The rumble of a diesel engine roared to her left, and her head snapped toward the sound. In that frozen moment of clarity before impact, she saw the pickup truck. Jacked up. Massive. Gray. Not slowing and running their red light at full speed.
She didn’t even have time to scream.
The slam of metal on metal was so deafening it seemed to come from inside her own body. Her car spun, the world rotating in a sickening blur of sky and asphalt and the terrible crunch of her vehicle folding like paper around her. Glass exploded inward. The airbags punched into her chest and face, stealing her breath. And when she stopped spinning, her legs were pinned beneath a crush of twisted metal that shouldn’t have been able to bend that way.
Pain—white-hot and all-consuming—radiated from her lower back in waves that made her vision blur and her stomach heave. She tried to move but couldn’t.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. Voices shouted. Hands reached for her through the shattered window, touching her face, her neck, telling her to stay still, to stay awake, that help was coming.
But Mary barely heard them. Her hands were pressed against the crushed dashboard, her body twisted at an angle that felt fundamentally wrong, and she could see the steering column driven down into the space where her legs should be. Metal and plastic and parts of the engine that had no business being in the passenger compartment all tangled together with her body in a way that made her chest tight with a terror that went beyond pain.
Dark spots appeared in her vision, growing larger until she was almost blissfully unconscious.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” A face appeared in her peripheral vision. “We’re going to get you out. Just stay with me, okay? Stay awake.”
Mary wanted to tell him about the pain, but her voice wouldn’t work, and her lungs couldn’t seem to pull in enough air. The world was dimming at the edges again, as if someone were slowly turning down the lights.
The last conscious thought she had before the darkness pulled her under was crystalline and devastating in its certainty… Nothing will ever be the same. And she was right.
3
The Montana wind carried the scent of pine and fresh-cut timber as Bert Tomlinson stood on the rise overlooking Logan Bishop’s emerging compound. One hand shaded his eyes from the morning sun. It had been several years since he’d left the Navy and that life behind, yet here he was, back with some of the best men he’d ever served with as they built something new from the ground up.
The transformation of Logan’s property still amazed him. A building was being constructed that would feature a ground-level area and offices, along with an expansive underground headquarters. To the eye, it would appear to be a simple office, but the headquarters building had its entrance cleverly disguised as it descended into the hillside. Below ground, the facility sprawled into a network of rooms that would become the hub of Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana.
Beyond the compound, the landscape rolled toward the mountains in waves of golden grassland and dark clusters of evergreens. The peaks rose in the distance like ancient sentinels, their snowcapped summits sharp against the crystalline blue backdrop. This was big sky country, unforgiving, isolated, and beautiful in a way that made a man feel both insignificant and strangely at peace. And sitting proudly on one of the peaks was a light tower. Decommissioned now, but one of six left in Montana, as previous reminders of how the lights guided aircraft safely over the mountains in the dark.
Bert breathed it in. After years of humidity and crowds in Virginia Beach, between the chaos of deployment after deployment, the vastness of Montana had become an unexpected balm. With his partial hearing loss in his left ear, he’d continued to work on the team as support but realized that was not the job he wanted.
Logan had offered him something better… a chance to be part of building Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana from the ground up.
The sound of construction crews drew his attention back to the task at hand. He turned and headed down the slope toward the main headquarters building, his boots crunching on the gravel path Logan had laid between the structures. The crews had been working since dawn, and the finishing touches were finally coming together.
For now, the cavernous space had exposed ductwork and walls waiting for their final coat of paint, but it was ready to be filled with enough computer equipment to run a small country. Logan had planned everything down to the smallest detail, a trait that had kept his SEAL team alive more times than Bert could count.
He walked back down the rise past the hangars where an airplane and two helicopters were housed. Closer to the gate was the bunkhouse, complete with six rooms, two large bathrooms, and a shared kitchen and living room. Right now, he and two other employees resided there. Sisco Aguilar and Jim Devlin were the first two Keepers that Logan hired. Bert was next, and Logan was actively interviewing more.
The only other building was a smaller wooden structure that Logan used as a temporary office. Heading inside, Bert began working on the equipment manifest he’d created, waiting for Logan to review it.
He looked up as Logan, Sisco, and Devlin walked into the temporary office. “Who’s coming in today, boss?”
Logan, tablet in hand as always, looked like he’d already put in a full day’s work, though it was still morning. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and there were smudges of dust on his jeans from wherever he’d been inspecting earlier. Sisco and Devlin flanked him, both men looking more relaxed than Bert felt. They’d settled into this new life with enviable ease.
“We’ve got to get someone in here to be the administrative manager,” Logan said, scanning his notes with a deep crinkle forming between his brows.
“Christ, anyone to keep me from having to handle more paperwork,” Devlin grumbled, dropping into one of the folding chairs scattered around what currently served as their makeshift conference area. Blueprints, supply catalogs, and coffee cups in various states of emptiness littered the card table between them.
Bert nodded his agreement. “I could use the help with ordering and handling the equipment coming in. The manifest for the weapons room alone is turning into a full-time job.” He’d been in military support, after his injury, but this was different. This was building something from nothing, so every decision mattered.
The four men settled around the card table, and Bert couldn’t help but appreciate the moment. Here they were, men who’d served together in some of the most dangerous places on earth, now sitting in what amounted to a large wooden shed in Montana, planning the future of a security company.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Logan said, setting his clipboard down. “Got someone coming in today. Mary Smithwick. Worked in logistics for the Navy. Then she got out and worked as a civilian admin for an Army colonel. I got a call from both Colonel Bennett and Admiral Brenner. You remember the admiral, Bert?”
Bert did. Admiral Brenner had coordinated with their team on multiple occasions. If he was recommending someone, that carried weight.
“He gave her the highest recommendation,” Logan continued. “She was originally from Montana and wants to stay in this area.”
Bert felt a slight grin tug at his lips, imagining an efficient, no-nonsense woman in her fifties who’d spent her career keeping colonels organized and would now descend on their operation like a drill sergeant with a filing system. God knew they needed it. Maybe she’d be able to make sense of the chaos that currently passed for their administrative setup.