Page 69 of Montana Justice

I grabbed my keys, my movements sharp with frustration. Another dead end. Another failure. And still no closer to finding our leak.

The drive to Travis’s place took me through the outskirts of town, past the last subdivision and into the emptiness that Travis preferred. His driveway appeared suddenly—unmarked, easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it. The security began immediately: cameras tracking my truck, the gate that looked decorative but could probably stop a tank.

From the outside, Travis’s house looked almost normal. A sprawling ranch-style home with native stone and large windows, nestled against a hillside. You’d never guess that most of it extended underground, that those windows were bullet-resistant, or that the pleasant landscaping concealed enough surveillance equipment to run a small military operation.

I parked beside Beckett’s SUV and Hunter’s truck. The front door opened before I could knock—Travis had been watching, of course. He always watched.

“Sheriff.” He stepped aside to let me enter, his greeting as minimal as always. Travis looked like he’d slept in his clothes—black cargo pants and a faded band T-shirt that had seen better days. His dark hair hung past his collar; the man wasn’t going to go out to get a haircut. I wasn’t sure how he ever got one.

The entryway looked normal enough—hardwood floors, neutral walls, a table for keys. But I knew the scanner built into the doorframe had already checked me for weapons and God knew what else. Travis’s paranoia was legendary, but given what he’d done for the government, probably justified.

“Conference room,” Travis said, already walking away. His bare feet made no sound on the floor.

I followed him through halls that looked residential but felt like a bunker. The temperature dropped as we descended—Travis had built down into the hillside, creating multiple levels that didn’t show from outside. We passed the gym where he maintained the physical conditioning the CIA had drilled into him, the pool he swam laps in at two a.m. when the memories got too loud.

The conference room belonged in a Fortune 500 company, not a recluse’s basement. A massive table dominated the space, surrounded by leather chairs and walls of monitors currently showing financial data, satellite feeds, and scrolling code I couldn’t begin to understand.

Beckett, Hunter, Coop, and Aiden were already there, coffee cups and tablets scattered across the table. They looked up as I entered, and I saw my own frustration mirrored in their faces.

“Gentlemen,” I said, taking a seat. “Let’s figure out what the hell went wrong.”

“Everything,” Coop said flatly. “Every damn thing that could go wrong did.”

“The intel was solid,” Hunter insisted, pulling up files on his tablet. “Multiple sources confirmed activity at that warehouse. The DEA’s informant saw trucks there as recently as three days ago.”

“Three days is a lifetime in trafficking,” Aiden pointed out. “Plenty of time to move an entire operation if they knew we were coming.”

“Which they obviously did,” I said. “The question is how.”

Travis paced behind our chairs, holding out some sort of stick—unusual for him. The stick thing wasn’t as weird as him being away from his bank of computers, where he was almost always found. But today, he circled the table like a caged predator, his agitation palpable.

“Let’s go through it piece by piece,” I said. “Who knew about the target?”

“In Warrior Security? Just us,” Hunter said. “No support staff, no external contractors.”

“My department, only Martinez and Torres. I didn’t even put it in writing—told them face-to-face yesterday morning.”

“DEA knew as of Monday,” Beckett added. “State police found out Tuesday afternoon. But the specific warehouse wasn’t identified until yesterday’s briefing.”

“The briefing that was held in the Warrior Security office,” I said slowly. “No chance of surveillance. Right, Travis?”

Travis continued pacing, that magic wand thing still in his hand.

“What the fuck are you doing, Travis?” Beckett’s question cut through my words. Travis had stopped directly behind my chair, close enough that I could hear his breathing. “Are you about to cast some spell on us or something?”

Instead of answering, Travis held up one finger in a clear signal for silence. Then, moving with the fluid grace that spoke of his CIA training, he reached for my left wrist.

“What—” I started, but his sharp headshake cut me off.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he unfastened my watch—the silver one with the leather strap that Piper had given me. The one I’d worn every day since that night at Resting Warrior Ranch. Travis cradled it in his palm like it might explode, then moved swiftly to a metal container on a side table.

The moment the watch disappeared inside and he sealed the lid, Travis finally spoke. “It’s transmitting.”

The words hit like ice water. “What?”

“That’s why I wanted everyone here instead of the Warrior Security office.” Travis moved to his wall of equipment, fingers flying over a keyboard. Data populated on the screens—wavelengths, frequencies, technical readouts that made my stomach drop. “I swept the Warrior Security office this morning, thinking maybe someone had planted something. But it was clean. Which meant…”

“Someone was wearing the bug,” Hunter finished, his voice dangerous.

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