Chapter 3 - The Men at the WindowThe first man came through Grant’s basement window.
Bad choice.
He expected a frightened homeowner.
Instead, he found Grant Holloway standing ten feet away with a fire extinguisher.
Grant discharged the entire thing into his face.
The intruder stumbled backward, cursing.
The second man tried the kitchen door.
Agent Pierce drew his pistol.
“Federal agent! Stay outside!”
The handle stopped moving.
Then came running footsteps.
A vehicle started.
Tires screamed.
By the time backup arrived, both men were gone.
But they left something behind.
A county-issued radio.
Pierce held it with gloved fingers.
“That’s useful.”
Grant examined the serial number.
“Can you trace who had it?”
Pierce nodded.
“If it wasn’t stolen.”
Rachel sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket.
I could tell she was shaken.
She hid fear well.
But I knew her hands.
When she was frightened, her left thumb rubbed against her wedding ring.
She was doing it constantly.
I sat beside her.
“You okay?”
“No.”
Good answer.
Honest.
“I’m scared, Ethan.”
“I know.”
“That recording…”
I nodded.
“We’re in it now.”
“I didn’t ask you whether we’re in it.”
I looked at her.
She lowered her voice.
“I’m asking whether you’re going back to being him.”
I knew exactly who she meant.
Not Sheriff Cole.
Me.
The man I used to be.
The man who could compartmentalize danger until everyone around him became an objective.
After retirement, Rachel spent years teaching me how to live without constantly scanning rooftops.
Years teaching me that silence at dinner wasn’t tactical concentration.
Sometimes it was just silence.
“I’m not going back,” I said.
She studied my face.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
That promise would matter later.
By morning, Pierce had traced the radio.
Deputy Carl Vickers.
One of Travis’s closest deputies.
Vickers claimed it had been stolen from his cruiser two days earlier.
Convenient.
Pierce wasn’t impressed.
Neither was I.
But still no arrest.
We needed links.
Money.
Communications.
Something impossible to explain away.
Rachel found it.
She spent the morning cross-referencing Caleb’s spreadsheets against public property transactions.
Around noon, she called Pierce over.
“Look.”
She pointed to three land purchases near Blackwater Creek.
Each was made by a shell company called Silver Ridge Development.
Pierce frowned.
“Who owns it?”
“That’s the problem. Layers of LLCs.”
Grant sat beside her.
“Can we unwrap them?”
Rachel smiled.
“This is what I do.”
For four hours, she followed registrations.
Montana.
Wyoming.
Delaware.
Nevada.
Eventually they hit the bottom.
The controlling trust belonged to Commissioner Wade Brennan’s brother-in-law.
Pierce leaned forward.
“That gets us conspiracy.”
Rachel shook her head.
“Not yet.”
She opened another document.
“All three properties were purchased below market value from people who had recent encounters with the sheriff’s department.”
I understood.
“Pressure sales.”
“Exactly.”
One owner had been arrested for an old warrant.
Another had his business license suddenly revoked.
A third faced drug charges that were later dropped.
Pierce looked impressed.
“They use law enforcement pressure to force property sales.”
Rachel nodded.
“Then Silver Ridge buys cheap.”
“Why Blackwater?”
Grant pulled up satellite imagery.
A proposed federal highway expansion ran nearby.
Land values would triple.
Maybe quadruple.
Caleb had uncovered more than theft.
He had discovered a land racket.
Pierce began making calls.
By evening, the investigation expanded.
Federal public corruption.
Civil rights violations.
Money laundering.
Possible homicide conspiracy.
But there was still one piece nobody understood.
B.R.
Those initials appeared on every large transaction.
Someone above Travis and Brennan.
Someone taking the biggest cut.
Pierce returned from a phone call looking unhappy.
“What?”
“We have a leak.”
“How do you know?”
“Cole just filed an emergency request for a warrant against Grant’s property.”
Grant laughed bitterly.
“For what?”
“Possession of stolen county records.”
Rachel stood.
“He knows we’re here.”
“Exactly.”
Pierce paced.
“Only six people knew this location.”
“Your team?”
“Yes.”
“You trust them?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
That answered me.
“We move,” I said.
Pierce nodded.
We left separately.
Rachel and I took Grant’s old Ford pickup.
Pierce arranged a safe location outside Helena.
Halfway there, Rachel noticed headlights behind us.
“Same truck for ten miles.”
I checked.
Gray Dodge.
No front plate.
It stayed exactly four car lengths back.
“Seat belt tight?”
“Yes.”
I turned onto a smaller road.
The truck followed.
Rachel whispered.
“Ethan.”
“I see it.”
Then it accelerated.
Hit us once.
Hard.
Grant’s pickup fishtailed.
Rachel grabbed the dashboard.
Second hit.
The rear bumper bent.
I fought the steering wheel.
Ahead was a narrow bridge.
Bad place.
Very bad.
I slowed.
The Dodge accelerated again.
At the last second, I pulled onto the shoulder.
The truck shot past.
I turned sharply.
We headed back the opposite direction.
For several seconds, nothing.
Then brake lights.
The Dodge reversed.
Professional.
Or stupid.
Maybe both.
I called Pierce.
“We’ve got company.”
“Location?”
I told him.
“State police are eight minutes out.”
“We don’t have eight.”
The Dodge caught us again.
This time, someone leaned from the passenger window.
A gun appeared.
Rachel screamed.
I swerved.
The shot shattered our rear window.
Glass exploded across the cab.
Another shot.
Then blue lights appeared ahead.
The Dodge braked instantly.
Turned onto a dirt road.
Disappeared.
Two state patrol cruisers raced past us.
I pulled over.
Rachel’s breathing came fast.
I reached across.
“You hit?”
“No.”
“Check.”
“I’m fine.”
I looked.
No blood.
Only glass.
Then I noticed something in the truck bed.
A bullet had punched through a toolbox.
There was no ambiguity anymore.
They weren’t intimidating us.
They were trying to kill us.
Pierce arrived twenty minutes later.
His jaw tightened when he saw the damage.
“I’m done playing defense.”
“What does that mean?”
“Tomorrow morning we execute warrants.”
“On Cole?”
“On Vickers first. Smaller target. Easier pressure.”
That made sense.
Break the weak link.
But when agents arrived at Deputy Vickers’s home the next morning, his front door was open.
Television running.
Coffee still warm.
Nobody inside.
Behind the house they found tire tracks leading toward the forest.
Then they found blood.
A lot of it.
Vickers had disappeared.
Just like Caleb.
And on his kitchen table sat a handwritten note.
May you like
Three words.
MERCER IS NEXT.
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