March 15, 2008
Arriving home just before nightfall, Kestrel parked the ATV in the shed. The new tracking collar transmitted strongly and clearly from the moment it settled around the massive animal’s neck. He’d watched the data stream light up on his tablet as the Monarch moved east along the ridge, its patterns exactly as predicted—another successful day in the field. For the first time in months, the work felt genuinely rewarding — quiet, precise, and useful. No one died. No one screamed. Just science and wilderness doing what they were meant to do.
Too tired to unpack the rest of his gear, he left his rucksack bungeed to the rack and headed for the cabin, carrying only his rifle and the satphone. The gravel crunched under his boots like brittle bones, the only sound besides the wind whispering through the tall ponderosa pines. The air had that sharp, clean bite that only came with autumn in the Rockies.
Across the Bitterroot Valley, twilight bled purple and deep indigo into the gullies and ravines. Just last week, he’d spotted a cougar moving like liquid shadow along that same treeline. Old habits died harder than most men he knew. He scanned the darkness reflexively, eyes sweeping for movement, half-expecting muzzle flashes or the silhouette of enemy combatants rather than wildlife. The kind of ingrained paranoia that came from too many night ops in the Hindu Kush. Only after confirming the shadows were empty did he sling the rifle over his shoulder. The satphone in his pocket felt like dead weight now — one he’d be glad to unburden himself of, at least for tonight.
Warm golden light spilled from the cabin windows, and the rich smell of searing meat and herbs drifted on the breeze. A culinary flair was one of Digger’s many unexpected talents, and the man’s eccentric streak had cemented their friendship years ago on the teams. They also shared the same deep-seated disdain for undeserved authority and bureaucratic bullshit.
His old pal stepped out onto the porch as he approached. All six-foot-four of him leaned casually against the rail, tattoos peeking from beneath the rolled cuffs of his flannel shirt — including the faded Eagle, Globe, and Anchor from his SEAL days. The jagged scar from that knife fight in Peshawar caught the yellow porch light, but his grin was as wide and genuine as ever.
“Hungry, Chief?”
He let out a tired but genuine laugh. “I could eat an entire elk. Hell, I’d settle for a bear at this point. Long damn day.”
Chief. The nickname his brothers had given him years ago. It honored both his rank as an E-8 Master Sergeant and his Mescalero Apache heritage. Among civilians, it sometimes got thrown around as an insult, but the last kid who tried that back in junior high had quickly learned that he could throw hands just as well as he could track game. For the men who had served alongside him in the SEALs, Green Berets, and Delta, the title carried real respect — rooted in reverence for the legendary Apache warrior spirit.
Digger chuckled and held the door open wide. “Come on in, brother. I always pictured this place as some kind of rugged Jeremiah Johnson setup. Not this damn luxury resort with actual hot water and everything.”
“What can I say?” He shrugged off his jacket inside, wincing as his left leg twinged sharply from the long day’s hike up steep terrain. “Four years packed into mud huts with grunts who only bathed when it rained gave me a real taste for the good life.”
“Well, you’re gonna like the taste of this steak… whatever the hell it is I threw on the grill.”
They sat at the heavy wooden dining table. He nursed a cold Coors Light while Digger moved around the kitchen with surprising grace for such a big man, clearing plates and whistling an old country tune. The food was excellent — perfectly seasoned, juicy, and exactly what he needed after twelve hours in the field.
“You’ll make someone a good wife one day, Digger,” he said with a grin. “Too bad you’re ugly as sin.”
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“Beauty is subjective, my friend,” Digger shot back without missing a beat. He opened the fridge, made a disgusted face, and closed it again. “For example, this beer tastes like warm camel piss to me. You got anything better stashed away?”
“Second cabinet on the right, top shelf.”
Digger pulled out a bottle of Twelve-Year-Old Weller Special Reserve. “Now we’re talking. Smooth as a preacher’s lie. I also brought a couple of Cohibas that’ll go perfectly with it.”
After dinner, they moved outside to the solid wooden bench on the wide porch. The night air was crisp and clean, carrying the sharp scent of pine resin and distant snow from the higher peaks. For a long while, they sat in comfortable silence, legs stretched out, sipping the excellent bourbon and smoking the rich, earthy cigars. The smoke curled upward into the darkening sky.
Eventually, Digger broke the quiet, his bourbon-loosened drawl thicker than usual. “Remember humping it toward Mazar-i-Sharif? When that Spectre gunship damn near turned us into pink mist?”
He grunted, the memory flashing vividly. “How could I forget? AC-130 circling overhead like an angry hawk. That 105mm felt like God himself was stomping around in our foxhole. The ground shook so hard I thought my fillings were going to fall out.”
“Yeah,” Digger said, staring into the distance. “Whoever was on that howitzer knew his business cold. Turned those poor horses into red mist bouquets. I was picking horsehair and bone fragments out of my gear for a solid week, mixed in with that fine Afghan dust that never really washes out. Swore off kebabs for life after that shitshow.” He took a long pull from his glass. “Glad I eventually came to my senses.”
“Speaking of which,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “that steak tonight was excellent. Tasted nothing like horse.”
“Fuck off!” Digger laughed loudly and topped off both their glasses with more bourbon.
He let the silence return for a few minutes, watching the first stars emerge one by one above the valley. The elk collaring work today had felt good — honest, patient tracking using skills he’d spent two decades honing in much darker places. It was clean work. Useful. But he couldn’t deny that something was still missing. The quiet satisfaction never quite filled the hollow space the old life had carved out inside him.
“Okay, Digger,” he finally said, voice low. “You flew all the way out here, cooked me a damn fine meal, broke out the good bourbon and cigars… How much am I going to hate this gig you’re about to pitch me?”
Digger’s scarred face turned serious in the low porch light. “You won’t. I swear it’s tailor-made for you, brother. Private contract. Completely black. No flag, no oversight, and no cavalry coming if it turns to absolute shit. The client has more money than Midas — enough to keep you living comfortably up here in the mountains for years if you play your cards right.”
He paused, letting the wind rustle through the ponderosas like a whispered warning.
“The tricky part is it’s domestic. Right here on home soil. You’ll have to coordinate with local law enforcement, mind every legal line in the sand, and keep everything clean enough to survive serious scrutiny if things ever go sideways. Anything that stays off-book remains strictly between you, me, and God. It might cramp your style some. Less direct action, more old-school sleuthing and profiling — like your Junior G-Man days. But they specifically asked for you by name.”
Digger locked eyes with him across the small table between them.
“They know the full file. Every high-value target you tracked down. Every terrorist you sent to Jannah. All of it.”
He stared out into the dark valley. Somewhere down there, something large moved through the timber — maybe an elk, maybe a bear, or maybe just the night doing what the night does. His rifle still leaned against the bench within easy reach, old instincts refusing to retire fully.
“I won’t lie to you,” Digger continued. “This one comes with real headaches and complications. But on the flip side… nobody’s launching RPGs at your ass.”
The night seemed to press in closer around the cabin. He took a slow sip of the bourbon, feeling the warm burn spread through his chest and into his tired limbs. Part of him — the exhausted, aching part that had grown to love the peace of these mountains — wanted nothing more than to stay here collaring elk, watching sunsets, and pretending the world could stay simple. But another part, the sharper, hungrier part that had never truly learned how to stand down, felt the old familiar pull stirring back to life.
“Tell me the rest in the morning,” he said at last, his voice calm but his eyes sharp and alert. “Right now I’m going to finish this drink and enjoy the mountain air while I can.”
Digger nodded slowly, a hint of his usual cocky grin returning. “Copy that, Chief. But sleep light.”
Above them, the stars wheeled slowly across the vast Montana sky — cold, distant, and utterly indifferent to the affairs of men. Down in the valley, the large shape moved again through the trees with heavy, deliberate steps.
He took another pull of bourbon and felt something settle deep in his chest—a strange mixture of reluctance and anticipation.
For the first time in a long while, he didn’t mind the feeling at all.
Will Kestrel take the job?
