Page 62 of Faultline

The problem is that Frank's property connects my north ridge trail to a network of logging roads that run all the way to the highway. Before the sale, that trail dead-ended at a fence between neighbors who trusted each other. Now it dead-ends at a boundary line controlled by a corporation that cut my gate lock and sent two SUVs up my service road at dawn to map my sight lines.

Rhys picks up on the second ring, the kind of response that comes from sleeping with the phone on the nightstand and the badge never fully off.

"Two vehicles," I say. "North service road. Pre-dawn. Cut the padlock on my service gate, drove to the switchback overlook with a clear sight line to the cabin, then left."

"They cut the lock."

"Bolt cutters. Clean angle. Gate staged to look latched from a distance." I let that land. "Same fieldcraft as the first breach."

"Rental plates?"

"They were gone before I found the tracks. The tread says mid-size SUVs. Same profile I found here after the brake lines were cut."

Silence. Rhys processes threats like I process terrain. Methodically, without filling gaps with words that don't serve the assessment.

"That's two days after the town meeting," he says.

"That's my count too."

"Hold on." The line goes quiet. I hear him moving through the cabin he shares with Harlow, the creak of floorboards, a door opening.

When he comes back, his voice has the flat register he uses when Harlow is listening. "I'm putting you on speaker. Harlow's here."

"Liam." Harlow's voice is precise, unhurried, carrying the specific authority of a woman who spent a career reading operational patterns for the FBI and doesn't soften the assessment for civilians. "How far is the switchback overlook from your cabin?"

"Line of sight, a few hundred yards. The road curves above the depression where the cabin sits. From the switchback, you can see the porch, the front door, the truck, and the tree line to the south."

"Same sight line as the original observation post?"

"Adjacent. The hide site on the ridge covered the cabin and the east approach. This position covers the service road and the north approach. Somebody's building a composite picture."

Another silence. I can hear Harlow thinking. It sounds different from Rhys's silence. Rhys goes still. Harlow goes sharp.

"Rhys, I want to run the rental registrations through the state trooper database. Every SUV rental out of Anchorage and Palmer in the past month. Cross-reference with Cascade's known corporate accounts."

"Already planning on it."

"I want something else." Harlow's tone drops half a register. "If the rentals have telematics, I want the location history. Some fleet agencies retain it. If Cascade's running corporate accounts, there could be weeks of route data sitting on a server."

"That'll take a warrant."

"Then I'll start making calls." Harlow pauses. "Liam, have you seen personnel? Bodies on the ground?"

"Not yet. Just tracks."

"When you do, you won't call me. You'll call Rhys. And Rhys will call me. Because the last thing we need is a confrontation on your property between you and whoever Cascade sent to replace their survey crews." Her voice is level. Not gentle. Level. "I don't have to tell you what these people look like."

"No," I say. "You don't."

"Two-vehicle reconnaissance in a coordinated pattern suggests a forward operating posture. They're building target folders. Your property is one of them. After that town meeting, every holdout in this valley is."

I let that settle. Target folders. Language I haven't heard since a deployment I don't discuss.

"I'm reinforcing the property," I say.

"Good. We'll coordinate. I want to walk your perimeter before you start placing obstacles."

"Tomorrow morning."