A Navy SEAL Inherited His Poor Grandma’s Mountain House — What His Dog Found Shook the Town

Chapter 9

Cole burst through the back window of the mill, glass exploding around him as he hit the ground running. Snow sprayed beneath his boots. Behind him, shouts erupted. Flashlights swung wildly.

“Stop! Police!”

He didn’t stop. He ran for the tree line, his lungs burning, the ledger pressed against his chest. Atlas ran beside him, a dark streak against the white landscape.

A gunshot cracked the night air. The bullet tore through a branch above his head. Cole didn’t flinch. He zigzagged, using the terrain, the same way he’d done in a hundred firefights.

The trees swallowed them. The shouts faded. The flashlights disappeared.

But Cole knew they wouldn’t stop. Marcus Crowe had the sheriff on his payroll. The whole town was a trap.

He needed to change tactics.

He found a hollow beneath a fallen log, sheltered from the wind. He crawled inside, pulling Atlas with him. They lay there, breathing hard, their bodies pressed together for warmth.

Cole pulled out the burner phone. One bar of signal. He dialed Elena’s number.

She answered on the first ring. “Cole?”

“Did you set me up?”

“Set you up? No. I called my contact. He was supposed to meet you—”

“He didn’t show. The sheriff did.”

A sharp intake of breath. “They must have intercepted him. Cole, I’m so sorry—”

“Doesn’t matter. I need a new plan.”

“Listen to me. There’s a reporter in Denver. Sarah Chen. She’s been investigating the Crowes for years. If you get the ledger to her, she’ll make sure the truth comes out. The state attorney is too close to Crowe. But the press — the press can’t be bought.”

Cole was silent for a moment. A reporter. It was risky. But it might be the only play he had left.

“Give me the number.”

Elena recited it. He memorized it.

“Cole. Be careful. Marcus is desperate. He’s called in every favor he has.”

“Good. Desperate people make mistakes.”

He hung up and dialed the reporter’s number. It rang six times. A woman’s voice answered, groggy with sleep.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Cole Bishop. I’m Margaret Holloway’s grandson. I have the proof that Benjamin Crowe embezzled the 1964 relief funds. And I need your help.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly: “Where are you?”

“I’ll call you back with a meeting point. I need to make sure I’m not being followed.”

He hung up and lay back against the cold earth, Atlas warm against his side. The dog’s steady breathing was the only thing that kept him grounded.

He had a ledger. He had a plan. And he had a dog who had never let him down.

Tomorrow, he would end this.