The First Badge
Declan
"Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves." — Matthew 7:15
The sun didn't so much rise over Enen as it bled through the canopy in pale, sickly hues of pewter and bruised violet.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed, fully clothed, my bare feet planted flat against the cold hardwood floor. My eyes were burning, raw and dry from another night of zero sleep. The silence of the ranch house was no longer heavy; it felt expectant, like the quiet that settles over a forest right before a predator steps out from the treeline.
On the nightstand, my SIG Sauer P226 rested next to a cold cup of black coffee I'd poured myself at four in the morning. My mind kept looping through the wet, fog-choked road on the Reserve border.
Zion.
The name rolled around in my head, heavy and jagged. I could still feel the sheer, suffocating gravity of his presence—the dark leather patch, the jagged scar cutting down into his full beard, the broad, muscular frame that made six-foot-five look like a starting point, and that single, golden-hazel eye that had locked onto me like I was something he'd been tracking for miles.
And then there was the heat.
I raised my right hand, looking at my index and middle fingers. The memory of him resting his calloused hand against the barrel of my service weapon made my skin prickle all over again. It wasn't normal. A civilian—even a powerful, intimidating local chief—doesn't walk down the barrel of a loaded gun held by an unstable NYPD detective and calmly push it toward the asphalt.
He was testing me, I thought, grinding the heels of my palms into my eyes until I saw white sparks. Or he knew exactly who I was before I even pulled the trigger.
A soft knock at the bedroom door shattered the quiet.
"Declan?" Malachi's voice came through the heavy oak panel, gentle and measured. "I'm brewing a fresh pot downstairs. Breakfast is ready if you're up."
"I'm up," I called out, my voice sounding rougher than usual. "Be right down."
I pulled on my tactical boots, laced them tight, and shoved my pistol into its hip holster. Slipping my leather jacket over my shoulders, I stepped out into the hallway.
As I passed the tarnished gold frame, I forced myself not to look at the painting. But even with my eyes locked straight ahead, I could feel the canvas staring back at me—the dark trees, the pale moon, and the subtle, looming shape buried in the brush.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of dark roast coffee, smoked bacon, and woodsmoke. Malachi was standing by the massive slate island, wearing a beige linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, expertly plating scrambled eggs and thick slices of sourdough toast.
"Morning," Malachi said, offering a warm, easy smile as I pulled out a heavy oak barstool. He slid a steaming ceramic mug across the stone counter toward me. "How did you sleep?"
"I didn't," I said honestly, wrapping both hands around the warm mug. "The air out here is too quiet. Makes my head ring."
Malachi let out a low, sympathetic hum, pouring himself a cup from the glass carafe. "It takes time to adjust. The city teaches your nervous system to stay hyper-vigilant. When you strip away the traffic and the sirens, your brain tries to fill the void with its own noise."
"Yeah," I muttered, taking a long sip. The hot, bitter liquid hit my throat, burning away some of the morning fog in my brain. "Something like that."
Malachi leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. His bright green-blue eyes studied me with that same quiet, medical intensity from the night before. "I heard your truck leave around midnight, Declan. Everything alright?"
I froze for a fraction of a second, my eyes narrowing over the rim of my cup. "You said you were a light sleeper."
"I am," Malachi said smoothly, not a single flicker of offense in his posture. "And I know what insomnia looks like. You were restless. Did you find what you were looking for out on the pass?"
I set the mug down on the slate with a soft clack. I thought about lying. I thought about giving him the standard detective brush-off—just getting my bearings, getting used to the roads. But Malachi was Julian's connection, and if I was going to survive in this town, I needed to know what I was up against.
"I ran into someone," I said directly.
Malachi's eyebrows arched slightly. "Oh? At midnight on the Reserve border?"
"A giant," I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the counter. "Six-foot-five, dark hair, bearded, eye patch over his left eye. Dragging a black canvas bag across the county road."
The air in the kitchen subtly shifted. It was tiny—a mere fraction of a second where Malachi's easy, relaxed posture tightened—but my detective training caught it instantly. His green-blue eyes darkened just a shade before his polite smile slipped back into place.
"Ah," Malachi said quietly, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Zion."
"Zion Zephaniah," I corrected. "He claimed he was poaching a buck. Showed me the antlers inside the bag."
"He was probably telling the truth," Malachi replied, stepping over to the stove to turn off the burner. "The Zephaniah family owns nearly three hundred thousand acres of old-growth wilderness out here. Technically, they consider the entire mountain their private hunting grounds, regardless of county lines or local wildlife ordinances."
"He walked right up to the barrel of my gun, Mal," I said, my voice dropping into a hard, low register. "I had a loaded P226 pointed at his chest, and he didn't even blink. He pushed the barrel down with two fingers and told me to lower my iron."
Malachi turned back to face me, his expression turning serious. "Zion isn't like ordinary people, Declan. None of the Zephaniahs are. They've run this valley for generations. They are old money, old blood, and incredibly territorial. Zion is the head of the family—the 'Chief,' as the locals call him. He doesn't fear police badges, and he certainly doesn't fear a firearm."
"He's an arrogant bastard," I growled, the memory of Zion's wine-colored lips smirking down at me making a fresh wave of heat flare in my gut. "He was playing with me."