Page 29 of Jason Bourne (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #7)

Lane

T he black pickup was parked half in the ditch at the edge of Timberline Road, engine still running, a plume of exhaust curling into the cold evening air.

“Six-four-B,” Jason muttered, eyes scanning the plate. “That’s him.”

I slid out of my cruiser and felt my gun more out of habit than anything, keeping my hand close to the holster. “Then let’s make this official.”

“Lane,” Jason said quietly, “he’s not just some drunk husband you can haul off in cuffs. Cal Harris has killed before. He’ll do it again.”

I glanced at him. “Then he picked the wrong mountain to crawl onto.”

Jason almost smiled, but his jaw was tight.

I walked up slow, boots crunching the gravel. Cal sat behind the wheel, a baseball cap pulled low, one arm hanging out the window. He didn’t bother to cut the engine.

“Cal Harris?” I called.

He looked up, eyes bloodshot but sharp, like a wolf that had been run off too many times and was spoiling for a fight. “Who’s asking?”

“Lane Brewer, Sheriff’s Department.” My voice didn’t waver. “Step out of the truck.”

He chuckled, low and mean. “Lady cop. Sheriff must be desperate.”

Jason shifted closer, just inside my peripheral. Harris noticed. His smirk flattened. “And you. I know you.”

Jason’s stillness was louder than any words.

I repeated, harder this time, “Step out of the truck, Harris.”

He leaned back, fingers drumming the steering wheel. “Don’t think so. Got places to be. People to see.”

“Marcie Turner one of those people?” I snapped.

That wiped the smile clean off his face. For a beat, silence hung between us, heavy as stone.

Then Harris’s hand darted to the seat beside him.

“Gun!” Jason barked.

I drew and leveled mine in a heartbeat. “Don’t even breathe wrong, Harris! In my last job, it was Lane Brewer FBI, and I would kill you just for breathing. Now, I have to wait until you frown before shooting.”

For a moment, I thought we’d do this the bloody way. But Jason moved in a blur—faster than I could blink—yanked the door open and slammed Harris face-first into the gravel. The gun clattered uselessly under the truck.

“Easy, Lane,” Jason said, pinning Harris like it was second nature. “You want him alive, right?”

I cuffed Harris, heart hammering, but my voice steady. “You’re under arrest for possession of a firearm and suspicion of kidnapping. Plus, drinking and driving involving an accident.”

Harris spat blood into the dirt, glaring up at both of us. “You think you’ve won? You don’t know what you’ve walked into.”

Jason’s grip tightened. “Then enlighten us.”

But Harris just laughed, a sound that crawled down my spine. “You’ll see. Real soon.”

I laughed. “And I thought I wouldn’t have any action up here. I hope this means I was wrong.” I said, winking at Jason.

I could see that pissed Cal Harris off.