Page 27 of Raven's Mark
Jesse is in the leather armchair by the fireplace with a book open on his knee, but his eyes aren't on the page. They're on me. His gaze is steady and watchful, and the look on his face is one I'm starting to recognize. It is the expression of a man standing guard over something he considers his to protect, whether it wants protecting or not.
"I think Sheriff Harlan is worse than we thought." I turn in the chair to face him. "His name is on every single death report, and the language is identical, word for word across all four investigations. He's not even pretending to investigate."
Jesse closes the book and sets it on the side table. "What else did you find?"
"Annette Graves's daughter filed a formal complaint after the house fire. She said her mother had been receiving threats before she died. Harlan dismissed it himself, reviewed his own investigation, and closed it." I stand and stretch the stiffness from my back. "I'm still digging through Uncle Robert’s files for financials, but the pattern alone is damning."
Jesse rises from the chair. "Harlan has been operating unchecked for years. He's comfortable, and comfortable people get sloppy."
"They also get dangerous when they feel cornered."
"Then we don't corner him." Jesse's gaze holds mine. "We work through Carmichael's files, build the case tight, and coordinate with his team on timing. When the time comes, Harlan won't see it until the cuffs are on."
"Agreed." The word comes out steady and professional, and it's a small miracle given the way his proximity makes my pulse race. He has crossed the room while I was talking, and now he's close enough that I can see the individual threads of silver at his temples and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
What he said to Knox changed something in me. The certainty in his voice when he told his brother I was staying, that it wasn't up for discussion, made it impossible to keep pretending this was just protection or obligation.
This man will go to war for me. Not because Uncle Robert ordered it and not because of a deal struck on the worst night of my life. Because he chooses to, and he would choose it again.
And that scares me more than the cartel ever could, because I'm not sure either of us is ready for what comes next.
8
JESSE
Two feet of space separate us, and Raven is staring at me like she's calculating trajectories and threat vectors when we both know that's not what she's measuring at all.
Her pulse hammers visibly at the base of her throat, fast and unsteady. It's a tell that would get her killed in the field, and right now it's the only thing keeping me from closing the distance between us. My admission on the porch changed the air between us, and I can't afford to let whatever is happening here become a distraction.
I step back instead and put the kitchen island between us like it's cover instead of furniture.
"I need to meet Knox for reconnaissance." My voice comes out rough. "We're scouting the cartel surveillance positions around Devil's Acre."
Raven blinks, and something shifts in her expression. Relief, maybe, or disappointment. I can't afford to analyze which.
"When?"
"In a couple hours. He's finishing up at the ranch, then we'll run the perimeter sweeps." I check my phone. "Keep working thefiles. If you find anything on Harlan's financials, that's likely the leverage we need."
She nods and turns toward the laptop, and the distance she puts between us feels deliberate and tactical.
I head for the armory and start prepping gear. The Remington 700 from this morning is already broken down and cleaned, but I check it anyway. Muscle memory. Something to do with my hands that isn't reaching for her.
Two hours later, I'm driving the secondary truck, an older F-150 registered under a shell company, down back roads toward the rendezvous point Knox specified. I meet Knox three klicks from Devil's Acre at an abandoned stock tank surrounded by cedar thick enough to hide both vehicles.
Knox climbs out of his truck as I pull up, and his first words are tactical. "Beckett's holding the ranch. Routines are normal. If the cartel is watching, they're seeing exactly what they expect to see."
"Good." I grab my pack from the truck bed. "What have you got on their positions?"
"Spotted fresh tire tracks on the south ridge yesterday. The vehicle came up the access road within the last twenty-four hours." Knox pulls out a topographic map and spreads it across the hood of his truck. "The position offers clear sight lines to Devil's Acre's southern approach and the main house."
I study the map and mark the position in my mind. "They're not rushing in. They're watching, waiting for us to show a pattern they can exploit."
"Which means we need to identify all their positions before they identify our vulnerabilities." Knox taps another location on the map. "Western approaches need sweeps too. If they're professional, they've got overlapping fields of observation."
We spend the next three hours moving through terrain that's been home since we were kids learning to track deer with our oldman. The approach to the ridgeline takes patience, staying below the skyline and using draws and dry creek beds for concealment. Knox takes point and I follow three meters back, scanning our flanks.
At the base of the south ridge, we go prone and low crawl the last fifty meters until we reach an outcropping that provides both cover and clear lines of sight to Devil's Acre below.
