I'm not saving lives in hot zones anymore, but I'm keeping this community functioning. That has to count for something.
Cara's face surfaces in my mind while I'm tightening the final bolt. Yesterday she trusted me with the truth about Tom, about being framed, about why she's really here. This morning at the mine she showed me what she thinks Tom found before they killed him. Photographed that cache box like she was building a case she could actually prosecute. Tonight she'll bring the files, the notes from her investigation, three years of evidence she's been gathering alone.
And I offered to help before I knew the full picture, before I understood what resources might be available. Just looked at her standing there with that cache box and her camera and decided she was worth the risk.
I should have turned her in the moment I recognized her from the news coverage. Fugitive wanted in connection with Operation Stormwatch, three dead agents, corruption charges that would put her in prison for decades if the government ever got their hands on her. My duty as a citizen was clear. My responsibility to the community that took me in when I had nowhere else to go even clearer.
But something about her story rang true. How she talked about Tom Rearden, about finishing what he started, about being framed by someone with enough reach to manufacture evidence and destroy careers. Conviction like that doesn't come from guilt. It comes from three years of running with nothing but the truth to keep you going.
How she looked at that cache box this morning, photographing it with the same methodical precision I'd use for a pre-flight inspection, building a case one image at a time despite having no badge and no authority and no backup. Someone who still believed in the job even after the job had destroyed her.
I've seen enough people in my years flying MEDEVAC to recognize the difference between someone running from guilt and someone running toward justice. Guilty people make mistakes when pressure increases. They get sloppy, desperate, start cutting corners to stay ahead of whoever's chasing them.
Cara's not sloppy. Every move she makes is calculated. Professional. The way she assessed Raymond's homestead yesterday wasn't paranoia, it was training she can't turn off even when she's pretending to be a journalist researching small-town Alaska. The way she handled finding that cache this morning, documenting everything before touching anything, maintaining chain of custody protocols even though there's no official investigation to present the evidence to.
That's not the behavior of someone who betrayed her team. That's someone who still thinks like an FBI agent even though the FBI destroyed her career.
Defiance looks good on her. Given the circumstances, it probably shouldn't be attractive, but it is.
Footsteps approach from outside the bay while I'm wiping grease off my hands. Heavy boots on gravel, unhurried pace. Zeke's the only person who shows up unannounced when I'm working on the truck.
"Thought I might find you here," he says from the bay entrance.
Zeke MacAllister is Glacier Hollow's sheriff. For the past two years, we've been coordinating on trafficking cases after patterns started showing up in the backcountry supply routes I run. He works with a small team tracking networks through remote areas, and lately those networks have been getting bolder.
I glance over my shoulder. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking relaxed in a way that means he's paying very close attention to everything around him.
"Day off from saving the world?" I ask.
"Sheriffs don't really take days off." He walks into the bay, glancing at the truck engine. "How's she holding up?"
"Well enough." I lower the hood and feel it latch. "The belt was starting to slip. I fixed it before it became a problem."
"Good habit to have up here." He pauses, studying me. "Saw you come back from the mining corridor earlier. Anything interesting out that way?"
My hand stills on the inspection. Zeke wouldn't ask unless the task force had intel suggesting the area mattered. I turn to face him directly.
"Fresh tire tracks near the old mine entrance. Military-grade cache box buried under snow, recently accessed based on the lack of ice in the lock mechanism."
Zeke's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts slightly. More alert. "You report it?"
"Cara Brennan photographed it this morning. We documented the location. She's bringing everything she has tonight so we can go through it together."
"The fugitive FBI agent." Zeke's tone is neutral, not surprised. He already knows who she is.
"She's not corrupt," I say. "Someone with serious reach framed her for Operation Stormwatch. She's been investigating the same trafficking network Tom Rearden was tracking when he died."
"I know." Zeke picks up a socket wrench from the rolling toolbox, examines it, sets it back. "We've been monitoring anonymous intel coming into Whitewater Junction's task force for months. Solid information. Professional analysis. Someone with FBI training who's been building a case from outside the system. We suspected she might be the source. When she showed up here, the timeline matched."
He pauses, considering his next words. "Task force has been tracking rebuilt trafficking routes through remote areas," he continues. "Intelligence suggests someone's using abandoned infrastructure as transfer points. Old mining sites, logging camps, places off the grid where activity doesn't raise immediate red flags."
"Like the corridor I hit this morning."
"Just like that." He picks up a wrench, examines it, sets it back in its precise spot. "We've known for months that someone was operating in this region. What we didn't know was who might be investigating from outside official channels."
"And now you know it's Cara."
"Now we know she's following the same trail Tom Rearden was tracking when he died." Zeke meets my gaze. "What do you make of her?"
