"Do you." It's not a question. He knows me too well. "Because the way you looked at her in Patty's kitchen, the way you've been looking at her since she showed up in this town, tells me your judgment might be compromised."
I don't answer right away.
He's not wrong. Every tactical decision I've made since Harper walked into the bar has been filtered through a lens I haven't used in six years—the lens that asks what happens to her, not just what happens to the mission.
"My judgment's fine," I say.
"Is it."
I look at him. "He put his hands on her, Judge. More than once. He thinks he can show up here and do it again because he's got money and she's alone." I turn back to the lodge. "He's wrong on both counts."
Judge is quiet for a moment.
"What's the play?" he asks.
"I go in. Talk to him. Make sure he understands the situation."
"And if talking doesn't work?"
"Then I make sure he understands it a different way."
Judge nods slowly. He's run this exact calculation a hundred times in a hundred different situations. He knows where this ends.
"You need backup?" he asks.
"No. One man is a conversation. Two men is a threat. I want him to think he's still in control right up until he's not."
"Ronan—"
"I've got this."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he steps back.
"Radio if it goes sideways," he says.
I nod once and head for the lodge.
The metal stairs ring under my boots as I take them steady, no rush, just a man coming to have a conversation.
Room 212 sits at the end of the walkway. I stop outside and listen. TV on low inside. No voices. No movement.
I knock three times. Controlled.
The TV cuts off. Footsteps. A pause at the peephole. Then the door opens.
Derek Sutton matches the DMV photo—clean-cut, expensive, used to being looked at. Rolled sleeves, barefoot, casual like he’s on vacation and I’m room service.
His eyes travel up my frame, then drop to the Iron Havoc patch on my cut. I watch curiosity turn into calculation.
"Can I help you?" he asks. Smooth. Controlled. The voice Harper described.
"Derek Sutton," I say.
"That's right." He doesn't ask how I know. He leans against the doorframe instead, projecting ease, like he's in charge of this interaction. "And you are?"
"The reason you're leaving town."
A pause. Then he smiles. Not warm. Assessing.
