“On the porch. Close enough to be seen. Not close enough to hear.”
He nods and walks out to send the word.
The SUV is black, the windows are tinted, and the driver stays in it. The other man — mid-forties, lean, suit a shade too expensive for ranch country — gets out and crosses the yard with the easy confidence of a man who knows he’s the smartest thing walking.
He stops three feet from me and puts out his hand.
“Mr. Forrester. Thank you for seeing us.”
I don’t take the hand.
“I don’t recall agreeing to a meeting.”
He draws the hand back without reacting. “We understand the southern corridor has been experiencing some disruptions.”
“The corridor is closed.”
“That’s what we’d like to discuss.”
I walk him into the meeting hall. I don’t offer coffee. He doesn’t take a chair. We stand on opposite sides of the long pine table with the patrol map still pinned to it from this morning’s briefing. Dawes is visible on the porch through the screen door. The suit notes him and decides he doesn’t matter.
“The organization has invested significantly in the southern infrastructure,” he says. “Your family has benefited from that investment for over a decade. Unilateral termination of a partnership of this duration and value is not typical.”
“It’s not a partnership. It was a contract. I’m ending it.”
“Alternatives take time, Mr. Forrester. During the development period, the relationship between your pack and our organization would be…” He chooses his word. “Unstructured.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Something in his expression makes me think he plans to make it my problem.
“I’ll convey your position.” He straightens his cuffs. “But I’d encourage you to reconsider. The organization doesn’t hold grudges. But it does hold records. Very thorough records. Photographs. Dates. Participants. Information your Council might find… enlightening.”
My stomach turns. My face does nothing.
“You have my answer.”
He nods. Walks back to the SUV. The driver pulls out, and the dust from their tires drifts across the yard long after they’ve crossed the cattle guard.
Dawes comes off the porch.
“What’d they want?”
“The corridor reopened.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
Dawes is quiet. He runs a thumbnail along the seam of his jeans pocket.
“Garrett.”
He doesn’t use my name often. When he does, he means it.
“The compound isn’t built for a sustained operation against us. We don’t have the numbers. Not since—”
“I know.”