Page 14 of Forgiveness River

Wyatt closed the case without counting. To appear too eager or too careful would raise suspicion. “What’s next?”

“Big shipment coming in Thursday. Biggest we’ve moved yet.” Moss exhaled a stream of smoke that hung in the air between them like a phantom. “I need guaranteed clear passage through the north checkpoints between midnight and four a.m. Can you manage that?”

“The sheriff’s department runs those checkpoints,” Wyatt said, mind calculating rapidly. “I can arrange to be on duty, adjust the patrol schedule.”

“And the DEA?” Moss pressed, his eyes never leaving Wyatt’s face. “I hear they’ve been sniffing around.”

This was dangerous territory. Wyatt had maintained his cover by positioning himself as a DEA agent who could be bought, feeding Moss just enough legitimate information to establish trust while protecting the actual operation.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assured Moss. “They’re focused on a trafficking ring out of Boise. I’ve made sure our activities stay off their radar.”

Moss studied him for a long moment, the cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dim light. “You know, O’Hara, I’ve been doing this a long time. Made it this far by trusting my instincts about people.” He tapped ash onto the floor. “And my instincts tell me you’re holding something back.”

Wyatt met his gaze steadily, his heart rate controlled despite the surge of adrenaline. The moment stretched between them, ahigh-wire act where the slightest misstep meant death. “We all hold things back in this business. That’s how we survive.”

A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof and the distant rumble of thunder. Then Moss laughed, the sound harsh and jarring in the quiet cabin.

“That’s why I like you, O’Hara. Always the perfect answer.” He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot. “Thursday. Midnight. I’ll text the exact route two hours before. Be ready.”

“I’ll handle it,” Wyatt confirmed, picking up the briefcase. The weight of it—the literal and figurative cost of his deception—pulled at his shoulder. “Same drop point for the product?”

“Same as always.” Moss moved to the door and opened it. The storm had intensified, rain pelting the wooden porch like bullets. “Give my regards to that pretty wife of yours. Raven, isn’t it? Saw her at that boutique of hers yesterday. Quite the businesswoman.”

Ice slid down Wyatt’s spine, but his expression remained impassive. The threat was clear, though delivered with casual precision. Moss knew about Raven, had been watching her. It was a reminder that in this world, no one was untouchable, no loved one safe.

“I’ll do that,” he replied, voice steady despite the rage building beneath his calm exterior.

He stepped past Moss onto the porch, the briefcase clutched in his right hand. The drive back would be treacherous, but he needed to get this intel to Kwan immediately. Thursday’s shipment would be their opportunity to bring down Moss’s entire operation. And the mention of Raven—that veiled threat—had just raised the stakes significantly.

As he reached his truck, his burner phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Kwan:Conversation recorded. Teams ready for Thursday. Meeting at safe house tomorrow, 0600.

The operation was entering its final phase. Just two more weeks, he’d promised Raven. Two more weeks to save his career, his marriage, and possibly his wife’s life.

He started the engine and eased the truck back onto the muddy track, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge. In the rearview mirror, the cabin’s lights grew smaller until they disappeared entirely, swallowed by the night and the storm.

Like his double life, it existed in shadows—visible only to those who knew where to look, dangerous to all who wandered too close. And Raven had just been pulled into its orbit.

The thought chilled him more than the mountain rain ever could.

The Murphy cabin was eerily silent after O’Hara’s departure. Moss stood at the window, watching the taillights of the truck disappear into the storm. Only when they had vanished completely did he turn to the figure emerging from the back room.

“You were right,” he said. “He’s playing us.”

Viper’s angular face twisted into a humorless smile. “Told you. That DEA badge of his is more than just a paycheck. He’s running an operation.”

“Are you sure?”

“My contact at the field office confirmed it.” Viper moved to the table, spreading several surveillance photos across its scarred surface. “O’Hara’s been meeting with a female agent—Kwan, out of the Seattle office. Specialist in deep cover operations.”

Moss studied the images—grainy but clear enough to show Wyatt meeting with a petite Asian woman at various locations around the county. In one, they appeared to be examining documents—in another, exchanging what looked like a flash drive.

“What about the sheriff?”

“Blaze O’Hara? He’s in on it too. Coordinating with the DEA, providing local resources.”

Moss considered this, anger simmering beneath his controlled exterior. He’d suspected there was more to Wyatt O’Hara than met the eye—the man was too sharp, too careful, too perfect in his corrupt cop role. But he’d been useful, providing genuine information about checkpoints and routes, seeming to play both sides with practiced ease.

“What do you want to do?” Viper asked, his hand drifting to the gun at his waist, eager as always for violence.

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