Page 30 of Montana Justice

Lachlan

The phone had been glued to my ear for three hours straight, and every call made me want to throw it through my office window.

My voice was hoarse from explaining, defending, apologizing.

The abandoned warehouse raid had turned into a jurisdictional nightmare, with every agency involved looking for someone to blame.

“I take full responsibility,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time, this time to the regional DEA director. My jaw ached from clenching it. “The intelligence seemed solid. We followed proper protocols?—”

“Proper protocols don’t result in empty warehouses and wasted resources, Sheriff.” The director’s voice could have frozen hell. “Agent Kowalski’s report suggests your department has a significant security breach.”

I bit back the response I wanted to give. “We’re investigating all possibilities.”

“See that you do. And, Sheriff? Next time you want DEA support, you better have more than rumors and ghost stories.”

The line went dead. I set the phone down carefully, fighting the urge to slam it.

Through my office window, Main Street looked deceptively peaceful.

Tourists browsed the antique shops. Mrs. Yang arranged flowers in her shop window.

Normal people living normal lives, unaware that somewhere in their community, someone was selling death in pill form.

My phone buzzed with a text from Beckett.

Change of plans. Meeting at Travis’s place instead of the office. He insisted.

Of course he did. Travis Hale hadn’t left his compound in the two years since he’d moved to Garnet Bend. Whatever had driven him out of the CIA had left him functional but reclusive, turning his property into a high-tech fortress.

I grabbed my keys, my movements sharp with frustration. Another dead end. Another failure. And still no closer to finding our leak.

The drive to Travis’s place took me through the outskirts of town, past the last subdivision and into the emptiness that Travis preferred.

His driveway appeared suddenly—unmarked, easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it.

The security began immediately: cameras tracking my truck, the gate that looked decorative but could probably stop a tank.

From the outside, Travis’s house looked almost normal.

A sprawling ranch-style home with native stone and large windows, nestled against a hillside.

You’d never guess that most of it extended underground, that those windows were bullet-resistant, or that the pleasant landscaping concealed enough surveillance equipment to run a small military operation.

I parked beside Beckett’s SUV and Hunter’s truck. The front door opened before I could knock—Travis had been watching, of course. He always watched.

“Sheriff.” He stepped aside to let me enter, his greeting as minimal as always.

Travis looked like he’d slept in his clothes—black cargo pants and a faded band T-shirt that had seen better days.

His dark hair hung past his collar; the man wasn’t going to go out to get a haircut. I wasn’t sure how he ever got one.

The entryway looked normal enough—hardwood floors, neutral walls, a table for keys. But I knew the scanner built into the doorframe had already checked me for weapons and God knew what else. Travis’s paranoia was legendary, but given what he’d done for the government, probably justified.

“Conference room,” Travis said, already walking away. His bare feet made no sound on the floor.

I followed him through halls that looked residential but felt like a bunker.

The temperature dropped as we descended—Travis had built down into the hillside, creating multiple levels that didn’t show from outside.

We passed the gym where he maintained the physical conditioning the CIA had drilled into him, the pool he swam laps in at two a.m. when the memories got too loud.

The conference room belonged in a Fortune 500 company, not a recluse’s basement. A massive table dominated the space, surrounded by leather chairs and walls of monitors currently showing financial data, satellite feeds, and scrolling code I couldn’t begin to understand.

Beckett, Hunter, Coop, and Aiden were already there, coffee cups and tablets scattered across the table. They looked up as I entered, and I saw my own frustration mirrored in their faces.

“Gentlemen,” I said, taking a seat. “Let’s figure out what the hell went wrong.”

“Everything,” Coop said flatly. “Every damn thing that could go wrong did.”

“The intel was solid,” Hunter insisted, pulling up files on his tablet. “Multiple sources confirmed activity at that warehouse. The DEA’s informant saw trucks there as recently as three days ago.”

“Three days is a lifetime in trafficking,” Aiden pointed out. “Plenty of time to move an entire operation if they knew we were coming.”

“Which they obviously did,” I said. “The question is how.”

Travis paced behind our chairs, holding out some sort of stick—unusual for him. The stick thing wasn’t as weird as him being away from his bank of computers, where he was almost always found. But today, he circled the table like a caged predator, his agitation palpable.

“Let’s go through it piece by piece,” I said. “Who knew about the target?”

“In Warrior Security? Just us,” Hunter said. “No support staff, no external contractors.”

“My department, only Martinez and Torres. I didn’t even put it in writing—told them face-to-face yesterday morning.”

“DEA knew as of Monday,” Beckett added. “State police found out Tuesday afternoon. But the specific warehouse wasn’t identified until yesterday’s briefing.”

“The briefing that was held in the Warrior Security office,” I said slowly. “No chance of surveillance. Right, Travis?”

Travis continued pacing, that magic wand thing still in his hand.

“What the fuck are you doing, Travis?” Beckett’s question cut through my words. Travis had stopped directly behind my chair, close enough that I could hear his breathing. “Are you about to cast some spell on us or something?”

Instead of answering, Travis held up one finger in a clear signal for silence. Then, moving with the fluid grace that spoke of his CIA training, he reached for my left wrist.

“What—” I started, but his sharp headshake cut me off.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he unfastened my watch—the silver one with the leather strap that Piper had given me.

The one I’d worn every day since that night at Resting Warrior Ranch.

Travis cradled it in his palm like it might explode, then moved swiftly to a metal container on a side table.

The moment the watch disappeared inside and he sealed the lid, Travis finally spoke. “It’s transmitting.”

The words hit like ice water. “What?”

“That’s why I wanted everyone here instead of the Warrior Security office.

” Travis moved to his wall of equipment, fingers flying over a keyboard.

Data populated on the screens—wavelengths, frequencies, technical readouts that made my stomach drop.

“I swept the Warrior Security office this morning, thinking maybe someone had planted something. But it was clean. Which meant…”

“Someone was wearing the bug,” Hunter finished, his voice dangerous.

“The signal’s blocked now by the Faraday cage.” Travis pointed to the metal container. “But you can see the transmission attempts. It’s sophisticated—burst transmissions at irregular intervals to avoid detection. Professional-grade.”

My mind raced backward, memory crystallizing with sickening clarity. Piper on the porch at Resting Warrior, tears on her face as she handed me the box. I wanted to thank you. For everything.

“When did you get the watch?” Beckett asked quietly.

“Friday night.” My voice sounded distant to my own ears. “At the family dinner.”

“Four days ago,” Coop calculated. “Right before we finalized the warehouse raid.”

The pieces clicked into place with brutal precision. Every meeting I’d attended. Every phone call I’d taken. Every plan I’d discussed while wearing that watch.

“Who gave it to you?” Hunter asked, though his expression suggested he already knew.

“Piper.” The name tasted like dust.

Silence descended on the room, broken only by the hum of Travis’s equipment. I stared at the metal container holding the watch—holding the evidence of a betrayal I should have seen coming.

“There’s more,” Travis said, his fingers never stopping on the keyboard. “I’ve been digging since I isolated the signal. The watch? It’s not some consumer-grade device. This is specialized equipment, the kind career criminals use.”

“Career criminals like Ray Matthews,” I said, the final piece sliding into place.

Travis pulled up a file on the main screen.

Ray Matthews’s booking photos through the years, arrest records, known associates.

“He’s evolved since leaving Garnet Bend nine years ago.

Graduated from small-town cons to the big leagues.

Gunrunning, drug trafficking. He’s connected to operations across three states. ”

More memories flooded back. Finding Piper in my office that night, supposedly looking for Caleb’s pacifier. The way she’d been on her hands and knees by my desk—where I kept sensitive files. How I’d given her my computer password without a second thought because she’d needed a recipe.

“Jesus Christ.” I pushed back from the table, needing space, needing air. “Piper has been playing me from the beginning.”

“The Highway 37 checkpoint,” Beckett said slowly. “You mentioned it at home?”

I nodded, remembering dinner conversations, casual mentions of work while she cooked. While she listened. While she reported back to her father.

“The Murphy farm raid. The warehouse last night. She knew about all of them.” Each word felt like glass in my throat.

“It explains the surgical precision,” Hunter said. “They knew exactly when we’d move, exactly what we were looking for. Professional intelligence gathering.”

Travis pulled up more data. “I’m tracking her communications now. I also found another signal and pinged it for location. It’s coming from your house, and matches up with calls made to numbers connected to Ray Matthews’s operation. It’s all here.”

I stared at the evidence scrolling across the screens. Phone records. Timeline correlations between information I’d shared and blown operations. Digital proof of what my heart was still trying to deny.

She’d used me. Used our son. Used my pathetic need to protect her, to believe she could be more than her father’s daughter.

My phone buzzed with a message from Lark.

911 - Need you at Pawsitive NOW. It’s Piper.

I stood, chair scraping against the floor. “I have to go.”

“Lachlan—” Beckett started.

“Piper’s at Pawsitive. Lark says I need to get there now.

” Which was good because I would’ve been heading there anyway.

I was already moving toward the door. “Continue working this. Find out how deep it goes. I want to know every contact Piper has made, every piece of information she’s passed along. ”

“And then?” Hunter’s question stopped me at the doorway.

“Then we use it. Turn their own intel against them. But first—” I looked back at the metal container holding the watch. The symbol of my blind trust. My stupidity. “First, I deal with Piper.”

Because if she was at Pawsitive, I’d face her knowing the truth. Look into those lying eyes and see her for what she really was—not a victim needing protection, but a predator who’d used my compassion against me.

The woman I’d held in the dark, who’d cried in my arms, who’d made me believe she was building a life with me—she was just another Matthews. Another con artist who’d found the perfect mark.

And I’d fallen for it completely.

The anger crystallized into something colder as I headed for the door. More useful than rage. Because when I saw her—when I looked at the woman who’d shared my bed while betraying everything I stood for—I’d need that coldness.

No more fool. No more mark.

Just a sheriff who’d finally learned the truth about Piper Matthews.