Page 39 of Montana Justice

I moved with Charlie team through the south entrance. The warehouse interior was a maze of stacked crates and industrial equipment. Muzzle flashes strobed in the darkness. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with motor oil and rust.

“Moving left!” Martinez called out, his weapon tracking shadows.

A figure popped up from behind a forklift, rifle swinging toward us. Training took over. Front sight, center mass, squeeze. Two rounds. He folded, weapon clattering across concrete.

“Clear left!”

“Clear right!”

“Charlie advancing!”

We pushed forward in practiced formation. The traffickers weren’t expecting us. They’d assumed, like the other times, that they’d be given a warning if law enforcement was anywhere near.

Instead, they got overwhelming force from multiple directions. Their resistance was fierce but chaotic.

“Taking fire from the catwalk!” someone shouted.

I tracked up, caught movement against the ceiling. Suppressing fire sparked off metal railings while Martinez flanked left. The shooter focused on me, giving Martinez the angle. Single shot. The shooter tumbled from the catwalk, hitting crates on the way down.

“Hunter’s hit!” Coop’s voice cut through the chaos. “Southwest corner, second floor! Need medical!”

My chest tightened. Hunter down. Every instinct screamed at me to go to him, but that wasn’t my job. Trust the team. Everyone had a role.

“Alpha copies, medical en route,” someone confirmed.

We kept pushing. The ground floor was nearly clear, but automatic weapons fire from the second floor had multiple teams pinned.

“Heavy resistance upstairs,” Kowalski reported. “Fortified positions. They want a fight. Let’s give it to them.”

Through the smoke and chaos, I could see the stairs. Getting up there would be brutal—narrow approach, no cover, defenders with height advantage.

“This is Martinez. Movement in the basement. Looks like they’re burning documents.”

Shit. Evidence destruction. “Take two men, secure that basement.”

“Copy.”

The firefight intensified. Muzzle flashes from the second floor looked like deadly strobe lights. We were taking cover behind anything solid—crates, equipment, concrete pillars.

“Can’t advance,” someone reported. “They’ve got the stairs zeroed.”

I found Kowalski behind a pillar, his team spread out around him. “Ideas?”

“Smoke and flank,” he said immediately. “My team can take the exterior fire escape, hit them from behind while you push the main stairs.”

Federal ego aside, the man knew tactics. “Do it.”

“All units, smoke out in thirty seconds. Masks on.” I pulled my gas mask into place, the world narrowing to the view through scratched lenses. “We push hard and end this.”

Smoke canisters flew. Gray clouds billowed through the warehouse, turning clear sight lines into blind fog. But through thermal imaging, human shapes glowed like ghosts.

“DEA moving exterior,” Kowalski reported.

“Charlie pushing stairs,” I confirmed.

We moved fast through the concealment. A defender fired blindly into smoke. I tracked his muzzle flash, put him down with controlled shots. Another tried to retreat. Martinez got him.

The smoke was chaos—shouting, running feet, blind gunfire. But chaos we controlled. We had communication, thermal imaging, discipline. They had panic.

I reached the second floor as Kowalski’s team breached from the fire escape. Caught between us, the remaining defenders crumbled. Some threw down weapons. Others made last stands that ended predictably.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Second floor clear!”

As smoke dissipated, I saw what we’d fought for. Tables loaded with military weapons. M4 rifles. Squad automatic weapons. Cases of ammunition. And between the weapons— packages wrapped in plastic, scales, cutting agents. A full drug packaging operation alongside the weapons cache.

“Jesus Christ,” Kowalski breathed beside me. “This is everything. Guns and drugs in one location.”

“Basement secured,” Martinez’s voice came through the comms, breathless but triumphant.

“They only burned about half the documents. Rest is intact—shipping records for weapons, client lists for drug distribution, the whole network laid out. Sheriff, they were supplying half the state with fentanyl.”

The magnitude of it hit me. This wasn’t just moving product—this was a major distribution hub. The weapons would’ve armed gangs and militias. The fentanyl would’ve killed more teenagers like the college kid who’d overdosed.

“Hunter’s status?” I demanded.

“Stable and complaining,” Coop reported. “Vest caught one, thigh caught another. He’s more pissed about missing the fight than the holes.”

Relief flooded through me. Wounded but alive. We’d all go home tonight.

“Eight suspects in custody,” someone tallied. “Two deceased. No friendly casualties beyond Hunter.”

I stood among the captured weapons and drugs, watching suspects get cuffed and led away. I wasn’t sure where Ray Matthews was in all of this, but I’d find out. I wanted to talk to him myself. Wanted to see his face when he realized his leverage was gone.

But first, despite it going against protocol, I was going to text Piper. She deserved to know.

It’s done. Sadie is safe. Raid complete. Everyone’s coming home.

Then I forwarded Beckett’s photo—our daughter with her “favorite uncle.”

Three dots appeared immediately. Piper was awake, waiting. Then:

Thank you

Two words that contained multitudes. Relief. Joy. Gratitude. Love. Everything we couldn’t say yet but would, when both our children were safe under our roof.

“Hell of an operation, Sheriff,” Kowalski said, appearing at my elbow. His expression held genuine respect. “Sorry about before. Whatever you were waiting for—I’m going to trust it was important.”

“It was. A hostage situation off-site.”

Kowalski nodded. “Hostage safe?”

I nodded.

“Good. This bust is going to make careers,” he continued, gesturing at the weapons and drug tables. “Biggest trafficking bust in the region this year. The amount of fentanyl alone—we probably saved dozens of lives tonight. Kids who won’t overdose because this poison won’t hit the streets.”

He was right. Every package of fentanyl we’d seized was a potential overdose prevented. Every weapon was a shooting that wouldn’t happen. But all I could think about was the photo on my phone—my daughter safe—and the woman waiting at home to hold her.

Outside, red and blue lights turned the warehouse into a discotheque of justice. Suspects were loaded into vehicles. Evidence teams arrived to catalog our haul. But I only had one thought.

“Somebody take me to Ray Matthews. I want to talk to him.”

I wanted to look that bastard in the eye when I made sure he understood he would never ever threaten my family again.