"The Turners have always been that way, and he’s the worst," I say, my voice raw. "He thinks he owns all of it. The land. The people. My father." I look at Emma, who's pale but steady. "You."
Emma steps forward, her jaw set. "He's not getting Circle H."
"No, he’s not." Jake’s gaze sweeps over all of us. “He’s not here to win votes. He’s here to remind us he’s watching.”
A cold shiver works its way down my spine. For the first time since Turner drove away, I realize we didn’t just survive a campaign stop. We were warned.
54
LUKE
The ops room in the stables is something most people would never expect to find on a working ranch. Hell, most people don't even know it exists.
The room is maybe fifteen by twenty feet—not huge but efficiently designed. Three workstations line the far wall, each with dual monitors and encrypted communication systems. A large central screen dominates the space above them, currently dark. The walls are lined with a server rack humming quietly, indicator lights blinking in steady rhythm.
It's professional and sophisticated—the kind of setup you'd find in a private military contractor's headquarters, not a Montana cattle ranch.
But that's exactly what Blackthorn is becoming—a base of operations for something bigger than any of us planned when we bought this place. Despite Mason wanting to raise horses.
Jake drops into one of the chairs and starts booting up the systems. Mason looks over the intel Harper brought us.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them work. This is what we do, what we've always done: assess, plan, and execute. Except this time, it's not a mission overseas. It's here—at home—and the stakes include people we love.
Harper's face flashes through my mind—the way she looked on the porch when Turner smiled at her. The barely controlled fury. The protective instinct that nearly sent her launching off the steps at him.
I've never seen her that close to losing it. And I've never wanted to kill someone more than I did watching Turner assess her like she was a piece on his chessboard.
"Luke." Jake's voice pulls me back. "You with us?"
"Yeah." I push off the doorframe and move to the center workstation. "Let's do this."
Mason's fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up the encrypted video call interface. A moment later, the central screen flickers to life.
Hendricks appears, his face filling the frame. He's in a hotel room somewhere—generic beige walls, cheap art, the kind of place you stay when you're working and don't want to be remembered. His laptop is propped on a desk, and I can see the edge of a tactical vest hanging on a chair behind him.
"Gentlemen," Hendricks says, his voice clear through the speakers. "Thanks for making time."
"You said it was urgent." Jake shifts his chair to get more in the frame. "What've you got?"
"Clearwater Holdings," Hendricks says.
I straighten. That's the shell company Harper discovered, the one buying up all the properties Turner's been acquiring.
"What about it?" Mason asks.
"It's not Turner's." Hendricks taps something off-screen, and a document appears on our monitors—corporate filings, ownership records, financial transactions. "Clearwater Holdings is registered to a holding company in Delaware. That company is owned by another company in the Caymans. And that company"—he pauses for effect—"is controlled by the Reyes family."
The room goes silent.
"The cartel," Jake says quietly.
“Eh." Hendricks wiggles his hand back and forth. “They’re more like the mafia than the cartel, if you want to label them. Technically, they’re a multigenerational business empire that dabbles in a wide range of things, some illegal.”
I snort. “To-may-to, to-mah-to.”
“The Reyes family runs drugs and weapons through the Southwest,” Hendricks continues. “Big operation. Very professional. They've been expanding north for the past five years, and Montana's become a key corridor for moving product into Canada."
"So Turner's working for them," I say, my mind already connecting the dots. "He's acquiring the land to create a trafficking route?—"