Page 26 of Montana Justice

Lachlan

The conference room at Warrior Security had better tech than anything at the sheriff’s department, which was exactly why we were meeting here instead of my office.

That, and the fact that I couldn’t shake the feeling that every word spoken in my own building might be finding its way to the wrong ears.

I’d started keeping all files related to the trafficking case either at home or here at Warrior Security.

My own deputies didn’t know about half the operations we were planning anymore.

The thought made my stomach turn—these were people I’d worked with for years.

But someone was feeding information to the traffickers, and until I knew who, I couldn’t risk another blown operation.

The men in this room, I knew could be trusted.

Hunter sat at the head of the table, his scarred hands flat on the polished surface.

The former Special Forces soldier had built Warrior Security from the ground up, creating a team that handled everything from personal protection to tactical operations.

His cousin Lucas ran the therapeutic side of Resting Warrior Ranch, but Hunter handled the sharp end of the spear.

Beckett sat to my right, spinning a pen between his fingers in that restless way he had. My best friend since middle school had found his calling with Warrior Security after leaving the sheriff’s department. He still had the cop instincts but without the bureaucratic constraints.

The other two men, Ryan Cooper—Coop to everyone—and Aiden McAllister, I didn’t know as well, but both men had saved my life on more than one occasion, so they had my trust.

“Travis, you’re up,” Hunter said, gesturing to the massive screen mounted on the far wall.

Travis Hale’s face filled the display. Even through video, I could see the telltale signs of someone who rarely left their house—pale skin, hair that needed cutting badly enough that it hung in his eyes, and what looked like the same black T-shirt he’d worn to our last three virtual meetings.

Empty energy drink cans littered the desk behind him, and I caught a glimpse of at least four computer monitors glowing in his background. Maybe five.

Travis was Warrior Security’s secret weapon—a hacker who’d been recruited by the CIA straight out of high school, spent five years doing things he couldn’t talk about in places that didn’t officially exist, then had some kind of breakdown and retreated to his compound on the south side of town.

Hunter had somehow convinced him to do contract work for Warrior Security, all conducted remotely from his heavily secured home.

“I’ve been through everything,” Travis said without preamble.

No greeting, no small talk. That was Travis—brilliant with computers, less comfortable with people.

“Every log-in, every access record, every digital footprint from your department for the past six months. Also hacked into personal devices, but you didn’t hear that from me. ”

My jaw tightened. Three days ago, we’d had another blown operation.

Perfect intel about weapons being smuggled in some animal feed.

Surveillance footage showing activity, the truck’s planned route, everything lined up—and then nothing.

By the time we’d gotten there, the truck had obviously been emptied.

It had been just like the Highway 37 checkpoint. And the Murphy farm search.

“And?” Beckett prompted from his seat beside me. He’d been the one to suggest bringing Travis in, knowing the hacker could find digital breadcrumbs everyone else missed.

“Nothing definitive.” Travis’s fingers flew across a keyboard we couldn’t see, the rapid-fire clicking audible through the speakers.

Data started populating on a shared screen—financial records, phone logs, access time stamps, browser histories.

Months of lives reduced to data points. “Deputy Carlson has some gambling debts—poker games at the Riverside Casino, some online sports betting through offshore sites. Nothing huge but consistent losses. About eight grand in the hole over the past year.”

“Eight grand’s enough to make someone desperate,” Coop observed, though his relaxed posture didn’t change. “Especially on a deputy’s salary.”

“Maybe,” Travis said, pulling up more records. “But his payment patterns are consistent. He’s making minimums on two credit cards, keeping current on his truck loan. No calls from collectors showing up in his phone records, no liens filed. If he’s feeling the pressure, he’s hiding it well.”

“Or someone’s helping him hide it,” Hunter suggested. “Cash payments wouldn’t show up in these records.”

Travis nodded on-screen, taking a swig from what looked like his sixth energy drink. “That’s the problem with digital surveillance. It only catches the stupid ones. Smart criminals still use cash.”

“What about Deputy Brooks?” I asked, though the question tasted bitter. Brooks had been with the department for twelve years. I’d stood up in his wedding, been to his kids’ birthday parties.

“Ugly divorce,” Travis continued, new data filling the screen.

Financial records, court documents, lawyer bills.

“Wife is asking for full custody of their two kids, the house, alimony. His lawyer’s fees alone are pushing twenty thousand, and that’s before the settlement.

She’s got a shark representing her—Morris from Billings. ”

“Fucking Morris,” Beckett muttered. “That guy could get blood from a stone.”

“Brooks just took out a second mortgage,” Travis added. “Completely legal, but it shows he’s scrambling for funds. Also maxed out a new credit card in the last month. He’s drowning.”

Aiden leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Financial pressure’s usually the first crack.

That’s how they turn good cops—find the one who’s drowning and throw them what looks like a lifeline.

A few thousand here and there, nothing major at first. By the time they realize it’s a noose, they’re in too deep to get out. ”

I made notes on the pad in front of me, hating every word I wrote. “What about the civilian staff?”

“Your dispatcher, Margaret Thompson, has some medical debt from her husband’s cancer treatment. About thirty thousand outstanding. But she’s on a payment plan with the hospital, never missed an installment. No unusual deposits to any of her accounts.”

“Jenny?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Jenny had been running the sheriff’s office since before I was hired as a deputy fifteen years ago.

“Clean as they come. Same with your evidence tech, Phillips. Your janitor, Ellington, has a son with special needs—lots of medical expenses there, but again, nothing suspicious in the financials. He actually volunteers at the special needs school on weekends.”

“So, we’ve got two possibles,” Hunter summarized. “Carlson with the gambling, Brooks with the divorce. But nothing solid enough to move on.”

“Keep digging,” I said. “Focus on those two, but don’t get tunnel vision. Could be someone’s being smarter about it—cash only, burner phones, dead drops. The kind of stuff that doesn’t leave digital footprints.”

Travis nodded on-screen, pushing his hair out of his eyes, only for it to fall right back.

“I’ve got automated searches running for any anomalies.

If someone suddenly starts living above their means or their digital pattern changes significantly, I’ll know.

Also monitoring their personal communications, but again, you didn’t hear that from me. ”

“The illegal surveillance we’re definitely not doing,” Hunter said dryly. “Got it.”

“Good.” I turned to Hunter. “What about next week’s warehouse?”

Hunter pulled up aerial photos on another screen, the image sharp enough to show individual vehicles in the parking lot.

“Our contact in Billings came through. Tuesday night, multiple trucks scheduled to arrive between midnight and four a.m. at this location.” He used a laser pointer to indicate a nondescript building on the outskirts of town.

“Used to be a furniture warehouse, been empty for two years according to county records. Perfect for temporary storage—highway access, no neighbors, multiple exit routes.”

“What’s supposedly in the shipment?” I asked.

“Good old standards: weapons and fentanyl,” Hunter said. “According to our sources, we’re talking serious hardware. M4 rifles, possibly some M249 SAWs, maybe even some AT4 rocket launchers. Military-grade stuff that’s been going missing from various armories over the past year.”

“Jesus,” Beckett breathed. “And the fentanyl?”

Hunter shook his head. “If our sources are right…a shit-ton.”

“Christ.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “The weapons are bad enough, but fentanyl is a fucking plague.”

“DEA’s on board?” Beckett asked.

“Will be here Monday to coordinate,” Hunter confirmed. “They’re bringing a six-person tactical team. Combined with Warrior Security and your deputies—the ones we can trust—we should have enough firepower.”

“We keep this tight,” I said. “No one outside this room knows the target. Not even the DEA knows the specific warehouse yet. We keep this on a strict need-to-know.”

“Fuck yeah, we do,” Beckett muttered.

“Good.” I looked around the table at men I’d trust with my life.

Each one had bled for this town, for the people under our protection.

“When we meet back here after dinner, I want to go through it all again, step by step. We need contingency plans. What happens if it’s an ambush.

What happens if they try to run. What happens if they have a hostage. Every scenario we can think of.”

“Already working on it,” Coop said. “I’ve got overwatch positions mapped out, approach routes planned.”

Hunter’s phone buzzed, and he spun it around toward us. “We’re getting called for dinner. Evidently, kids are threatening to eat without us.”

“We’ll reconvene after we eat,” I said. “I want all our ducks in a row for this raid. No mistakes this time.”

As we filed out of the conference room, Travis’s face still glowed from the screen. “I’ll keep digging,” he said. “If there’s dirt to find, I’ll find it.”

“Thanks, Travis,” I said.

He nodded and cut the connection without another word. No one was even a bit surprised at the abrupt departure.

The walk across the Resting Warrior Ranch was short, but the mental shift required felt enormous.

From dirty cops and drug dealers to family dinner—the constant push and pull of my life these days.

The other men seemed to handle the transition easier, already joking and laughing as we approached the main lodge.

The sounds of joyful chaos reached us before we even got to the door—children’s laughter mixing with adult conversation, the clatter of dishes, someone calling out to corral a wayward toddler.

Through the windows, warm light spilled out onto the darkening ground, making the lodge look like something from a Christmas card.

I pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped into organized mayhem. The smell of home cooking—lasagna, fresh bread, something cinnamon for dessert—mixed with the energy of twenty-plus people gathering for their monthly tradition.

My eyes found Piper immediately.

She stood over by the dessert table with Evelyn and Lena Willaims, Caleb secure in her arms, and she was laughing.

Actually laughing—head thrown back, shoulders shaking, the sound bright and genuine enough to carry over the general din.

Lena, complete with her purple-streaked hair, was gesturing animatedly, probably telling one of her outrageous stories from Deja Brew, and Piper was hanging on every word.

The sight hit me like a physical blow. She was still so sad lately when she thought I wasn’t watching.

I’d catch her staring into space with tears in her eyes, or find her sitting in Caleb’s room at night, rocking him long after he’d fallen asleep.

Sometimes I’d wake at three a.m. to find her side of the bed empty, and I’d discover her on the back porch, wrapped in my old flannel shirt, looking at the stars like they might hold answers to questions she couldn’t voice.

But here, now, surrounded by these people who’d welcomed her without judgment, she looked young and free. The weight that usually bent her shoulders had lifted, even if just temporarily.

The past week had shifted something fundamental between us. After that first date—her first real date ever, which still gutted me to think about—we’d been sharing my bed every night. Not just for sex, though, God…that had been incredible.

This morning flashed through my mind with vivid clarity—the way she’d gasped when I’d lifted her against the tile wall of the shower, water streaming over her skin as she wrapped her legs around my waist. The way her nails had dug into my shoulders when I’d thrust into her, her head thrown back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

The broken way she’d moaned my name when she came, her whole body trembling against mine while I held her through it, water turning cold around us but neither of us caring.

The memory sent heat straight through me, and I had to force myself to think about budget reports and traffic citations before I embarrassed myself in a room full of my friends and children, for Christ’s sake.

But beyond the physical connection, we’d been building something.

Falling asleep tangled together, waking up the same way.

Middle-of-the-night feedings where we’d take turns with Caleb, half asleep but working as a team.

Small touches throughout the day—her hand on my arm when she passed me in the kitchen, my fingers trailing across her back as I moved behind her.

The thousand tiny intimacies that made a relationship real.

Piper saw me and started toward me through the crowd, navigating with the easy grace of someone who’d gotten used to carrying a baby everywhere. Caleb bounced in her arms, reaching for me, making happy sounds that drew indulgent looks from the other parents.

This was what I wanted. This woman who’d survived things that would break most people, this child who’d brought us together, this family we were carefully constructing from broken pieces and stubborn hope.

The investigation waiting back in that conference room, the dirty cop among my own people, the drugs poisoning our community—all of it faded in the face of this moment.

Piper and Caleb, moving toward me through the warm chaos of family dinner. Coming home to me, even if just for these few hours before duty called again.