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Inside, the store was quiet, the air filled with the musty scent of books. I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers over the spines, each title a window into a different world. Finally, I picked up a novel, something light and completely unrelated to crime or ranches—a romance, perhaps a bit cliche under the circumstances, but fitting given the turmoil of my own emotions.
At the counter, the elderly lady ringing up my purchase offered a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "A good book for a quiet evening," she commented.
"That’s the plan," I replied, returning the smile.
Back in my room, I changed into my pajamas and settled into the plush hotel bed, the book propped open on my lap. As I turned the pages, I allowed myself the simple pleasure of losing myself in a story, in lives that had easy resolutions and happy endings.
The night passed quietly. By the time I placed the bookmark and turned off the bedside lamp, my eyelids were heavy, my mind finally quiet enough to slip into sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Danny
The drive back to the ranch was quieter than usual, my thoughts racing ahead to what needed to be done. Heather was out of town, trying to get a handle on things from a distance, which meant I had a brief window to dig deeper without any direct interference or the emotional complication of having her nearby.
The ranch was still. I parked my car a good distance away, out of normal sight, and made my way on foot.
I approached the barn where I’d previously seen suspicious activity. The structure loomed large and silent in the encroaching darkness, its doors closed but not locked. I slipped inside, focused on the task at hand.
In the dim light, I found the spot I had scoped out earlier—a secluded corner that offered a clear view of the barn’s main area but was shadowed enough to conceal the small recording devices I’d brought. Planting these was risky; they were strictly for gathering intel. I couldn’t use anything captured here in court—it wouldn’t stand up without proper warrants—but I hoped to catch a name, a date, something actionable that could lead me to legally admissible evidence.
I carefully set up the devices, making sure they were well hidden among the tools and supplies that cluttered the area. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet barn, and I held my breath with every slight noise, half-expecting to be caught.
Once done, I retreated to a safe distance, finding a spot where I could keep watch. The first night, nothing happened. The barn remained a silent, unmoving shadow against the starlit sky.
The second night, the atmosphere felt different. There was a tension in the air, a subtle shift that set my nerves on edge. I didn’t have to wait long. Just after midnight, the sound of a vehicle approaching broke the silence. I ducked further into the shadows, my eyes fixed on the barn doors as they swung open.
Two figures emerged from an old pickup, their features obscured by the poor lighting but their movements purposeful. They headed straight for the barn, clearly familiar with their surroundings. I tensed, ready to intervene if necessary but restrained by the need to keep this operation covert.
As they entered the barn, I edged closer, straining to hear any fragments of conversation that might drift my way. The recording devices were good, but firsthand information was invaluable. I could just make out their shadows moving inside, the sound of boxes being moved. I crouched lower.
“They’re moving everything tonight,” one voice said, low and rushed. “Boss is away, perfect timing.”
“Yeah, but what about her?” another chimed in, a note of concern threading through the gruff tone.
“Don’t sweat it, man. She won’t be back till tomorrow, and by then, we’ll be clear. Just stick to the plan.”
Their conversation was frustratingly vague, dancing around specifics. They mentioned a ‘product’ several times, a term common in dealings like these. However, it was the mention of a meeting that caught my attention and held it tight.
“At the historical oak tree, just before dawn. Make sure everything's ready.”
The historical oak tree in town was a well-known local landmark, and their choice of meeting spot wasn't just poetic; it was strategic, open yet secluded enough to avoid casual observers. But they wouldn’t be avoiding me.
I waited until the sound of their departure echoed faintly away into the night before I emerged from my hiding spot. The air was colder now, the adrenaline that had kept me warm beginning to ebb as I made my way back to my car. The drive into town was a blur of streetlights and shadow, my mind focused solely on the task ahead.
As I parked a discreet distance from the oak tree, the early hours of the morning hung heavily around me. The town was asleep, unaware of the undercurrents shifting just beneath its calm surface. I checked my watch; it was nearly time. Pulling my collar up against the chill, I found a vantage point where I could see the tree without being seen.
The historical oak tree stood majestic and alone, its gnarled limbs stretching wide against the predawn sky. It was a silent witness to countless meetings, but none quite like this. I settled in to wait, my eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.
My heart kicked against my ribs as headlights finally pierced the night, a vehicle rolling quietly to a stop near the tree. Figures disembarked, their movements furtive and quick as they looked around before congregating under the thick boughs of the oak.
I remained still, every sense heightened. This was it, the moment I had been waiting for. Would this be the break I needed? Or would it be another dead end in a case that seemed to be full of them?
The predawn darkness lent an eerie quality to the scene unfolding before me. I was hunkered down behind my car, binoculars in hand, scanning the group gathered under the tree. Their faces were unfamiliar, blurred figures moving with a tense, nervous energy that matched the pounding of my heart.
As I adjusted my position for a better view, the sudden arrival of another truck—headlights off, engine purring low—caught my attention. The door opened and one of the ranch hands stepped out. Damn, it was Joe, one of the guys I'd never have pegged for this sort of thing. He walked confidently toward the group, a large box in his arms that seemed heavy enough to warrant careful handling.
The meeting participants gathered around as Joe set the box down. My grip tightened around the binoculars as one of the strangers flipped open the lid, revealing its contents. Even from this distance, the glint of plastic bags filled with pills and the duller texture of wrapped bundles—likely cocaine—was unmistakable. This was it. The evidence I needed right there.
