The Black Wolf Tag: A Disgraced Veteran Forced to Kneel by His Traitorous Best Friend Facing $4 Million Land Extortion and Devastating Tragedy
The Missoula safehouse was a blur of movement and pain. My back screamed with every breath, a sharp, white-hot agony that made my vision swim. Dr. Evelyn Ray worked quickly, her face grim, her hands precise.
“You’re lucky, Jack,” she murmured, examining the bruising. “The fracture is old. But Julian’s kick reopened it, and then some.”
She injected a local anesthetic, the needle a tiny sting compared to the throbbing in my spine. Evelyn had been a Black Wolf combat medic. Our paths hadn’t crossed often, but her reputation was legendary.
“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use right now,” I managed, gritting my teeth.
She met my gaze, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “You came straight here, with that drive. That was the right call. But your spine needed attention hours ago.”
The encrypted hard drives sat on a small, scarred table beside her, two black bricks of data. One was Damon’s personal ledger, the other his tactical plans for acquiring my family’s land.
“Can you crack them?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the burning sensation spreading across my lower back.
Evelyn sighed, pulling on sterile gloves. “Black Wolf encryption. It’s not off-the-shelf. But I have access to some tools. It’ll take time, and a lot of power.”
“Time is something we don’t have,” I said. “Damon will be moving already.”
“He might be,” she agreed, “but he won’t expect this. Not from you. Not after the bankruptcy. He thought you were finished.”
She gently cleaned the wound, her touch surprisingly light. “This is going to sting. Federal offense, by the way, for me to treat you off-record like this. High risk to my license.”
“I appreciate it, Evelyn,” I said, forcing the words out.
She didn’t answer, her focus entirely on her work. She wrapped my torso tightly with a medical bandage, stabilizing the fracture.
“You need rest,” she stated. “Real rest. But I know that’s not an option.”
“No,” I confirmed. “It’s not.”
“Good,” she said, tapping a tablet with her finger. “Because while you’re recovering, I’ll be working on these.” She gestured to the drives.
“What do you need?”
“Privacy. And a lot of coffee.” She gave a ghost of a smile. “And maybe a bottle of that single malt you used to keep hidden.”
The thought of Damon’s meticulously planned financial and tactical operations, now sitting on those drives, spurred me on. Evelyn was risking everything. I knew the weight of her choice.
I closed my eyes, picturing Clara’s ranch, imagining Damon’s bulldozers tearing into the soil. That picture pushed the pain to the background.
The drives were a lifeline. Evelyn was the one holding it.
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