My attention sharpens despite the long drive. Years of training don't just disappear because you're operating outside your official authority. The way he moves, the way his eyes scan the room in one efficient sweep, the slight favor he gives his left side suggesting an old injury compensated for but not forgotten all confirm his military bearing. This has to be Finn Ashworth.
Sadie's face lights up when she sees him. Genuine warmth, the kind you reserve for people you trust completely. "Finn! Didn't expect you until tomorrow."
"Made good time. Roads were clear." His voice matches his appearance, low and controlled with no wasted words. He crosses to the counter with that same efficient stride, pulls a folded delivery manifest from his jacket. "Everything's in the truck. Same as usual, plus that order of medical supplies Doc Sage requested."
"Perfect." Sadie takes the manifest, scans it quickly. "You eaten? I've got stew going."
"Wouldn't say no." He settles onto a stool three down from mine, giving himself clear sight lines to both the door and the back of the café in what's probably unconscious tactical positioning at this point.
Then his eyes meet mine in direct assessment with no pretense. He's measuring everything about me the same way I did him: my clothes that are too new, my bag that's too expensive, my posture that's too alert for someone claiming exhaustion from the road. I watch him processing, filing away details, coming to conclusions I can't control.
Despite every bit of training that says I should be focused solely on the mission, my pulse kicks. The sharp intelligence in his eyes, the way he carries himself with that quiet confidence. I push the reaction down, lock it away where it can't interfere.
Sadie intercepts the moment before it can stretch uncomfortably. "Finn, this is Cara. She's a journalist writing about remote Alaska communities. Interested in supply logistics."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. Skepticism, maybe. Or recognition of someone else playing a role. "That right?"
"That's right." I keep my voice steady, professional. "Sadie mentioned you handle most deliveries to the area. I'd love to hear about your routes, challenges you face, how you manage inventory for communities this isolated."
"For what publication?" Same question Sadie asked, but sharper coming from him.
"Freelance currently. Pitching to several outlets." The answer sounds hollow the second time. Like I'm reciting a script rather than explaining genuine interest.
Finn accepts the bowl of stew Sadie sets before him. Takes a bite. Chews deliberately. The silence stretches just long enough to become pointed without crossing into outright rudeness. When he speaks again, his tone is perfectly neutral. "Sure. I can talk about routes."
"I'd appreciate it. Could I ride along on your next delivery? Get a sense of what the run actually entails?" Bold request, but journalists push. Backing off now signals I'm not serious.
"Could arrange that." Another bite. Another pause measured to create exactly the right amount of uncertainty. "Tomorrow. I'm doing a supply run to the Kowalski homestead up near the pass. Six-hour round trip. You up for that?"
Six hours in a truck with someone who's already skeptical. Six hours to either sell my cover story or watch it crack under pressure. Six hours to figure out if Finn Ashworth knows anything about trafficking routes, federal protection, or why Tom Rearden died asking the wrong questions.
"I'm up for it," I say.
"Pick you up here tomorrow morning at 8. Dress warm. We might hit weather." He returns his attention to his stew, effectively ending the conversation.
I finish my meal in silence. Pay Sadie, who waves off my attempt to tip generously. "Save it for the next meal," she says with a smile that makes guilt twist fresh in my chest.
Finn doesn't look up when I leave. But I feel his gaze tracking my exit, measuring, evaluating. Tomorrow's ride just became far more complicated.
The cold hits hard after the café's warmth. I walk back to my car through darkness broken only by streetlights and the occasional lit window. The drive to the Northern Lights Lodge takes less than three minutes. Mara Bennett, who runs the place with the same practical efficiency Sadie brings to her café, checks me in without unnecessary questions.
My room is warm and inviting despite my exhaustion. Rustic timber walls, a quilt-covered bed that looks handmade, a view of the frozen lake through curtains Mara must have sewn herself. This place feels like someone's sanctuary, carefully built and maintained. I lock the door, draw the curtains, perform the security check that's become ritual. The windows are locked, the exits clear, my bag positioned where I can reach it fast.
Sleep comes in fragments where I'm back in Seattle, watching the warehouse burn with evidence I needed while accusations build and I stand helpless. Tom Rearden appears, bullet hole in his forehead, asking why I didn't figure it outfaster. The agent who framed me stands behind him, faceless but undeniable.
I wake to gray pre-dawn light and the certainty that today determines everything.
Eight o'clock will come fast, so I spend the little time I have reviewing notes, checking gear, and rehearsing answers to questions I expect Finn will ask. Good cover stories hold up under pressure because they're built on truth. I am interested in supply logistics. I do need to understand how goods move through remote communities. The reasons just aren't what I'm claiming.
At seven forty-five I return to The Hollow Hearth. Finn's truck idles at the curb. Dark blue, older model, built for function over appearance. The passenger door swings open as I approach.
"Hop in," he says. "We're burning daylight."
I climb into the cab. Interior smells like coffee and diesel, worn leather and mountain air. The space is clean but well-used, loved in the way tools are loved, maintained because they're essential.
Finn pulls away from the curb with smooth confidence born of thousands of hours behind this wheel, and we drive through town in silence. Pass the last buildings. Reach the mountain road that winds up into passes I studied on maps but have never seen in person.
Five miles out, when town has disappeared behind curves and trees, Finn speaks.
