I checked my watch—0230, local time—then my bearing, making sure I had the right approach. The farmhouse was southwest of my position, half a mile as the crow flies, slightly longer on the ground with the creek to navigate. I could be there in ten minutes if I pushed, fifteen if I took the time to check for cameras or tripwires along the way.
Fifteen, then. Better to arrive intact than fast.
I started walking, my boots silent in the tall grass, my eyes on the light in the distance. Around me, Montana spread out in all directions—valley to the west, mountains to the east, sky overhead so clear I could pick out individual stars without trying. Somewhere to the north, a coyote called, the sound carrying across the open ground with unnatural clarity.
I’d chosen pasture for the insertion because it was far enough from the ranch to avoid detection, close enough to reach on foot before dawn. Because it put me on the eastern approach—the same one Peterson’s people had used—giving me a chance to check for additional cameras or cut fence lines before alerting Jackson to my presence.
Because it meant I could see the farmhouse from here—could pick out the pattern of shadows that meant Jackson’s place rather than just any building in the darkness. Could track my progress toward it with each step, could watch the distance shrink with each passing minute.
Could imagine, maybe, what would happen when I reached it—Jackson opening the door, surprise flashing across his face, then something else replacing it.
Something I wasn’t ready to name, even to myself.
The creek appeared ahead of me, a silver line cutting across the pasture. I crossed it at the narrow point—the same one Peterson’s people had used, if Jackson’s description was accurate—my boots silent on the flat stones that made a natural bridge. On the far side, the grass gave way to scattered trees, then to the proper tree line that marked the eastern boundary of Jackson’s property.
I moved through it with care, each step placed with deliberate precision, each breath controlled to minimize sound. Not that it mattered—Jackson would hear me coming regardless.
Another SEAL habit. Another thing we had in common.
The trees thinned as I approached the property boundary, the darkness lifting enough that individual features became visible—the gravel drive leading to the front porch, the greenhouse roofs catching the starlight, the pattern of shadows that meant windows rather than just walls.
And beyond it all, the single light burning in what I knew was the kitchen—Jackson awake at 0230, moving through his house with the careful attention of a man who’d spent too many years sleeping with one eye open.
I reached the fence line—six strands of barbed wire stretched between cedar posts—and paused, checking for cameras or motion sensors. Nothing visible, but that didn’t mean nothing present.
I’d have to check the entire perimeter tomorrow, make sure Peterson’s people hadn’t placed additional surveillance while Jackson was focused on the eastern approach.
For now, though, the coast was clear. No cameras, no tripwires, no signs that anyone had been here since Jackson’s last perimeter check.
I slipped between the strands of wire with practiced ease, then straightened on the far side, my eyes on the farmhouse fifty yards ahead. The kitchen light was still burning, a golden rectangle in the darkness, but nothing moved behind the glass—no shadow crossing the lit space, no silhouette visible against the drawn curtains.
Jackson was there, though. I could feel it—the awareness that came with knowing exactly where someone was, even when you couldn’t see them. The same sense that had kept me alive through a dozen deployments, that had let me track movement through smoke and darkness and the confusion of close-quarters combat.
He was there, and in approximately ninety seconds, he’d know I was here too.
I started walking, my boots silent on the gravel drive, my eyes fixed on the light in the window. Behind me, Montana spread out in all directions—valley and mountains and sky full of stars—but I didn’t turn to look.
My attention was entirely on the farmhouse ahead, on the man waiting inside it, on the moment when distance would become proximity and wondering would become knowing.
Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten.
The porch steps creaked under my weight—the third one from the top, I’d noticed the first time—but I didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t do anything but put one foot in front of the other until I was standing at the front door, hand raised to knock.
The moment stretched between one heartbeat and the next—Montana quiet around me, the farmhouse silent ahead, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against my chest. Then I knocked, three firm raps that carried in the still air, and waited for whatever came next.
Chapter Six
~ Jackson ~
I’d been sitting at the kitchen table for over an hour, cold coffee in front of me, watching the valley outside my window remain stubbornly black. The third night in a row I hadn’t slept, the third night in a row I’d spent staring at my phone or at the ceiling or at the property map spread across the table.
Three nights of wondering if Peterson’s people were still out there, still watching, still waiting for the right moment to move.
And then I heard it—footfall in the grass east of the drive, too deliberate for deer, too quiet for anyone who didn’t know what they were doing.
My hand was on the Glock at my hip before the first figure cleared the tree line. I eased back from the window, keeping to the shadowed side of the kitchen, and watched as a shape separated itself from the darkness—tall, moving in a way I’d seen on enough insertion teams do to recognize even at fifty yards.
Not Peterson’s people. Not random trespassers. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
