Page 13 of Forgiveness River

Two weeks that suddenly seemed both an eternity and no time at all. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of dual loyalties crushing down on him. For the first time since accepting theundercover assignment, he questioned whether bringing down Moss’s operation was worth the price he might ultimately pay. Because some losses, once sustained, could never be recovered.

And Raven wasn’t just his wife—she was his heart, his home, his truth in a world of deception. If he lost her, he lost everything that mattered.

Chapter Six

The summer stormhad rolled in with savage intensity, drowning the valley in sheets of rain that transformed the world into watercolor smudges of gray and green. Lightning split the darkness, illuminating the treacherous mountain road in stark, white flashes that left Wyatt momentarily blind. His DEA-issued truck fought for purchase on the slick surface, tires sending up a spray of water with each curve he navigated.

The forecast had promised clear skies—a rookie mistake in mountain country where the weather could turn on a dime, where nature held no loyalty to human predictions. Wyatt cursed under his breath, knuckles white against the steering wheel, his body humming with the particular tension that came before a dangerous meet.

Moss was going to be furious. The man despised tardiness almost as much as he despised snitches, and both offenses carried similar consequences in his world. But Wyatt had little choice—a mudslide had blocked the main access road, forcing him to take the long way around. He glanced at the dashboard clock: 9:17 p.m. He was already seventeen minutes late for the meet.

His phone buzzed in the cup holder, and he snatched it up, hoping it was Raven. Instead, Agent Kwan’s name flashed on the screen. The disappointment that flickered through him was quickly replaced by professional focus.

“O’Hara,” he answered, professional and clipped.

“Where are you?” Kwan demanded without preamble. Her voice carried the sharp edge of someone whose careful plans were unraveling. “Moss is getting twitchy.”

“Ten minutes out,” Wyatt replied, squinting through the windshield as another lightning strike turned night to day for a heartbeat. “Mudslide on Ridgeline. Had to divert.” The explanation was efficient, stripped of everything unnecessary. Field language.

“Blaze is in position with his team. I’m maintaining visual on the cabin. Just get here.”

The line went dead, and Wyatt tossed the phone back in the cup holder. The pressure of the operation weighed on him, compounded by the chaos in his personal life. Two more weeks. That’s what he’d promised Raven. Two more weeks and everything would be over—the operation concluded, the truth revealed. He’d be able to step out of the shadows and back into the life they’d built together.

If she was still willing to have him.

He reached up to massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck, his fingers brushing against the short sandy hair there. He looked terrible—he knew it without needing to check the rearview mirror. The beard he’d grown for this operation was fuller than he typically wore it, shadowing his strong jaw. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence beneath his green eyes. It had been days since he’d managed more than a few fitful hours of sleep.

The turnoff to the Murphy cabin loomed ahead, nearly invisible in the downpour. He slowed the truck and made thesharp right onto the dirt road, now transformed into a muddy track. The vehicle fishtailed slightly before the tires found purchase, sending his heart into his throat for a breathless second.

In the clearing ahead, the dilapidated cabin stood like a hunched old man weathering the storm. A sleek black SUV was parked near the entrance—Moss’s vehicle. No sign of Viper’s motorcycle, which was unusual. Those two were typically inseparable, shadows of the same darkness.

Wyatt parked alongside the SUV and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, running through his mental checklist. His service weapon was secured in its shoulder holster, hidden beneath his jacket. The backup piece was strapped to his ankle, and the knife—a gift from Colt on his thirtieth birthday—was tucked into his boot. His cover story for the delay was prepared, and his nerves were steady despite the tension coiling in his stomach.

He’d done this dance a hundred times before, both in his military days and during his years with the DEA. The only difference now was how much more he had to lose.

He pulled his jacket collar up against the driving rain and made his way to the cabin’s sagging porch. The wooden steps creaked beneath his weight—the third one always did, a detail he’d filed away during previous visits. He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe in the pattern they’d established: two quick, one slow, two quick.

The door swung open to reveal Adrian Moss, mid-thirties with the compact build and dead eyes of a man who had seen too much and felt too little. Tonight, those eyes were narrowed with displeasure, cold as the storm raging outside.

“You’re late, O’Hara.”

“Mudslide on Ridgeline,” Wyatt replied, stepping into the cabin and shaking rain from his jacket. Water pooled at his feet,adding to the general decay of the place. “Had to take the long way around.”

The interior was sparse but functional—a scarred wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs, a threadbare couch pushed against the far wall, a woodstove in the corner that did little to dispel the damp chill. A battery-powered lantern cast harsh shadows across the worn floorboards, creating monsters where there were only men. Though in this company, Wyatt reflected, the distinction was academic.

“Where’s Viper?” Wyatt asked, noting the absence of Moss’s right-hand man. The question was casual, delivered with practiced indifference, but his senses immediately heightened at the anomaly.

“Taking care of a problem.” Moss’s voice was flat. “Seems we’ve had some unexpected interest in our operation from local hikers. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

A knot formed in Wyatt’s gut. “Hikers” almost certainly meant witnesses. And “taking care of a problem” meant silencing them permanently. He kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced with the implications. If Viper was eliminating witnesses, this operation had just escalated beyond drug trafficking. Murder raised the stakes exponentially.

“Let’s make this quick,” he said, standing at his full height of six foot three. Despite being soaked from the storm, he projected a quiet authority that few men could challenge. “I’ve got department business to handle after this.”

“Always the dedicated lawman,” Moss mocked, gesturing to the table where a metal briefcase sat unopened. “Even when you’re on my payroll.”

Wyatt moved to the table and flipped the latches on the case. Inside, neatly arranged packets of cash stared back at him—payment for services rendered, for routes cleared, for a blind eye turned. It was all part of his cover, the corrupt cop on the take.Every dollar would be cataloged as evidence, every transaction documented and reported to Kwan.

“It’s all there,” Moss said, lighting a cigarette. The smell of cheap tobacco filled the small space, mingling with the damp wood and mildew. “Twenty-five thousand, as agreed. Plus a bonus for your help with that shipment last week.”

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