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Trent’s bookie in Billings is skimming money from his operation. Make it sound like you heard it from someone reliable, someone with connections to the gambling world. That’s easy enough.
Half the guys who come through here have gambling debts. I’ll drop the rumor with Bobby Martinez. He owes money to three different bookies and has a mouth like a broken faucet. Harry’s next stop was the copper mine in where June was preparing for the lunch rush. The bar was empty except for one old-timer nursing a beer and reading a newspaper that was probably 3 days old. Morning June.
Harry, you look like a man with a plan. Getting there. I need a favor. Name it. Tonight, when Trent comes in for his regular drinks, I want you to mention that you heard his Billings bookie has been bragging about how easy it is to skim money from small town operators. June raised an eyebrow.
You want to make him paranoid about his business partners. Paranoid people make mistakes. Mistakes create opportunities. I can do that. Trent’s always been suspicious about money anyway. Won’t take much to push him over the edge. She leaned against the bar. What else? I need to know his routine. When he comes and goes, who he meets with where he feels safe.
He’s here most nights from 8 to 11:00. Drinks whiskey, plays pool, tries to hit on anything female that walks through the door. Thursdays he meets with his lone shark clients in the back room. Sundays he usually brings Rafe and they talk business. Guards, just Rafe and only sometimes. Trent thinks he’s untouchable in public.
Figures nobody would be stupid enough to confront him in a crowded bar. Harry smiled grimly. Good. Keep me posted on any changes to his routine. We’ll do. And Harry, when you’re ready to make your move, give me a heads up. I’d hate to miss the show. The final stop was Marshall’s trailer, where Harry found the ex-soldier doing push-ups in his small living room.
Marshall finished his set and stood barely breathing hard despite having just done 50 perfect repetitions. Morning, Mr. Kane. What’s the word? Time to put your undercover skills to work. I need you to get close to Trent’s operation. Find out who his contacts are and how the money flows. Any particular angle? Play the broken veteran.
You’ve got gambling debts. Need quick cash. Her Trent might have work for someone with military experience. Make yourself useful but not threatening. Marshall nodded. Classic infiltration. Get close. Gather intelligence. Stay invisible until the moment of action. Exactly. But be careful.
Rafe gunner is ex-military, too. And he’s got killer instincts. If he suspects you’re not what you seem, things could get violent fast. I can handle myself. I know you can. That’s why I’m asking. Harry spent the rest of the day visiting Cassidy and Lydia at the hospital, playing grandfather while his mind worked through the tactical aspects of destroying Trent Huxley.
This wasn’t just about revenge. It was about removing a cancer from the community and protecting his family from future threats. That evening, he positioned himself across the street from the copper mine in with a pair of binoculars and a thermos of coffee. At 8:15, Trent’s black pickup truck pulled into the parking lot.
Harry watched through the window as Trent took his usual spot at the bar and ordered his usual whiskey. June played her part perfectly. She served Trent his drink, made small talk about the weather, then casually mentioned that her cousin, who worked at the Billings Casino, had been bragging about how some bookies were getting rich by skimming from their rural clients.
Even from across the street, Harry could see Trent’s reaction. The man’s entire body went rigid and he started asking June rapid fire questions. She played dumb, acted like she didn’t understand why he was so interested, which only made him more agitated to be. By the time Trent left an hour later, he was drunk, angry, and convinced that someone was stealing from him.
Harry followed at a distance as Trent drove erratically back to his cabin, cell phone pressed to his ear, probably calling his Billings contact to demand an accounting. The first seed was planted. Now it was time to water it and watch it grow point 3 days later. Delmare’s mechanical sabotage paid dividends. Trench truck died exactly where Harry had predicted halfway through Miller Canyon, 20 m from a nearest town and completely out of cell phone range.
It took four hours for another driver to come along and offer help. And by the time Trent made it back to town, he was sunburned, furious, and convinced the world was conspiring against him. Harry heard about it from June, who reported that Trent had spent the evening drinking heavily and ranting about his mechanical problems to anyone who would listen.
“He’s starting to crack,” June said. Keeps looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows. Yesterday, he accused Dave Garrett of recording their conversations. Poor Dave was so rattled he spilled beer all over himself. Good. Paranoid people make mistakes. What’s the next move? Time to turn up the heat. Harry’s next call was to an old contact from his oil rig days, Jimmy Costanos, who now ran a small gambling operation out of Callispel.
Jimmy owed Harry a favor from 10 years ago when Harry had covered his medical bills after a rig accident left him with a broken back and no insurance. Jimmy, it’s Harry Kane. Harry Jesus, it’s been years. How you been, Hermono? Been better. I need a favor. Name it. You save my ass when nobody else would help.
There’s a man named Trent Huxley running an illegal betting ring in Bosezeman. He’s convinced his Billings bookie is skimming from him. I want you to call some of your competitors. Tell them there’s easy money to be made if they can drive Trent out of business. You want to start a turf war. I want to make Trent’s life complicated.
Can you do it? Consider it done. I know three outfits that would love to move into new territory. They hear about some small town operator who’s got heat with his suppliers. They’ll circle like vultures. Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you. No, man. We’re even now. Within 48 hours, the results were visible. Strange cars started cruising past Tren’s cabin.
Phone calls came at all hours. Two of his regular clients got approached by representatives from competing gambling operations, offering better odds and lower interest rates. Marshall, now successfully embedded as muscle for hire in Trent’s organization, reported that the man was barely sleeping and had started carrying a gun everywhere.
He’s convinced someone’s trying to move in on his territory, Marshall said during a brief meeting at the hospital. Race got him spooked about potential threats and he’s seeing enemies everywhere. How close are you to his inner circle? Close enough. He’s got me doing collections with Rafe.
Thinks I’m just another broken vet who needs the money, but I’m learning plenty about how the operation works. Good. What about his finances? Hurting. The competition is cutting into his profits and he’s spending money on extra security that he can’t afford. Plus, he’s been making trips to Billings every few days to argue with his bookie face to face. Harry smiled.
Financial pressure combined with paranoia was a dangerous combination. Desperate people did stupid things. There’s something else. Marshall continued. Overheard him talking to Rafe about your daughter. He’s planning something. Harry’s expression went cold. What kind of something? Didn’t get details, but it sounded like he wants to use Cassidy and the kids as leverage.
Thinks if he can threaten them, you’ll back off and let him rebuild his operation in peace. That would be a mistake on his part. Major mistake, but it means we need to move faster. If he gets desperate enough to go after civilians, he won’t get the chance. Harry was already calculating timelines, figuring out how to accelerate his plans without making critical errors.
How long until the new sheriff arrives? 5 days. Word is he’s bringing a state investigation team with him. Going to audit the entire department, review all the corruption complaint from the past 2 years. Perfect. Time to give them something to investigate. Harry spent that evening making phone calls to contacts across three states.
Oil rig work created a network of hard men who owed each other favors and Harry had been collecting IUs for 30 years. By midnight, he had commitments from a reporter in Helena who specialized in exposing smalltown corruption, a state gaming commission investigator who’d been looking for an excuse to audit rural gambling operations, and a federal agent who tracked money laundering in the mountain states.
The net was closing, but Harry needed one more element to make it perfect. But Marshall’s next report came 2 days later, and it changed everything. Trent lost it, the ex-soldier said, his face grim. He’s convinced you’re orchestrating everything that’s been happening. The mechanical problems, the competition, the financial pressure. He thinks you’re some kind of criminal mastermind pulling strings behind the scenes.
What’s his plan? He wants to kidnap Lydia. Harry’s blood turned to ice. Explain. Figures if he grabs your granddaughter, he can force you to back off and call off whatever operation he thinks you’re running. Rafe thinks it’s a bad idea, but Trent’s not listening to reason anymore. when tomorrow morning. Lydia is supposed to start back at school, right? Trent knows the route she takes.
Knows she walks the last two blocks by herself. He’s planning to grab her, then take her to his cousin’s hunting lodge up north. Harry’s hands are steady, but his voice carried a deadly calm that made Marshall take a step back. Over my dead body, there’s more. If the kidnapping goes wrong, if you or the cops get too close, he’s prepared to. Marshall swallowed hard.
He’s prepared to eliminate the evidence. He’d kill a six-year-old girl. He’s that desperate, that paranoid. In his mind, you’ve destroyed his life, so he’s going to destroy yours. Harry was quiet for a long moment, running through options and contingencies. Then he smiled, and it was the coldest expression Marshall had ever seen.
Actually, this works out perfectly. How do you figure? Because Trent just gave me everything I need to finish this. Call your contact at the state police. Tell them you’ve got intelligence about a planned kidnapping. Give them all the details, time, location, method. You want to tip off the cops. I want to tip off the right cops.
Not Timonss and his corrupt friends, but the state investigation team that’s coming to town with a new sheriff. Marshall’s eyes widened as he understood. You moved the timeline up. Called in every favor I had. Sheriff Lasal is arriving tomorrow morning, two days early, with a full state investigation team. They’ll be in town for exactly one hour before Trent tries to kidnap Lydia.
That’s cutting it close. Close is what makes it perfect. Trent will walk right into a sting operation. And instead of just gambling charges, he’ll be facing federal kidnapping counts. What about Lydia? You can’t use a six-year-old as bait. I’m not. Harry’s smile turned genuine for the first time in days. Lydia has been staying with my old Navy buddy Griffin Lasowl and his wife for the past three days.
The girl walking to school tomorrow morning will be officer Sarah Martinez from the state police dressed to look like a child from a distance. Marshall stared at him. Griffin Lasowl, the new sheriff. We served together on a destroyer in the Persian Gulf. When I called and told him what was happening, he moved heaven and earth to get here early with a full tactical team.
Jesus, Harry, you’ve been planning this whole thing from the beginning, not the beginning. But once I realized how deep the corruption went, I knew we’d need outside help to make it stick. Harry stood up. Tomorrow morning, Trent Huxley is going to discover what happens when you threaten a cane. The next morning dawned clear and cold with the kind of crisp Montana air that made everything seem sharper and more defined.
Harry positioned himself in an unmarked van three blocks from the elementary school, wearing a state police radio headset and watching through high-powered binoculars. Sheriff Griffin Lasowl sat next to him, 58 years old, built like a linebacker with iron gray hair and the kind of steady presence that came from 30 years of law enforcement.
They’d lost touch after their Navy service, but 20 minutes of conversation had been enough to reestablish the trust they’d built serving together. Target vehicle approaching from the east came the voice of Detective Maria Santos over the radio. Black pickup truck, license plate matches. Two occupants, driver and passenger. Copy that.
All units maintain position until we have confirmation of intent, Lasi. Through his binoculars, Harry watched Trent’s truck slow down as it approached the school zone. Trent was driving with Rafe Gunner in the passenger seat. Both men were focused on the sidewalk where Officer Martinez, dressed in a pink backpack and child-sized clothing, was walking slowly toward the designated intercept point.
“This is psychological warfare,” Lasal observed quietly. “You didn’t just want to arrest him. You wanted to destroy him completely. He beat my pregnant daughter and threatened my granddaughter, Harry replied. Legal justice was never going to be enough. Target vehicle has stopped, Santos reported.
Passenger is exiting the vehicle. Harry watched Rafe Gunner approach the fake Lydia from behind, moving with the predatory grace of a man who’ done this before. The sight of a grown man stalking what he believed to be a six-year-old girl made Harry’s stomach turn. All units, suspect is approaching the decoy. Prepare to move on my signal.
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