Page 30 of Savage Ranger Daddy

"Not Brock's outpost," Silas says quickly. "That's off every official grid. But if there's a paper trail connecting Brock to the Marshals' Steel Mountain unit, Pruitt could trace it. Assignment records. Vehicle registrations. Communication logs." He looks at Brock. "How clean is your footprint?"

"Clean enough for casual searches. Not clean enough for someone with seven years of access to law enforcement databases and a reason to dig."

Another silence. Harlan speaks for the first time, his voice a lower, rougher version of Mason's. "We need to assume Pruitt is actively working to find Hazel's location. If Alice Dermott is being positioned to approach her directly, that's the soft play. Pruitt running database queries is the hard play. They're probably doing both."

"Which means we need to move faster than them," Gavin says from his corner. First thing he's said all meeting. It carries weight.

Silas pulls one of the topographic maps toward him and spreads it flat. "South fork access. Show me the route."

Brock stands and traces the path from the truck site, through the area where we heard voices, up toward the coordinates that match Cal Hutchins' notes. RC North. The unfinished recon site. He marks the bridge at Miller Creek that Jeffrey mentioned was out, and the rerouted path through the south fork.

Silas studies it, then pulls a second map from underneath and overlays it. "This is the county land survey. The area you're pointing to falls inside a parcel that was rezoned eighteen months ago from recreational use to 'conservation management.' The rezoning was approved by the county commission." He taps the map. "Commissioner Tate signed the approval. Jeffrey Pruitt provided the law enforcement endorsement."

"They rezoned the land to give themselves legal cover for restricting access," I say, seeing it click. "Conservation management means they can close trails, limit entry, post no-trespassing signs, all without raising suspicion. Anyone who tries to hike in gets turned away by legitimate-looking signage authorized by the county itself."

"And any law enforcement inquiry about activity in the area gets referred back to Pruitt's desk," Brock adds. "Where it gets reclassified and buried."

Silas traces a circle on the map around the rezoned parcel. "The logging camp that sat on this parcel was decommissioned twelve years ago. It's got road access from two directions: south fork and a fire road that comes in from the north. Structures on-site include a main cabin, three storage buildings, and a vehicle staging area." He looks up. "That's your collection point. That's where the cargo is being consolidated."

The table is quiet. Everyone staring at the circle on the map. A corrupt deputy. A county commissioner. A rezoned parcel with a decommissioned logging camp. A front company connected to a bar in town. A woman tasked with infiltrating our circle. And at the center of it all, a man I photographed walking out of City Hall who might be the person Cal Hutchins called Voss.

"Timeline," Brock says. "Pruitt told the man in the mayor's office everything's staged by tomorrow night. If the cargo's already in the mountains, tomorrow night is the distribution window. After that, it's gone."

Silas nods slowly. "Then we hit it tomorrow. Before they move." He looks at Harlan. "Get Mason on the line. I want federal assets coordinated with my people. No county involvement, nothing that touches Pruitt's desk. We build the operation from this room." He turns to Rafe. "I need Haven 7 on standby. If this goes loud, we may need the compound as a staging base."

Rafe nods once. "You'll have it."

Silas stands and looks directly at me. "Ms. Lowe. The photograph you took and the conversation you overheard in thatbar are the two pieces of evidence that connect the leadership of this ring to the infrastructure protecting it. Without your reporting, none of us would be in this room right now." He pauses. "That said, Alice Dermott is still in play. She doesn't know you've identified her. That's an advantage, but only if we control how and when she makes contact. From this point forward, nobody approaches you without being vetted through this room first. Clear?"

"Clear," I say. My voice is steady even though my heart is pounding.

The meeting breaks. Harlan moves to the radio equipment to raise Mason. Gavin and Rafe step outside to brief the compound's security team. Silas stays at the table, staring at the map with the expression of a man rebuilding his understanding of the last seven years of his career.

Brock touches my elbow and nods toward the main room. We walk out together, leaving the briefing room door open behind us. Harper is in the kitchen with Poppi, the toddler now happily smearing something across a high chair tray. Harper catches my eye and mouths "coffee?" and I nod gratefully.

Brock stands beside me at the kitchen counter, close enough that our shoulders touch. He doesn't say anything for a minute. Then, quietly: "You built this case, Hazel. You know that, right? The article. The manifests. Cal's coordinates. The photograph. Every major break in this investigation came from your work."

I wrap both hands around the mug Harper sets in front of me. The warmth seeps into my fingers. "We built it. Your ground work, my paper trail. Neither one works without the other."

"Fair enough." He takes his own mug from Harper with a nod of thanks. "But I need you to hear this. Tomorrow is going to be dangerous. Real dangerous. And I need you at the outpost, not at the logging camp."

I open my mouth to argue. He holds up a hand.

"Not because I think you can't handle it. Because Alice Dermott is still out there, and if she makes her move while I'm at the camp, I need you somewhere defensible with people I trust. Rafe's offered to have two of his team at the outpost with you. Armed. Alert. In communication with us the whole time."

I want to fight it. Every instinct says I should be there when they hit the camp, documenting, recording, being the journalist who sees the story through to the end. But the logic is sound. Alice is the variable. And if Alice comes for me while Brock is five miles away on a raid, being alone would be exactly the vulnerability the ring is counting on.

"Okay," I say. "But I want a radio. I want to hear everything in real time. And when it's over, I want full access to the site for documentation."

"Deal."

We drink our coffee in the warm kitchen while Poppi babbles and Harper hums something quiet, and through the open door of the briefing room I can hear Harlan's voice on the radio coordinating with Mason. The pieces are moving. The net is closing. Tomorrow night, one way or another, this story reaches its climax.

I set down my mug and pull out my notebook. There's one more thing I need to do before tomorrow. I flip to the page where I sketched the man's profile from the Lucky Moon photographand start writing a detailed physical description from memory. Height. Build. The scar along his left cheek. The way he walked. The coat. The cap. Every detail I can pull from the encounter, committed to paper while it's still fresh.

Because if something goes wrong tomorrow, if the raid fails or the cargo moves or Alice gets to me first, this notebook is the record. Every fact, every connection, every name. It's the story I came here to tell, and no matter what happens next, the story survives.

That's what journalists do. We make sure the truth has somewhere to live, even when the people telling it might not.