Page 7 of Forgiveness River

“Let’s make this quick,” Wyatt said, leaning against the wall near the door—close to both an exit and the Glock 19 holstered beneath his jacket. “Sheriff’s got the department on extra patrolswith tourist season starting. Too many rich folks with their designer drugs coming to play in our mountains.”

Viper snorted, his narrow face pinched with perpetual suspicion. “Ironic.”

“It’s business,” Wyatt shrugged, maintaining his character’s pragmatic indifference. “Speaking of which…”

Moss nodded to the third man, who set the metal case on the table and unlocked it from his wrist. The snap of the locks releasing seemed unnaturally loud in the cabin.

“Shipment’s doubled this month,” Moss said, opening the case to reveal neat rows of plastic-wrapped bricks. “Market’s expanding. Seems your quiet little mountain town has developed quite the appetite.”

Wyatt’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Each brick represented destroyed lives, broken families, overdoses, and violence that would ripple through Laurel Valley like poison. The tourist economy that had revitalized the town was now providing perfect cover for something that could destroy it from within.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the colorful tattoo sleeves that covered both arms from wrist to shoulder partially visible beneath his rolled-up cuffs. The left arm told the story of his military service—scenes from his deployments interwoven with memorials to fallen brothers. The right depicted the mountains and forests of Laurel Valley, his roots and his home. Together, they were a visual biography of the man he was—a warrior with a heart, a protector of what he loved.

“Double the shipment, double the risk,” Wyatt said evenly. “Double the payment.”

Moss’s eyebrows rose. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”

“Arrangements change when circumstances do.” Wyatt maintained steady eye contact, knowing any sign of weaknesswould be fatal—both to his cover and potentially to him. “I’ve got a department to manage, routes to secure, product to move.”

“Getting greedy, O’Hara?” Viper challenged, his hand drifting toward the bulge beneath his jacket.

Wyatt didn’t flinch. There was a quiet magnetism to him, a natural authority that made men like Viper hesitate just long enough to reconsider. It wasn’t merely his size—though the broad chest tapering to narrow hips gave him the powerful build of a man who could handle himself in any situation. It was something more elemental, a presence that commanded attention and respect without demanding it.

“Getting realistic,” he replied coolly. “Your operation’s growing, drawing attention. I’m the thin blue line keeping that attention pointed elsewhere.” He gestured to the case. “Quality product deserves quality protection. That costs.”

The tension in the room stretched taut as a bowstring. Moss studied him, weighing options, calculating risks. These were the moments that determined survival in the undercover world—the ability to stay perfectly balanced on the knife edge between believability and suspicion.

Finally, Moss chuckled. “I told Kessler you’d have balls. Fine. Another five grand. But I expect highways clear for the trucks coming through next week.”

“Consider it done,” Wyatt said, relief carefully concealed beneath his mask of indifference.

The third man closed the case and produced a satellite phone. “Confirmation?”

Moss nodded, and the man dialed, speaking rapid Spanish into the receiver. Wyatt caught enough to understand—shipment confirmed, payment authorized, next delivery scheduled. He memorized dates, amounts, locations, storing them away for the report he’d prepare later.

The exchange was nearly complete when the distinctive crackle of a police radio cut through the night.

Every muscle in Wyatt’s body tensed as Viper’s gun appeared in his hand with terrifying speed, leveled directly at Wyatt’s chest.

“You set us up?” Viper snarled, finger already whitening on the trigger.

“Stand down,” Wyatt commanded, not reaching for his own weapon. “That’s the regular patrol. They sweep this road every night at 2100 hours.”

Moss’s hand clamped on to Viper’s wrist. “Easy. If O’Hara wanted us busted, we’d already be in cuffs.”

The blue and red lights flashed briefly through the grimy windows as a patrol car passed slowly on the main road below. Wyatt’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a silent prayer that rookie deputy Carson was sticking to the route and wouldn’t get curious about a vehicle parked near the abandoned cabin.

After an eternity compressed into seconds, the lights disappeared around the bend. Viper’s gun remained trained on Wyatt’s chest.

“One twitchy deputy could’ve just ended your operation,” Wyatt said coolly, despite the thundering of his pulse. “And my life. This is exactly why my fee just went up.”

A long, tense moment passed before Moss nodded and Viper reluctantly lowered his weapon.

“That particular patrol route,” Moss said with a calculating smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “is rarely a concern. We have arrangements with certain members of the department.

Wyatt kept his expression neutral. The implication sent a cold tendril of suspicion down his spine, but he couldn’t afford to show any reaction that might expose his true role.

“We’ll transfer the extra funds,” Moss said, his earlier joviality replaced by businesslike efficiency. “Product stays here until the route is confirmed clear tomorrow night. Your buyer knows where to come?”

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