Chapter 31: Storm on route 87

Zoe and I rolled into the station just shy of 5 a.m., the air already thick with bodies, a raw hum of idle chatter fillin’ the packed office despite no one knowin’ a damn thing about what was comin’.

Full muster. Every available deputy. That meant something big. I knew from past raids what it looked like—the ones who’d been through it before had that look, checking gear twice, coffee going cold because their hands were busy with weapons checks My hands gripped the wheel tighter than they needed to. Control was a lie I kept tellin’ myself, grippin’ this wheel like it could anchor me to something real when everything inside me was chaos.

The lot was full: Lewis, Harrison, Mathews, Rodriguez, Carla Evans, Marla Bennett, Travis Holt, Greg Sanders, and the rest of the deputies were sprawled out, loungin’ around, sippin’ bitter coffee from chipped mugs, scarfing down glazed donuts. Crumbs scattered on desks and the floor, their uniforms half-assed unbuttoned or slouched, no urgency in their bones yet.

Fourteen deputies total. Not counting me and Zoe. Against an unknown number of hostiles in a fortified position. The numbers would have to be enough. They were all I had.

I stepped out of the cruiser and the morning hit me. Cold. Sharp. The kind of cold that wakes you up or reminds you you’re dying, depending on your mood. My boots hit gravel. My body still wanting even though my mind had moved on to violence and strategy and Justice. Bodies betray us—mine was still slick and tender from sex while I was about to lead an armed raid. Monster or human, I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Even with the crowd, the vibe was lazy, just another early shift start. Bullshit stories and tired grumbles mixed with the stink of stale brew and sugar.

I envied that. The not-knowing. The ability to drink bitter coffee and eat sugar and not feel the weight of what you’re about to do pressing down on your chest like a lover who won’t let you breathe.

A couple of plainclothes detectives from Amarillo, Ray Carver and Elena Ortiz, were leanin’ against a wall near the back, sent over in some bullshit advisory role, their slick jackets and sharp eyes outta place among my rough crew. They weren’t here to lift a finger. Fuck no. My team was doin’ all the heavy liftin’ today, but they watched, quiet and judgin’, probably reportin’ back to some desk jockey who thought he could meddle in my war.

Observer status only. Which meant they’d write reports about how I ran the operation but wouldn’t risk their asses in the breach.

Spectators. Everyone wants to watch violence but nobody wants to do it. Their clean hands would judge my dirty ones later.

I strode in beside Zoe, meanin’ business. My usual skirt was swapped for tight black pants, boots heavy on the cracked linoleum, no restrictin’ fabric to slow me down today. I was goin’ to war, and every goddamn inch of me screamed it: badge glintin’ on my belt, jaw set, a phantom ache between my thighs from the morning’s quick fuck, a desperate heat I couldn’t scratch, but my mind cold fuckin’ steel.

Tactical dress. Black pants, boots with ankle support, badge on the belt not the chest—harder target. Kevlar vest under my shirt. Sidearm, backup piece on my ankle, extra magazines. I was dressed to survive.

I was dressed for war. Every inch of me screaming readiness. But inside I was still wet. Still aching. Still thinking about Harrison’s cock and about the baby swelling by the day inside me—Martin’s child, not his. Which was the bigger secret: the blood I’d spill, or the one I’d let grow? We pretend we can separate the parts of ourselves—the sheriff from the woman, the killer from the lover, the mother from the liar—but it never works.

I caught Harrison’s eye across the room, a flicker of heat passin’ between us, but I shoved it down. Time for that shit later.

“Five minutes, conference room, now,” I barked, voice cuttin’ through the idle buzz like a blade. Heads snapped up, deputies freezin’ mid-bite or sip, sensin’ the shift as I led the way, Zoe at my flank, her own gaze hard as granite.

Command voice. The one that doesn’t invite discussion. Five minutes gave them time to dump the coffee, hit the head, get their minds right. Not enough time to get nervous.

Leadership was theater—they’d follow me into a building where we might die because I sounded certain. But I wasn’t certain. I was just better at pretending than they were.

Zoe walked beside me and I felt the weight of her own lies hanging between us. The thing with Mathews. The pregnancy that might or might not be his. We were both liars. Both performing strength while falling apart inside.

Maybe everyone was.

Before headin’ in, I snagged a quick moment alone with Harrison near the hallway, away from pryin’ eyes. I pulled him close for a hard, fast kiss, lips crashin’ against his, tongue flickin’ in for a taste of his heat, the metallic tang of his sweat mixing with the stale taste of coffee. My hand gripped his ass through his uniform as I growled low, “Stay sharp today, need you in one piece to fuck me later.”

Thirty seconds. That’s all I could spare. But I needed it. Needed to remind myself why survival mattered. Why coming back alive was the only acceptable outcome.

I needed to taste him. Needed to anchor myself to something real before I became all strategy and violence. His cock hardened against my hip, and for a moment the war could wait. I was about to lead these men into danger and all I could think about was fucking Harrison later—my body wanting him even though my mind was planning who might die today. Sick or human, the line had blurred past recognition.

His eyes darkened, a grunt escapin’ as my mind flickered to the secret weighin’ on me: tellin’ him ‘bout the baby, the lie that he’s gonna be a dad, the words almost slippin’ out in the heat of the moment. But I clamped it down hard, changin’ my mind in a split second; it could wait till after the raid. I needed him focused, not fucked in the head with that kinda bomb right before a fight.