Page 8 of Mountain Hero

I could go. The store is right on my property, no more than a three-minute drive. Two, if I hurry.

Should I wait for the police to get there? Yes.

Am I going to? No.

My mind shifts into combat mode. All the things I need to do tick by in rapid-fire succession. Grab my Sig from the cabinet in the living room. Keys from the table by the door. Take the hatchback instead of the old pickup truck—the newer engine will allow for a quieter approach.

During the short drive to the store, I run through my plan.

Headlights off once I hit the driveway. No worry about navigation; I’ve gone to the store so many times I could make the trip blindfolded.

Park along the west side of the building, the one without any windows.

Check the back door first. My guess is that’s the one an intruder would use.

I curse myself for not installing a full security system, like I’d been nagging my uncle to do for years. If I had, it would have alerted me already. But Uncle Caleb always pushed back when I brought it up, saying, “It’s a safe town, Enzo. I don’t need it. And if someone really needs the money that badly, they can have it.”

When I moved here, I thought about having Alec put in a system—he owns a home security company, after all—but I almost felt like I was going against what my uncle would want. So I put it off, and now I wish I hadn’t.

Less than a year and I’ve already screwed up. I’m supposed to be taking care of Uncle Caleb’s store, not letting some asshole rob it.

But if I catch the person in the act…

I’m trained to take down an enemy in seconds. Close combat or at a distance, an ordinary burglar doesn’t stand a chance against me.

Decades of training and experience make me the threat. Not the intruder. Not the police. Me.

As I come down the driveway toward the store, I’m almost disappointed to discover the parking lot empty. Though it doesn’t necessarily mean the store is—whoever broke in could have made their approach by foot. Not great for a quick getaway, but in the thick brush of the woods, it would be nearly impossible to follow them.

It’s a dark night, but my gaze is still constantly moving, searching for some hint of movement. A shadow appearing behind the front windows, a glint of metal, a flicker of a flashlight quickly extinguished.

There’s nothing. From the outside, the store looks exactly as I left it five hours ago.

But when I get to the back of the store, it’s a different story.

The back door is open, and the motion sensor light above has been smashed, leaving fragments of plastic scattered on the pavement below it. That was one concession my uncle made, and it wasn’t because of burglars—if he went out in the dark, he wanted to make sure he didn’t encounter an unfriendly animal or end up sprayed by a skunk.

My jaw clenches as I take in the first sign of damage. Anger surges, but I tamp it down. This is the time for careful observation and cool-headed strategy, not the heat of emotion.

Sig out and ready, I slowly enter the store, listening for any small noise that could signal the location of an intruder—a sniffle, a caught breath, a shuffle, the slight creak of a foot on old wooden flooring.

It’s darker than I’d like, with just a single nightlight casting a faint glow along the hallway floor. I make a mental note to add lights to the security package I’m going to have Alec install as soon as possible.

All the doors in the hallway are shut, just as I left them. That doesn’t mean someone couldn’t be lurking behind one, and I take a second to debate where to search first—the front room, the office, the bathroom, or one of the two storage closets.

The front room has all the expensive gear, but a burglar could also be searching for a safe in the office. So it’s really a toss-up which one to check first. They’ll be out of luck if they’re looking for a safe, though. At the end of each day, I take all the cash with me to be stored in the safe back at home.

I decide to start in the salesroom—so an intruder can’t potentially slip out the front door ahead of me—and that’s when I really get pissed.

The glass case that holds all the GPS devices and utility knives and smart watches has been smashed, and half of the stock is missing. All the hiking backpacks are strewn across the floor, and one of the clothing racks is on its side on the floor, all the fleece jackets in a crumpled heap beneath it.

The register is upside down on the floor, probably thrown there in anger after the burglar realized there was no money inside it.

In the corner, the display tent is smashed almost beyond recognition; all broken poles and torn fabric and mesh.

Then I see red, and my chest ignites with fury.

There’s a gas can on the floor. As I move closer to it, I catch the scent of fresh gasoline.

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