Page 28 of Montana Justice

Lachlan

The cold bite of outdoor air cut through my tactical vest as I crouched behind the rusted shipping container, watching the abandoned warehouse through night vision goggles.

My heart hammered against my ribs—not from fear, but from anticipation.

Weeks of investigations, failed operations, and dead teenagers had led to this moment.

“Alpha team in position,” Beckett’s voice crackled through my earpiece. Through the green-tinted world of night vision, I could see his team stationed at the north entrance, shadows among shadows.

“Bravo team set,” came Hunter’s confirmation from the east side.

“Charlie team ready,” Lieutenant Morrison from state police added, his team covering the west approach.

The south belonged to the DEA’s tactical unit, six operators who’d arrived from Denver with enough firepower to take down a small army. Their team leader, Agent Kowalski, had initially balked at Warrior Security’s involvement.

“Civilians have no business on a federal operation,” he’d said during our initial briefing, his crew-cut head gleaming under the fluorescent lights of our makeshift command center.

Hunter had simply smiled—that particular smile that meant someone was about to get schooled. “Would you like to spar, Agent Kowalski? Test whether this civilian can keep up?”

Kowalski had enthusiastically agreed, since he was four inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier than Hunter.

The man had been unconscious in under thirty seconds.

After that, the DEA team treated Warrior Security with the respect they deserved.

Men like Hunter, Coop, and Aiden had bled in places these federal boys only read about in classified reports.

“Two minutes to breach,” I said into my comms, checking my weapon one final time. The Glock’s weight felt familiar against my palm, seventeen rounds of federal ammunition plus one in the chamber. My left hand found the flash-bang grenades on my vest, confirming their position by touch.

In two minutes, we’d have answers. Weapons, drugs, and most importantly, the scumbags behind all this.

After that, I could start focusing on what really mattered—Piper.

She’d been disappearing into herself the past three days, that vibrant woman from family dinner vanishing like morning mist. Yesterday, I’d found her standing at the kitchen window, Caleb in her arms, tears streaming down her face.

When I’d asked what was wrong, she’d just shaken her head and walked away.

“Focus, Calloway,” I muttered to myself. Save the town first, then save the girl.

“One minute,” I announced. Around the warehouse, four teams of highly trained operators made final preparations. My own deputies—Martinez and Torres, the only ones I’d trusted with this operation—flanked me on either side. Both good men, proven clean by Travis’s extensive digital surveillance.

“Remember,” Agent Kowalski’s voice came through the comms, “we need intelligence intact. If they’ve got fentanyl in there, full hazmat protocols. That shit’ll kill you just from skin contact.”

“Thirty seconds.”

My breathing went tactical—in through the nose, out through the mouth, controlling the adrenaline surge. The warehouse loomed before us, a monument to rust and neglect. Perfect cover for the operation intel promised was inside.

“Ten seconds.”

I thought about the teenager who’d died two weeks ago, foam on his lips and terror in his eyes. Thought about the weapons that could end up on our streets, in the hands of people who’d use them to destroy everything we’d built.

“Five… four… three… two…”

“Execute, execute, execute!”

The world exploded into controlled chaos. The ram hit the steel door with a sound like thunder, ancient hinges shrieking in protest. Martinez tossed the flash-bang through the gap—I turned away, mouth open to protect my eardrums from the pressure wave.

Bang!

Even with my eyes closed, the flash painted red through my eyelids. The concussion thumped against my chest like a physical blow. Then we were moving, boots pounding on concrete, weapons up and tracking.

I was third through the breach, the muzzle of my Glock sweeping left while Martinez covered right.

The warehouse interior stretched before us—a vast cavern of shadows and industrial decay.

Concrete pillars marched in neat rows like tombstones, supporting a ceiling lost in darkness.

My night vision turned everything alien green, depth perception skewed in the monochrome world.

“Clear left!”

“Clear right!”

“Moving!”

We advanced in a tactical stack, each operator covering their sector. My boots crunched on broken glass—old bottles, maybe auto glass from long-abandoned vehicles. The air tasted of rust and rat droppings, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.

“Contact!” someone shouted. “Movement, second level, northwest corner!”

Every weapon swung toward the threat. My finger found the trigger, taking up the slack but not firing. Through the night vision, I saw shapes erupting from the upper level?—

Birds. Dozens of pigeons, startled by our entrance, exploding into flight with a thunder of wings. One clipped my helmet, and I bit back a curse.

“Stand down, stand down,” Hunter’s voice came through, tinged with forced calm. “Just birds.”

We pressed deeper, clearing each section with methodical precision. Stack of pallets against the east wall—I kicked one, half expecting hidden compartments. Nothing but wood rot and spider webs. A row of shipping containers lined the north side, their doors hanging open like broken teeth.

“Got something here,” Torres called out, his light playing over fresh scratches on the concrete. “Drag marks. Recent.”

My pulse quickened. They’d moved something heavy, and not long ago. We followed the marks to a loading dock, where the scratches ended abruptly.

“Alpha team, we’ve got oil stains here,” Beckett reported. “Fresh. Multiple vehicles, big ones from the spread pattern.”

This was it. We were close.

“I need a door breach on that office complex,” I ordered, pointing to a series of rooms along the west wall. “Could be their command center.”

The second ram team moved up, ready to?—

“ Stop ! Nobody fucking move!”

Martinez’s shout froze everyone mid-stride. He stood near a support pillar, his flashlight beam locked on something at knee height.

“Trip wire,” he said, voice tight with control. “Almost walked right into it.”

My blood turned to ice. Trip wires meant explosives, meant someone expected us. Expected us specifically .

“EOD, move up,” Kowalski ordered. The DEA’s explosive ordnance disposal tech hurried forward, already pulling out specialized gear. We formed a perimeter, weapons out, scanning for secondary devices while he worked.

The tech knelt beside the wire, movements careful and precise. “Wire’s intact, tension’s good. Following it to…” His light traced the nearly invisible line to a device mounted on the pillar. “Got the device. Small, maybe four inches square. Timer component visible.”

“How big?” I asked, already calculating blast radius, evacuation distances.

“That’s the thing…” The tech leaned closer, using a mirror to examine the device from multiple angles. “There’s no explosive material. Just a timer, battery pack, and what looks like a cellular transmitter.”

“A decoy?” Hunter moved closer, studying the setup.

“Or a signal,” I said, ice forming in my gut. “They wanted to know exactly when we arrived.”

“Device is safe,” the EOD tech announced. “No explosive components at all. Just a notification system.”

The implications hit like a punch. They’d known we were coming. Known it well enough to set up an early warning system.

“Clear the rest of the warehouse,” I ordered, but my voice carried the weight of growing certainty. “Full sweep, but watch for more trip wires.”

We moved slower now, caution replacing urgency.

The office complex, empty except for an overturned desk and years of dust. A hidden room behind a false wall that Coop discovered—nothing inside but concrete and disappointment.

Even the catwalks above, accessed by a rusted ladder that groaned under Aiden’s weight, deserted.

“Loading bay’s been used recently,” Beckett reported. “But it’s clean. I mean clean —someone took industrial-grade solvent to this whole area.”

I joined him at the bay, crouching to run my fingers over the concrete. The chemical smell lingered, sharp and antiseptic. They hadn’t just moved their operation—they’d erased it.

“All teams, stand down,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “Target is cold. Repeat, target is cold.”

The radio erupted with variations of disbelief and frustration. Four agencies, dozens of operators, hundreds of hours of planning—for nothing.

They’d known we were coming. Again.

I walked outside, needing air that didn’t taste like failure. The other team leaders converged near the command vehicle, a mobile unit the DEA had brought in for the operation. Dawn was breaking, painting the sky the color of a bruise.

“What the fuck happened?” Kowalski demanded, yanking off his tactical helmet. His face was flushed, whether from exertion or anger, I couldn’t tell. “This was supposed to be the score. My bosses are expecting arrests, seizures?—”

“Your bosses can get in line,” Lieutenant Morrison interrupted. “We have more man hours in this operation than you do.”

“Someone leaked,” Hunter said quietly, but his words cut through the brewing argument. “This is the fourth time. They’re getting intel from somewhere.”

Kowalski rounded on me. “Your department has a mole, Sheriff. There’s no other explanation.”

“I kept this operation compartmentalized,” I shot back. “Only two of my deputies even knew we were moving tonight.”

“Then maybe it’s your civilian contractors,” Morrison suggested, glancing at Hunter and Beckett. “No offense, but?—”

“Finish that sentence,” Beckett said softly, “and we’ll have a problem.”

The threat in his voice was unmistakable. Morrison, who’d probably never faced anything more dangerous than a drunk driver, took an involuntary step back.

“Enough,” I said. “Fighting among ourselves won’t solve this. Someone’s feeding them information, yes. But pointing fingers without proof helps no one.”

“Proof?” Kowalski laughed bitterly. “The proof is that empty warehouse. The proof is that they had time to sanitize the place, probably moved everything days ago while we were congratulating ourselves on what a big win this would be.”

He wasn’t wrong. The humiliation burned hot in my chest. I’d vouched for this operation, convinced multiple agencies to commit resources based on intel that had seemed rock solid.

“I want a full debrief,” Morrison said. “Every person who had any knowledge of this operation, no matter how peripheral. We’re going to find your leak, Calloway, even if we have to polygraph your entire department.”

“Do what you need to do,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the anger boiling inside me. “But right now, we need to process this scene properly. If they made any mistakes?—”

“They didn’t,” Coop interrupted, emerging from the warehouse. “I’ve done a preliminary sweep. No prints, no DNA-worthy material, no electronic signatures. They even pulled the security camera feeds from every building in a three-block radius. These aren’t amateurs.”

The gathered leaders dispersed to manage their teams, leaving me standing in the cold Montana morning with my failure. Beckett appeared at my shoulder, his expression grim.

“This isn’t on you,” he said.

“Isn’t it? I’m the sheriff. The buck stops with me.”

“Someone’s playing a long game here, Lachlan. This level of intelligence, this kind of operational security—we’re not dealing with typical drug dealers.”

I wanted to argue, but he was right. Every failed operation had been surgical in its precision. They knew exactly when we’d move, exactly what we were looking for, exactly how to leave us with nothing.

“We need to regroup,” I said, watching as the crime scene techs began their futile documentation of an empty warehouse. “Full debrief at Warrior Security as soon as I get done with this paperwork shitstorm. Bring Travis in person if you have to drag him out of that compound.”

“He won’t like that.”

“I don’t care what he likes. We’re missing something, and I need his eyes on this.” I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion hitting like a sledgehammer now that the adrenaline was fading. “Four operations, Beck. Four times we’ve come up empty. That’s not bad luck—that’s enemy action.”

Beckett nodded. “I’ll talk to Hunter about increasing security protocols. Maybe we’ve got a digital leak we haven’t found yet.”

“Maybe.” I looked back at the warehouse, its broken windows reflecting the sunrise like accusing eyes. “Or maybe we’re looking in the wrong place entirely.”

The gathered teams were already beginning to pack up, the energy of anticipated victory replaced by the bitter taste of another loss. I’d have to write reports, attend meetings, justify the resources we’d wasted on another empty building.

But worse than the professional humiliation was the knowledge that somewhere out there, traffickers were still moving weapons and drugs through my county. Kids were still dying. Families were still being destroyed.

And I wasn’t anywhere close to stopping them because I couldn’t get my fucking house in order.

Beckett slapped me on the shoulder. “Hang in there. See you soon.”

The drive back to Garnet Bend stretched before me, forty minutes of empty highway and bitter recriminations. I need coffee and to pull my wits about me and reset.

Because that’s what you did when you wore the badge. You got knocked down, you got back up, and you kept fighting.

Even when the enemy knew your every move before you made it.