The terrain gets rougher. Trees press close on both sides, branches forming a canopy that blocks most of the light. The road climbs steadily, switchbacks carved into the mountainside with drops that would be fatal if I misjudge a turn.
Cara doesn't flinch. She watches the edge of the road with calm assessment, trusting me to handle the driving while she prepares mentally for whatever we find at the site.
"There," I say, pointing to a cluster of abandoned structures barely visible through the trees. "That's the old logging camp. The equipment shed Tom marked in his notes should be about two hundred yards north of the main building."
I park the truck in a clearing that offers multiple exit routes if we need to leave fast. Old tactical thinking, but it's kept me alive this long. Cara is already out of the vehicle before I kill the engine, camera in hand, moving with purpose toward the structures.
I grab the rifle from behind the seat and follow her. The weight is familiar, comforting. I haven't needed it on a supply run yet, but today feels different. Today we're actively looking for evidence that could get us both killed if the wrong people find out.
The equipment shed sits where Tom's coordinates indicated. The structure is weathered but solid, built to withstand decadesof harsh winters. Fresh snow covers the ground, but disturbed patterns show underneath. Recent activity, within the past week based on how the snow has settled.
Cara photographs everything before we get close. Wide shots establishing context, close-ups capturing details. She moves like she's building a legal case, documenting chain of custody even though there's no official investigation to present the evidence to.
I keep watch while she works. Eyes scanning the tree line, ears tuned to any sound that doesn't belong. The forest is quiet except for wind in the branches and the occasional bird call. No engine noise, no voices, no indication we're not alone.
But the hair on the back of my neck prickles anyway.
Cara reaches the shed and tries the door. Locked, but the mechanism is newer than the building. Someone's upgraded the security recently, which tells me whatever is inside matters enough to protect.
"Can you open it?" she asks.
I pull a tension wrench and pick from my pocket. "Give me two minutes."
The lock is a standard deadbolt, nothing fancy. I work the pins carefully, feeling for the binding order, setting them one at a time. The mechanism clicks open after ninety seconds.
Cara enters first, camera ready. I follow with the rifle, covering our six while she documents what we found.
The shed is full of supply crates. Military-grade containers, weatherproofed and sealed. The markings on the sides match the pattern Zeke described when he briefed me on the trafficking network's logistics. Coded references, lot numbers that don't correspond to any legitimate shipping manifests, dates that align with known movement of victims through remote areas.
This is a staging point. A place where traffickers stockpile supplies before moving people through the backcountry, usingthe isolation to hide operations that would be impossible in populated areas.
Cara's hands shake slightly as she photographs each crate. She processes what this means—Tom was right. The network is using Alaska's abandoned infrastructure the way he suspected. And if this site is active, there are probably others scattered through the mountains.
"We need samples," she says. "Something physical the task force can analyze."
My knife makes quick work of one crate. Inside are non-perishable food supplies, medical equipment, camping gear. Nothing illegal on the surface, but the quantities suggest this is meant to support multiple people for extended periods.
Cara photographs the contents, then carefully removes a few items for evidence. MRE packages, a first aid kit, a water purification system. She seals each piece in evidence bags she brought specifically for this purpose, labeling them with location and time stamps.
The wind picks up outside, and I check my watch. Almost noon. The weather system's moving in faster than forecasted.
"We need to go," I say. "Storm's coming early."
Cara looks at the remaining crates, clearly wanting more time to document everything. But she's professional enough to know when to cut losses and preserve what we have.
"Okay. Let's move."
We secure the shed and head back to the truck. The sky has darkened considerably, clouds rolling in from the north heavy with snow. The temperature drops as we load the evidence, and the first flakes start falling before we're back in the vehicle.
I start the engine and turn the heater to maximum. "Emergency shelter is thirty minutes north. We're not going to make it back to my place before it hits."
Cara nods, accepting the situation without complaint. "Then we shelter."
The drive to the forestry cabin tests every skill I learned navigating Afghan mountains in deteriorating conditions. Visibility drops to maybe twenty feet. Snow falls so thick it's like driving through a white wall. The road becomes treacherous, ice forming under fresh powder in a combination that makes even four-wheel drive feel inadequate.
I drive by feel and memory, knowing this route well enough to anticipate curves before I can see them. Cara stays quiet, letting me concentrate, one hand braced against the dashboard for stability.
The cabin appears through the storm like a ghost materializing from fog. Single room, timber construction, maintained by the forestry service for situations like this. I pull as close as I can and kill the engine.
