But Mac didn’t feel as confident as his words sounded as he slipped through the gate and set off down the dirt road. The gate was probably rigged with an alarm that went off in the camp. They would know someone was coming.

Usually being in the woods calmed him. But electricity hummed in the air, and adrenaline buzzed in Mac’s veins. He’d left Stella at the fire tower because he wasn’t sure how Freddie was going to receive him. The last time they’d connected, Freddie had owed him. But that debt had been paid. Now they were even.

He paused at the edge of the clearing. This early in the morning, most of Freddie’s men would be sleeping. Their clients tended to be night people. But Mac had no doubt guards were on duty. His shoulder blades itched. Eyes were on him. No question.

A sturdy cabin and several sheds occupied the clearing. Behind the buildings, the approaching storm whipped the lake’s surface into tiny whitecaps. Three mammoth SUVs were lined up in front of the cabin.

All looked suspiciously like the one that had followed him.

Mac stepped out of the shadows.

“Stop.” A man in cargo pants and a muscle tank looked comfortable with the assault rifle pointed at Mac’s chest.

He raised his hands. “I’m not armed. I know Freddie.”

The man jerked the barrel toward the cabin. “We’ll see about that.”

A second man stepped out from behind a huge oak tree. He gave Mac a cursory pat down. Mac knew better than to bring a handgun into the camp, but he’d hidden the Colonel’s KA-BAR in his boot. It wasn’t as accessible as he’d like, but they’d have to look hard to find it.

A half dozen men emerged from the cabin and sheds to congregate on the pine needle carpet. Freddie’s son, Rafe, stood a head taller than the others. Despite the heat, he was dressed in slim, European-cut jeans and a tailored black shirt. His blond hair was tied off his chiseled face.

Mac caught his gaze. Once, Rafe had been his closest friend. “I see you’re still dressing like a fancy-pants.”

“And I see you still need a new wardrobe.” Rafe took two steps and gave Mac a shoulder-slapping hug. Rafe’s face went serious. “What brings you here, Mac?”

“I came to ask you a favor.”

Looping an arm over Mac’s shoulders, Rafe steered him away from the other men. He lowered his voice. “What do you need?”

Mac pointed to his pocket, then slowly withdrew the two pictures. “Do either of these men look familiar?”

Rafe barely looked at Adam Miller’s photo. “Never seen him before.” He touched Noah Spivak’s mug shot with the tip of his finger. “This one is a crazy motherfucker. He’s with that white supremacy militia group, WSA.”

“WSA?”