And when he does,ifhe does, I'll be ready to put him in the ground.
The right monitor pings.
I look over.
Hartley's phone has moved.
It's been static in Llano for two weeks—same cell tower, same parking lot pattern, predictable as church on a Sunday.
The ping I'm looking at right now puts him south of Llano, on the county road that runs toward our part of the Hill Country.
I sit forward and pull up his call log.
He made a call this morning at sunup that lasted forty-seven minutes.
The number routes through a relay I don't have visibility into, which means it's encrypted up the chain.
I can see the call happened, the duration, but I can't hear it.
Forty-seven minutes.
That's not a status check. That's a briefing.
A status check is four minutes. Usually something like: target's been static, no changes, will report next week.
A briefing goes over everything from the operational picture, here's the asset's current vulnerabilities, here's what we want to do about it, here's the timeline.
Hartley has reported up the chain, and since that’s happened, it means the firm has made a decision.
Mmm.
My jaw sets. My coffee cup goes still in my hand. I track the GPS for another two minutes—Hartley's phone is moving slowly south, then stops, then moves again.
He's not driving to the ranch.
He's running a pattern.
Familiarizing himself with the geography.
Pre-operational.
Whatever the firm decided in that briefing, the timeline has shortened.
I save the GPS log, the call metadata and close the monitor.
Then I get up, pull the hat off the hook, and walk across the gravel to her cabin.
Hadley opens the screen door before I knock.
She's been watching for me. I knew she would be.
"Mornin'."
"Mornin'."
I step inside.
Nash is at the kitchen table in pajamas with a bowl of Cheerios in front of him. Diesel’s even on the rug at his feet, watching the spoon move with the patience of a dog who knows the rules.
