exhalation of breath. Sterling moved to my side, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my flight suit.
“Team’s moving to the main house,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Rivera and Torres will secure the perimeter, check for additional cameras. Harker’s taking the eastern approach, making sure our landing didn’t trigger any alerts.” He paused, then added, “You’re clear for the farmhouse.”
I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak. It was more than I’d asked for—more than I had any right to expect—but Sterling had made the call without being asked. Had looked at the situation, assessed the risks, and decided that Jackson’s safety was worth bending protocol for.
It was why we followed him. Why, when things went sideways, his word was law.
“Thank you,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I’d intended.
Sterling nodded, then moved away, joining the rest of the team as they started toward the main house. I watched them go—four dark shapes moving through the tall grass with practiced efficiency—then turned my attention to the single light burning in the distance.
Jackson’s place. Ten acres of carefully tended land, a house he’d built with his own hands, a vineyard that existed mostly in his head, but was already taking shape in the four greenhouses behind the main structure.
The place where, three months ago, I’d spent a night that had somehow become the thing I thought about when I let my mind wander from whatever mission Sterling had sent me on.
The place where, if my calculations were right, Jackson was sleeping right now—one arm flung across the empty side of the bed, his face turned toward the window that looked out on the eastern pasture. The place where, in approximately twelve minutes, I’d be standing on the porch, hand raised to knock, heart doing something complicated in my chest.
