Page 29 of Savage Ranger Daddy

Alice Dermott smiled at me like I was just another lost tourist. She had no idea I was the woman she's been tasked with befriending.

But I know her face now. And when she comes for me, I'll be ready.

15

Hazel

Haven 7 appears through the trees like something out of a different world.

We've been climbing for twenty minutes on a narrow road that cuts through dense pine forest, the truck grinding through snow that gets deeper with every switchback. I stopped trying to check my phone for signal ten minutes ago. There isn't any. The mountains up here feel older somehow, heavier, like the rock itself knows things the valleys have forgotten. Then the road crests a final ridge and the compound opens up below us: a large main lodge with log walls and a wide front porch, smaller cabins clustered around it with smoke rising from their chimneys, a cleared training ground, and a view of the Steel Mountain range that stretches to the horizon in every direction.

"Wedding Cake Mountain," Brock says, pulling up beside the lodge. "Haven 7. Rafe built it as a rescue and recovery compound for women escaping dangerous situations. Ex-military crew runs security and operations. Sheriff Silas James coordinates lawenforcement from up here when things get complicated in the valley."

"And things are complicated."

"That's why we're here."

The lodge door opens before we're up the porch steps. A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a quiet intensity steps out and clasps Brock's hand like they've done this a thousand times. He's got the same mountain-carved look as Brock but something softer around the eyes, the kind of calm that comes from building something rather than hunting something.

"Rafe," Brock says. "This is Hazel. She's the journalist who published the Steel Mountain exposé."

Rafe studies me for a beat, then nods. No judgment. No commentary. Just a straightforward assessment. "Welcome. Silas is inside. He's been expecting you since Mason called an hour ago." He holds the door. "Come in out of the cold."

The lodge is large and warm, a stone fireplace dominating one wall, heavy timber beams overhead, mismatched but comfortable furniture arranged in clusters. A woman with soft brown hair comes through a side hallway with a toddler balanced on her hip. The little girl has enormous eyes and a stuffed rabbit clutched in one fist.

"Harper," Rafe says, his hand finding the small of her back with practiced ease. "This is Hazel."

Harper smiles at me. It's genuine, the kind of warmth that comes from someone who's been through enough hard things to recognize another person in the middle of one. "We've got coffeeand food if you need it. The briefing room is set up in the back whenever you're ready."

There's a briefing room. In a mountain rescue compound. I file that under things about my life that have gotten extremely surreal in the last five days.

We move through the lodge to a room at the back that's clearly been set up for operational planning. A large table covered in topographic maps. A whiteboard with case notes. Radio equipment in the corner. Three men are already seated: two I don't know, and one I recognize instantly from the description Brock gave me. Sheriff Silas James. He's lean and sharp-featured, with the kind of focused stillness that reminds me of a hunting bird. Badge on his belt. Holster on his hip. Eyes that take my measure in about half a second.

Beside him sits a man Brock introduces as Harlan, Mason's brother, who handles tactical coordination for Haven 7. He's got Mason's build and the same direct stare but something less polished about him, rougher around the edges, like the mountain version of his federal brother. The third man is Gavin, who Rafe identifies as the compound's head of security. He doesn't say much. He doesn't need to. The way he's positioned, back to the wall, sightlines to both doors, says everything.

Brock and I sit across from them and lay it out. All of it.

I start with my investigation: the Ridgeline Outfitters paper trail, the shipping manifests, Cal Hutchins' coordinates, the trail network called the Spine. Then the radio intercepts from the storm, the fragments about Voss and the accelerated timeline. The case files and the suppressed incident reports signed by Deputy Jeffrey Pruitt. Brock picks up with his ground surveillance: the crates at Saddleback Cut, the confirmed activityat the truck site, the voices past the bend. Our drive into town. Jeffrey walking into City Hall. The conversation Brock overheard in the mayor's office: rerouted through south fork access, everything staged by tomorrow night.

Then I tell them about the Lucky Moon.

I pull out my phone and slide it across the table with the quarter-profile photograph. "This man came out of City Hall's side entrance right after Jeffrey. He walked straight to the Lucky Moon, the bar registered to Alice Dermott, the same name on the Ridgeline Outfitters filing. He went into a back room. I followed him inside and overheard three voices through the wall: two men and a woman. The woman said, 'She's still with the marshal. I can get close but I need a reason to.' The man told her to make sure I trust her. When the back door opened, the woman who walked out was the bartender. I believe she's Alice Dermott."

The room goes quiet. Silas picks up my phone and studies the photograph. He passes it to Harlan, who passes it to Gavin. None of them speaks for a long moment.

Silas breaks the silence. "I know Alice Dermott. She's been running the Lucky Moon for years. Quiet. Keeps to herself. Never caused any trouble that crossed my desk." He sets his jaw. "Which is exactly the profile you'd want for a front operation. Nobody looks twice at the woman who pours drinks and minds her own business."

"There's something else you need to know," Silas says, leaning forward. "I didn't have context for it until right now, but three weeks ago my office received a tip about unusual activity on the south fork access road. Anonymous call. Female voice. The tipwas specific enough that I sent a deputy to check it out." He pauses. "I sent Jeffrey Pruitt."

The room temperature drops about ten degrees.

"Pruitt came back and reported the road was clear. No evidence of any activity. Recommended closing the tip as unfounded." Silas leans back. "I closed it. Because Jeffrey Pruitt has been my senior deputy for seven years and I trusted his judgment."

Brock's voice is flat. "He was sent to investigate his own operation."

"And he buried it. Same pattern as the incident reports Hazel found in the federal files. Same signature, different system." Silas looks sick. Not angry yet. That'll come later. Right now he's a man realizing his most trusted deputy has been lying to his face for years. "I need to know how deep this goes. If Pruitt's been covering for the ring from inside my department, he's had access to every case file, every witness statement, every interagency communication that's crossed my desk in seven years. That includes protective custody protocols."

I feel the blood drain from my face. "Meaning he could have access to information about where protected witnesses are placed."