My hands shake as I close the laptop. Years of staying invisible, months of being so careful that not even the task force monitoring my intel could trace me back to specific locations, and now someone's pulling Tom's classified files. They're looking into his investigation. The timing can't be coincidence. They might not know about me yet, but they're digging into the same case that got him killed.
And if they connect the dots between Tom's investigation and the anonymous tips I've been sending, they might be able to figure out where I am and what I'm close to finding.
Fear hits first, sharp and immediate. My training kicks in automatically, running through protocols for compromise. Burn the equipment, destroy the files, move to a new location before whoever accessed those records can triangulate my position. Running has made these calculations automatic, instinctive responses that have kept me alive when staying in one place too long could have gotten me killed.
But determination rises just as fast, hot and fierce. I'm done running. I'm so close to understanding what Tom found, what got him murdered on that mountain road. The cache box this morning proved his suspicions were correct. The network is using Alaska's remote infrastructure as transit points for trafficking. They have federal protection.
And they just tipped their hand by accessing Tom's files.
I pace the small room at the Northern Lights Lodge, working through scenarios and possibilities. Jake sent the alert, which means he's taking another massive risk monitoring those file access logs for me.
Two hours ago puts the access at four forty-three this afternoon. After I documented the cache box. After I spent six hours in Finn's truck learning these routes. After I arrived in Glacier Hollow and started asking questions about supply logistics and remote communities.
The timing could be coincidence, but years as a fugitive have taught me not to believe in coincidence. Whoever pulled those files might be trying to understand what Tom knew, whether his investigation is still a threat. They're checking to see how much evidence he gathered before he died.
My phone sits on the nightstand, Finn's number already saved under a fake contact name. He said he'd pick me up at seven. That gives me about fifteen minutes to decide whether to run or to push forward with the one person who might be my best chance at finishing what Tom started.
Or my biggest vulnerability if I've misjudged him.
I grab my jacket and head downstairs. Mara is behind the front desk, organizing paperwork with the same quiet efficiency she brings to everything. She looks up when I approach, and her expression shifts to concern.
"Everything okay?" she asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just need some air," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"Storm's picking up," Mara says, glancing toward the windows where snow swirls past the glass. "Don't go far. Weather can turn dangerous fast up here."
"I'll be careful," I promise, and head outside into cold that steals my breath.
Snow falls sideways, stinging my face and making visibility drop to maybe twenty feet. I walk toward the tree line behind the lodge, needing the movement to clear my head.
Tom was methodical, careful, the kind of investigator who didn't make careless mistakes. But they killed him anyway and made it look like an accident on a mountain road he'd driven dozens of times. After he died, a safety deposit box was discovered that neither his widow nor I knew existed.
Four months later, the Stormwatch operation failed. The same network that killed Tom destroyed my career.
Now they're pulling his files, checking what he knew before he died. They're worried enough to see how much damage I can do if I connect the pieces he left behind.
Headlights cut through the falling snow, and Finn's truck pulls into the lodge parking lot exactly at seven. He kills the engine and climbs out, tall frame moving with controlled efficiency. His gaze finds me immediately despite the storm, and he walks toward me with purpose.
"Ready?" he asks, then stops. His eyes narrow slightly, reading something in my face. "What happened?"
I glance back at the lodge, at the warm lights glowing through windows where Mara might be watching. "We should talk in the truck."
Finn nods once and leads the way back to the vehicle. The cab is warm when we climb inside, smelling like coffee and diesel, worn leather and mountain air. He doesn't start the engine, just shifts to face me and waits.
"I got a message," I say. "Encrypted. From my contact inside the Bureau."
His posture changes subtly, going alert. "You still have a contact inside the FBI?"
"One person. Someone who believed me when the evidence started piling up."
"And you trust this person?" Finn's tone is careful, not accusatory. "Not a setup?"
"They stayed behind when I ran. Kept their head down, maintained a spotless record while quietly monitoring the systems for anything connected to my case." I meet his gaze directly. "If the Bureau ever discovered they were still in contact with me, their career would be over and they'd face criminal charges. They don't risk reaching out unless it's critical."
Finn processes that. "What did your contact say?"
"Someone accessed Tom's classified case files from a DOJ office in Washington. Two hours ago."
