Chapter 2 - The Sheriff's ShadowInside the diner, Sheriff Travis Cole wiped a streak of mustard off his polyester uniform shirt, still chuckling over his own cruelty. He checked his heavy steel-banded watch. It was 1:15 PM.
By 1:30 PM, the first domino was scheduled to fall.
Cole walked out of the diner's side exit, stepping into the glaring Montana sun. He didn't look like a typical rural lawman; his boots were custom-tooled leather, his cruiser was a modified Ford Interceptor with non-standard communications gear, and his pockets were lined with cash that didn't come from a county sheriff's salary.
He strutted across the gravel lot toward our truck, stopping a few feet from the driver's side window. He tapped his heavy knuckles against the glass, grinning like a predator that had cornered a wounded rabbit.
I rolled the window down two inches. Just enough to let the mountain air in, not enough to give him an inch of advantage.
“Still here, mechanic?” Cole mocked, leaning down so his breath—stinking of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey—washed over my face. “Look, let's keep things simple. You pack your tools, you pack your wife, and you two are out of Park County by sundown. If you aren't gone, I'm going to find a few ounces of white powder hidden under the seat of your truck during a routine inspection. And trust me, the local judge plays poker with me every Thursday night.”
Rachel flinched in the passenger seat, looking at Cole with a look of frantic, desperate pleading.
I didn't blink. I didn't tighten my jaw. My heart rate remained steady at sixty beats per minute.
“You think you own this county, Travis?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
Cole let out a sharp, barking laugh. “I am this county, Hayes. What are you gonna do? Write a sternly worded letter? Call your little veteran buddies down at the VFW? You're nothing out here. You're a ghost without a unit.”
“Maybe,” I replied, shifting the truck into drive. “But ghosts have a bad habit of haunting people who deserve it.”
I stepped on the gas, the heavy tires throwing gravel against the side of his cruiser as I pulled out onto the highway, leaving the sheriff standing in a cloud of dust with a confused frown creasing his brow.
He didn't know.
May you like
Neither did Rachel.
They had no idea that while they were plotting to seize my property and push me out of Livingston, a black-ops logistics plane was already wheels-up from Joint Base Lewis-McChord, carrying twelve federal investigators and a full detachment of military police.
