Gavin clears his throat. “All right. Update.”
Everyone shifts. The room tightens into focus.
Wyatt throws up a map. “No confirmed location on Mark Renshaw. We’ve got possible movements through county-line rentals, but nothing we can hit clean without spooking him.”
Silas nods once. “Field office is still moving pieces. They want him alive. They want his pipeline.”
Chase mutters, “I want him face-first in a snowbank.”
Eli says calmly, “Same,” which is always alarming because Eli is the nicest man on the mountain.
Gavin continues, “We keep Emma on property. We keep the perimeter tight. We keep digging. We don’t give Renshaw room to breathe.”
My eyes flick back to Emma.
She’s listening, even while she pretends she’s just playing with Poppi. Her shoulders are set. Her gaze is too sharp for someone who’s “just a civilian.” She’s absorbing every word like she’s collecting ammo.
She meets my eyes across the room. A tiny smile tugs at her mouth, soft and private.
My blood heats instantly. I want to pull her into my lap, keep her there, let everyone see exactly who she belongs to. I don’t move. I keep my face blank.
But she knows.
She glances down, cheeks slightly pink, and returns to making Aidan laugh. Like she’s got me tucked in her pocket.
It’s not fair.
The meeting breaks into smaller conversations—Rafe and Gavin talking strategy, Wyatt and Thorne dissecting a data trail, Boyd doing perimeter checks without being asked.
I’m headed for the coffee when Silas steps into my path.
“Rhett,” he says, low.
I stop. “What.”
His gaze cuts toward Emma. “We need to talk.”
My spine tightens. “About what?”
Silas’s mouth flattens. “About how she found us.”
I keep my voice even. “We already went over that.”
“No,” he says. “We didn’t. We went over what shesaid.”
My jaw clenches. “Careful.”
Silas doesn’t flinch. He’s a sheriff and an operator—he’s stared down worse than my attitude. “You’re too close already.”
I laugh once, humorless. “I’m not ‘close.’ I’m responsible.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, unimpressed. “Rhett—this isn’t personal. It’s protocol. She walked onto Wedding Cake Mountain like she had a map in her head.”
I lean in slightly, voice dropping. “She had a note.”
“A note with two words,” Silas counters. “That doesn’t get you past gates and blind spots and patrol patterns. That doesn’t get you onto the ridge at the exact time our convoy moved.”
My stomach twists, but I shove it down. “Coincidence.”