Jackson County Sheriff’s Office
Burke sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, staring at a computer screen that kept giving him the same frustrating result: Access Denied.
He’d been digging for two hours, trying to trace the Varga lineage back to 1999. Every time he hit a lead that looked promising—a property sale, a shell company, a suspicious flight manifest—the trail went cold or was locked behind federal encryption.
Grant sat in the visitor’s chair, his boots crossed at the ankles, watching his brother with a grim intensity. He wasn’t a deputy, but he was a Scott, and right now, his horse business was the last thing on his mind.
“I don’t get it,” Burke muttered, slamming his hand against the desk. “I know every low-rent dealer and porch-thief in this county. I pride myself on knowing who breathes in these mountains. And yet, these people have been part of the landscape for twenty-seven years right under my nose? Right under Dad’s nose?”
The thought of Burton was the sharpest thorn. If the Vargas had been here that long, there was no way the previous Sheriff hadn’t seen the shadows they cast.
“Maybe you aren’t supposed to find it,” Grant said quietly. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Burke leaned back. “If the locals are locked out, it means the Feds are sitting on it. And if the Feds are sitting on it, it’s because it’s still active.”
He reached for his desk phone. He needed someone who spoke the language of the state and federal bureaus. He dialed a direct line to the SBI field office in Asheville.
“Agent Quinn,” a sharp, professional voice answered.
“Tessa, it’s Burke Scott.”
There was a brief pause, then her tone softened just a fraction. “Burke. I assume this isn’t a social call. Is Scout okay? I haven’t heard from my favorite mountain goat since he went up on the ridge this morning.”
“Scout’s fine. He’s back on the glass as we speak. Tessa, I need a favor. Off the record. I’m looking for anything you have on a family out of Miami. The name is Varga.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted five seconds too long. When Tessa spoke again, the professional mask was back, and it was made of iron.
“Burke, stay away from that name.”
“I can’t,” Burke said, his voice dropping. “They’re here. On the Hollis property. They just landed two enforcers at the private strip this morning.”
“Dammit,” Tessa hissed. Burke and Grant could hear the rapid clicking of a keyboard over the speakerphone. “Listen to me carefully. The Vargas were the target of a major RICO case in the early 2000s. It was supposed to take down their Florida operation. Then witnesses started disappearing, and the lead prosecutor ended up at the bottom of a canal. The family went quiet for a while. The patriarch, Vicente, got sick around 2010, and his son, Vance, took over.”
“Vance is here,” Burke said.
“Then you’re in over your head,” Tessa warned. “Vance Varga didn’t just take over. He moved them into ‘logistics’ and ‘private transport.’ The reason you can’t find anything in your system is because the DEA and FBI have a joint task force sitting on it. It’s an active investigation, Burke. They’re tight-lipped because they’re looking for the Hub—the place where the Vargas move their high-value shipments before they hit the coast.”
Burke looked at Grant. The Hub.
“They’ve been using Jackson County as a waypoint,” Burke whispered. “Since ninety-nine.”
“If they’re active in your neck of the woods, it means something has changed,” Tessa said. “They usually don’t show their faces unless there’s a leak or a lost asset. Burke… if there’s a federal investigation and you interfere, they’ll bury you. But if the Vargas are in Sylva, nobody’s safe. I’ll see what I can pull from the SBI side, but I’m telling you now—don’t kick this hornet’s nest alone.”
“Too late,” Burke said, his eyes meeting Grant’s. “The nest is already in my dining room.”
He hung up the phone and looked at his brother. The fury was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve.
“The Feds are waiting for them to trip,” Burke said. “But they don’t care about Clara Vale. They don’t care about what happened in this valley twenty-seven years ago. They just want the cartel.”
Grant stood up slowly, his shadow long against the wood-paneled wall.
“Well, that about clears up our mystery, doesn’t it?” Grant said, his voice a low, jagged rasp.
Burke looked up. “What?”
“Clara Vale,” Grant said. He paced the small office, his boots heavy on the floor. “Think about it, Burke. A ‘logistics hub’ that’s been active since ninety-nine. If she saw something, she shouldn’t have—if she tried to run—she didn’t just disappear into the mountains. She probably went out of here in the belly of one of those planes. Dropped in the Atlantic somewhere between Florida and North Carolina.”
Burke went still. The office shrank around them. Neither brother spoke.
