Page 65 of Montana Justice

“Then maybe it’s your civilian contractors,” Morrison suggested, glancing at Hunter and Beckett. “No offense, but?—”

“Finish that sentence,” Beckett said softly, “and we’ll have a problem.”

The threat in his voice was unmistakable. Morrison, who’d probably never faced anything more dangerous than a drunk driver, took an involuntary step back.

“Enough,” I said. “Fighting among ourselves won’t solve this. Someone’s feeding them information, yes. But pointing fingers without proof helps no one.”

“Proof?” Kowalski laughed bitterly. “The proof is that empty warehouse. The proof is that they had time to sanitize the place, probably moved everything days ago while we were congratulating ourselves on what a big win this would be.”

He wasn’t wrong. The humiliation burned hot in my chest. I’d vouched for this operation, convinced multiple agencies to commit resources based on intel that had seemed rock solid.

“I want a full debrief,” Morrison said. “Every person who had any knowledge of this operation, no matter how peripheral. We’re going to find your leak, Calloway, even if we have to polygraph your entire department.”

“Do what you need to do,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the anger boiling inside me. “But right now, we need to process this scene properly. If they made any mistakes?—”

“They didn’t,” Coop interrupted, emerging from the warehouse. “I’ve done a preliminary sweep. No prints, no DNA-worthy material, no electronic signatures. They even pulled the security camera feeds from every building in a three-block radius. These aren’t amateurs.”

The gathered leaders dispersed to manage their teams, leaving me standing in the cold Montana morning with my failure. Beckett appeared at my shoulder, his expression grim.

“This isn’t on you,” he said.

“Isn’t it? I’m the sheriff. The buck stops with me.”

“Someone’s playing a long game here, Lachlan. This level of intelligence, this kind of operational security—we’re not dealing with typical drug dealers.”

I wanted to argue, but he was right. Every failed operation had been surgical in its precision. They knew exactly when we’d move, exactly what we were looking for, exactly how to leave us with nothing.

“We need to regroup,” I said, watching as the crime scene techs began their futile documentation of an empty warehouse. “Full debrief at Warrior Security as soon as I get done with this paperwork shitstorm. Bring Travis in person if you have to drag him out of that compound.”

“He won’t like that.”

“I don’t care what he likes. We’re missing something, and I need his eyes on this.” I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion hitting like a sledgehammer now that the adrenaline was fading. “Four operations, Beck. Four times we’ve come up empty. That’s not bad luck—that’s enemy action.”

Beckett nodded. “I’ll talk to Hunter about increasing security protocols. Maybe we’ve got a digital leak we haven’t found yet.”

“Maybe.” I looked back at the warehouse, its broken windows reflecting the sunrise like accusing eyes. “Or maybe we’re looking in the wrong place entirely.”

The gathered teams were already beginning to pack up, the energy of anticipated victory replaced by the bitter taste of another loss. I’d have to write reports, attend meetings, justify the resources we’d wasted on another empty building.

But worse than the professional humiliation was the knowledge that somewhere out there, traffickers were still moving weapons and drugs through my county. Kids were still dying. Families were still being destroyed.

And I wasn’t anywhere close to stopping them because I couldn’t get my fucking house in order.

Beckett slapped me on the shoulder. “Hang in there. See you soon.”

The drive back to Garnet Bend stretched before me, forty minutes of empty highway and bitter recriminations. I need coffee and to pull my wits about me and reset.

Because that’s what you did when you wore the badge. You got knocked down, you got back up, and you kept fighting.

Even when the enemy knew your every move before you made it.

Chapter 23

Piper

The afternoon feedbuckets clanged against each other as I carried them through the barn, my movements automatic after weeks of the same routine. My hands shook slightly, making the metal handles rattle. Lachlan hadn’t come home last night or this morning. His side of the bed had stayed cold and empty, the sheets still tucked neat from when I’d made it yesterday morning.

I’d lain awake until four, straining to hear his truck in the driveway, the familiar sound of his boots on the stairs. Nothing. I knew he was out doing something for work, but I didn’t know what. I’d been out of the loop since I’d given him that watch, the ultimate betrayal. Ray could hear every word Lachlan said wherever he wore it.

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