Connected to at least four documented trafficking operations in the Pacific Northwest.
No direct violence on record, but presence correlates with increased victim mortality.
So Patrick Kelly coordinates logistics for Turner's operation. He moves people. He moves bodies. He's been doing it likely for fifteen years.
I read the last line again.Increased victim mortality.
My hands are steady as I close the laptop. If that’s true, and Patrick Kelly is here, what’s to stop him from grabbing another innocent girl?
Me—that’s who’s going to stop him.
Steady as I go to my bedroom, I go to my closet. I pull on black fleece-lined leggings, a dark waterproof jacket, a black cap, and boots with the reinforced soles. One knife goes into my boot. The second knife goes into my jacket pocket.
I have a gun too. When I told Wes I needed to do something to help take down this trafficking ring, he got me one and made sure I got some basic training. But tonight I’m just going out to take a look around. I’m not delusional enough to think that I can just waltz in there and destroy the bad guys. I’m determined, but I’m not a one-man army. I need to have a solid plan in place to successfully take them out.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—eyes cold, jaw set, every muscle coiled.
I’m ready to go.
27
MASON
2300. Lily’s neighborhood. Everything’s quiet.
I watch her bedroom through the scope, my body cramping from hours in the same position. Shifting, I stretch my legs slowly. I’m out of practice for as much recon as I’ve been doing. There was a time when spending three consecutive days in overwatch before I took the shot was normal.
Nothing’s happened. No threats. No suspicious vehicles. No movement except Lily's shadow passing occasionally in front of the curtains.
It's the most boring surveillance op I've run in years.
And the most important, because every hour I watch her, every moment I track her movements, I'm learning her patterns. Learning her routines. Learning how to keep her safe when she doesn't even know I'm here.
And I'm thinking about her.
Fuck, I'm thinking about her.
The way she moved through the clinic—confident, competent, in control. The way she smiled at Emma in the diner—genuine warmth breaking through the tactical mask. The way she looked that night in her house when she started to undress?—
I shift again, trying to ease the tension that's not from surveillance.
I want her.
Not just the physical want—though that's there, sharp and constant and impossible to ignore. I want to know what she's planning. What drives a woman with Turner's mark to come to Iron Ridge?
What else can it be, when her eyes scream vengeance?
I want her to tell me. I want to be the one she trusts with the truth. I want to be the weapon she aims at her enemies.
I want to be the man she comes home to when the mission's done.
The thought should scare me. It should trigger every alarm bell about attachment and compromise and the dangers of mixing operational focus with personal desire, but it doesn't. Watching her through the scope, tracking her movements, positioning myself to kill anyone who threatens her—none of this feels like compromise. It feels like purpose.
2337. Her front door opens.
Lily emerges in all-black gear—jacket, leggings, boots. Her hair stuffed into a black cap, and I’m surprised by how disappointed I am not seeing its golden shine. All the lights inside still on, she carefully locks her door before moving to her truck with the precision of someone heading into a hot zone, not someone going for a midnight snack.
She looks like she’s going hunting.
