Page 76 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
"You want eyes only?" he'd confirmed before he went.
"Eyes only," I confirmed. "You see them, you radio, you hold position. Nothing else."
He'd nodded once and gone.
Nora had taken the western ridge patrol with six wolves and had spent twenty minutes the night before running me through her coverage plan—she had clearly been building it since the meeting ended and had arrived with nothing left to revise. The western ridge approach is longer and less direct than the logging road, but it's the route someone would take if they wanted to come in without being seen from the main access.
I didn't think Dawson would use it. Dawson wouldn't know it existed.
But Nora had covered it anyway, because that's who Nora is, and I'd let her because she was right.
Garrett had handled the bridge sensors before I'd finished my coffee.
The bridge is the only vehicle access point to the core territory—a single-lane crossing over the creek that runs along the southern boundary, wide enough for one vehicle at a time and narrow enough that anyone trying to cross it has to commit to it fully before they can see what's on the other side. It is, in territorial terms, the most defensible point on the property.
I found Garrett already on his knees in the mud below the eastern support beam at half past six in the morning, running sensor wire with the methodical efficiency of a task that received one instruction and is now simply being completed.
"Motion sensors," he states, without looking at me, when I crouch beside him. "Two on each support. Wide-angle coverage. If anything crosses this bridge, I'll know about it before the tires are halfway over."
"How's the feed?"
"Running to my phone and to the lodge monitor," he reports. "You'll get an alert on yours too."
I grip his shoulder for a moment, stand back up, and left him to it.
We are ready. Every approach was covered, every angle considered, every person in their position. Whatever comes up this mountain today will find us waiting.
The afternoon runs quietlyuntil it doesn't.
I'm at the lodge with Harper, going through the most recent camera footage from the south entrance—another pass from an SUV we don't recognize, with different plates than the previous ones, which tells me Dawson has more vehicles in rotation than we'd initially counted—when my radio goes.
Mateo's voice comes through clear and level. Something significant is happening. He has already decided to be calm about it, which is how I know.
"Three vehicles," he states. "Black SUVs. Coming up the main logging road. Moving at a steady pace, not rushing." A pause. "They're not turning around."
I set down what I'm holding.
Harper, across the table, looks up.
"How far out?" I press into the radio.
"Seven minutes to the bridge," Mateo adds. "Maybe eight."
I key the radio. "All positions, hold. Nobody moves until I give the word. Treeline only—I don't want anyone visible from the road." I pause. "Nobody shifts unless it becomes unavoidable. Understood?"
Confirmations come back one by one. Mateo. Declan. Nora from the ridge. Two more from the outer positions.
Understood. Understood. Understood.
I look at Harper across the table for a moment longer than is strictly necessary.
She is already standing, already composed, and already the version of herself that she has been since she walked into this pack and started doing the work—practical, clear-eyed, and entirely present. She has her jacket on before I say another word.
"Stay close," I instruct. "And stay in the treeline until I signal."
She nods, without argument, without the particular stubbornness she reserves for things she actually disagrees with. This she understands. This is tactical, not protective, and she knows the difference.
We go.
