Page 71 of Shared By the Mountain Men Triplets

“Then move.”

Novak exhales. “Not yet.”

I close my eyes for a beat, and when I open them, I force myself to focus on the map instead of the woman at the window.

“Prosecutors need more than Turner standing near suspicious terrain with bad friends. If we take him now, it inconveniences them. If we take him with cartel personnel, product, and money, we dismantle the regional pipeline.”

I understand the logic, and that’s the hell of it. I’ve done plenty of my own waiting when it was the only way to make a strike count. You wait until the package is on site, wait until the target is confirmed, wait until the second vehicle clears the choke point. Wait, wait, wait, with your rifle up and your pulse slow while every instinct in your body screams that action is better than all the waiting.

Waiting can get people home, but it also leaves the woman you love restless while she’s trying to sleep.

“I need you defensive, not offensive,” Novak says.

“Then move faster.”

“We are.”

“Faster than that.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “You’ll have Cade’s updated recon packet within the hour. Stills, route estimates, shift rotations, and vehicle descriptions.”

“I’ll watch for it,” he says. “In the meantime, keep your phones on, and if anything changes, I want to know before the echo fades.”

“You will.”

When I end the call, Wren turns toward me, and I’m relieved there’s no fear in her face, but there is worry.

Boone pushes off the counter. “That was cheerful.”

I drag a hand over my face. “He’s accelerating.”

“Not enough,” Boone says.

“No.”

“Not enough when I want to put Turner in a hole,” Cade says.

“That makes four of us,” Boone says.

“But it can’t just be him,” I say. “We’ll harden the cabin and keep feeding Novak intelligence so they can take downthe whole thing.”

I call Sentinel with an update and a request for comms equipment, and more sensors and cameras. By late afternoon, we’ve placed more motion sensors around the perimeter and checked sightlines from every window and outbuilding.

Boone feeds everyone at dinner. Cade eats standing near the window, which would irritate me if I weren’t doing the same thing in my head. Wren sits at the table and eats enough to satisfy Boone after he gives her a look and adds another spoonful of potatoes to her plate.

I take three bites, then a message comes through from Novak, asking for clarification on coordinates. There’s a follow-up after that, and I forget the food exists.

Cade takes first watch after dark while Boone crashes on the couch with a book open on his chest and one hand resting near the pistol holstered beneath the side table.

When Wren disappears into the bathroom to take a shower, I tell myself I’ll stop in ten minutes, but ten becomes thirty, and then thirty turns into an hour.

I keep working so I can turn fear into routes and contingencies, and I keep working because every line on these maps is a place Turner might use to reach Wren.

I’m vaguely aware of the microwave running, then my plate of food from dinner appears beside my left hand.

“Eat,” Wren says.

She’s beside me in sleep shorts and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her legs are bare, and her damp hair falls in waves around her face. There’s a faint crease between her brows.

“I ate.”