Page 63 of Montana Justice

“Civilians have no business on a federal operation,” he’d said during our initial briefing, his crew-cut head gleaming under the fluorescent lights of our makeshift command center.

Hunter had simply smiled—that particular smile that meant someone was about to get schooled. “Would you like to spar, Agent Kowalski? Test whether this civilian can keep up?”

Kowalski had enthusiastically agreed, since he was four inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier than Hunter. The man had been unconscious in under thirty seconds. After that, the DEA team treated Warrior Security with the respect they deserved. Men like Hunter, Coop, and Aiden had bled in places these federal boys only read about in classified reports.

“Two minutes to breach,” I said into my comms, checking my weapon one final time. The Glock’s weight felt familiar against my palm, seventeen rounds of federal ammunition plus one in the chamber. My left hand found the flash-bang grenades on my vest, confirming their position by touch.

In two minutes, we’d have answers. Weapons, drugs, and most importantly, the scumbags behind all this.

After that, I could start focusing on what really mattered—Piper.

She’d been disappearing into herself the past three days, that vibrant woman from family dinner vanishing like morning mist. Yesterday, I’d found her standing at the kitchen window, Caleb in her arms, tears streaming down her face. When I’d asked what was wrong, she’d just shaken her head and walked away.

“Focus, Calloway,” I muttered to myself. Save the town first, then save the girl.

“One minute,” I announced. Around the warehouse, four teams of highly trained operators made final preparations. My own deputies—Martinez and Torres, the only ones I’d trustedwith this operation—flanked me on either side. Both good men, proven clean by Travis’s extensive digital surveillance.

“Remember,” Agent Kowalski’s voice came through the comms, “we need intelligence intact. If they’ve got fentanyl in there, full hazmat protocols. That shit’ll kill you just from skin contact.”

“Thirty seconds.”

My breathing went tactical—in through the nose, out through the mouth, controlling the adrenaline surge. The warehouse loomed before us, a monument to rust and neglect. Perfect cover for the operation intel promised was inside.

“Ten seconds.”

I thought about the teenager who’d died two weeks ago, foam on his lips and terror in his eyes. Thought about the weapons that could end up on our streets, in the hands of people who’d use them to destroy everything we’d built.

“Five… four… three… two…”

“Execute, execute, execute!”

The world exploded into controlled chaos. The ram hit the steel door with a sound like thunder, ancient hinges shrieking in protest. Martinez tossed the flash-bang through the gap—I turned away, mouth open to protect my eardrums from the pressure wave.

Bang!

Even with my eyes closed, the flash painted red through my eyelids. The concussion thumped against my chest like a physical blow. Then we were moving, boots pounding on concrete, weapons up and tracking.

I was third through the breach, the muzzle of my Glock sweeping left while Martinez covered right. The warehouse interior stretched before us—a vast cavern of shadows and industrial decay. Concrete pillars marched in neat rows like tombstones, supporting a ceiling lost in darkness. My nightvision turned everything alien green, depth perception skewed in the monochrome world.

“Clear left!”

“Clear right!”

“Moving!”

We advanced in a tactical stack, each operator covering their sector. My boots crunched on broken glass—old bottles, maybe auto glass from long-abandoned vehicles. The air tasted of rust and rat droppings, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.

“Contact!” someone shouted. “Movement, second level, northwest corner!”

Every weapon swung toward the threat. My finger found the trigger, taking up the slack but not firing. Through the night vision, I saw shapes erupting from the upper level?—

Birds. Dozens of pigeons, startled by our entrance, exploding into flight with a thunder of wings. One clipped my helmet, and I bit back a curse.

“Stand down, stand down,” Hunter’s voice came through, tinged with forced calm. “Just birds.”

We pressed deeper, clearing each section with methodical precision. Stack of pallets against the east wall—I kicked one, half expecting hidden compartments. Nothing but wood rot and spider webs. A row of shipping containers lined the north side, their doors hanging open like broken teeth.

“Got something here,” Torres called out, his light playing over fresh scratches on the concrete. “Drag marks. Recent.”

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