While he starts the coffee, I explore the cabin properly. Last night we were focused on securing the space, on strategy and decisions. Now I can actually see what his life looks like. Clean lines, minimal furniture, everything in its place. A wood stove dominates one corner, flanked by stacked cordwood cut to identical lengths. The kitchen is small but well-organized, cabinets labeled, supplies rotated by expiration date. Military precision translated to civilian life.
But there's warmth here too. A quilt draped over the couch in muted greens and browns. Books stacked on a side table, spines creased from repeated reading. A coffee mug on the counter with the Army Aviation insignia faded from years of washing.
"Workshop's out back," Finn says, pouring coffee into two mugs. "If you want to see it. Gives you an idea of what I've been doing the last few years besides supply runs."
I follow him outside. The cold hits immediately, sharp enough to steal breath. We cross through fresh snow to a separate structure behind the main cabin. It's weathered like the house, built solid to withstand Alaskan winters.
Inside, the workshop is surprisingly spacious, well-lit by windows on two walls. Tools hang on pegboards in organized rows, each outlined in marker so there's no question where they belong. A workbench runs the length of one wall, surface scarred from years of use but meticulously clean. Parts and components are sorted into labeled bins, arranged by size and function.
And in the corner, taking up a quarter of the space, sits what looks like the disassembled engine of a small aircraft.
I move closer, drawn by the care evident in how each piece has been cleaned and maintained. "What is this?"
"Lycoming O-360. Four-cylinder, fuel-injected." He crosses to the engine, runs his fingers over the casing with the kind of reverence most people reserve for sacred objects. "Pulled it from a Cessna 172 that crashed near Anchorage eight years ago. Owner didn't survive, family didn't want the wreckage. I bought it for parts."
"But you rebuilt it."
"Yeah. Took a few years, working when I had time between supply runs." His voice goes quiet. "Thought maybe if I could fix this, I could fix myself. Get back in the air."
The weight of that admission settles between us. "Can you?"
"Engine runs perfect. Passed every test I could throw at it." He releases the casing, steps back. "But the nerve damage in my hand means I can't hold a stick steady enough for the kind of flying that matters. MEDEVAC requires precision. One mistake and people die."
I hear what he's not saying. That he's already lost people. That the injury that grounded him cost more than just his career.
"Show me the plane."
He leads me to a hangar behind the workshop. Inside sits a Cessna 172, older model but maintained with the same obsessive care as everything else in his life. The paint is fresh, white with blue trim. The propeller gleams despite the dim light filtering through gaps in the roof.
"Does it fly?"
"Yeah. Took it up twice last summer, short hops to test the engine." He walks around the aircraft, checking struts and control surfaces with practiced efficiency. "But I can't do thekind of flying I was trained for. Can't trust my hand when it counts."
We return to the cabin in silence. Inside, Finn builds up the fire while I explore the small space more thoroughly. Photographs line one shelf, and I'm drawn to them like evidence at a crime scene.
Most are military. Finn in flight gear standing beside a Black Hawk, younger and clean-shaven, grinning at the camera with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you're capable of. Group shots with his crew, arms around each other's shoulders, the easy camaraderie of people who trust each other with their lives. Action shots of aircraft in flight, landscapes viewed from altitudes most people never experience.
And then, tucked in the back, one that's different. Finn in dress uniform, standing with an older couple who share his features. His parents, probably. All three smiling, pride evident in every line of their faces.
"When was this?" I hold up the photograph.
He glances over, and his expression softens. "My commissioning ceremony. Day I became an officer. Dad served in Vietnam, flew Hueys. Mom was an Army nurse. They understood what it meant to serve."
"Was?"
"Dad died five years ago. Heart attack. Mom followed six months later. Doctor said it was stroke, but I think it was just broken heart." He returns his attention to the fire. "They were married forty-three years. She didn't know how to be without him."
The casual way he delivers the information doesn't hide the grief underneath. Parents gone, career ended, living alone in the Alaskan wilderness. This man has survived losses that would destroy most people.
"I'm sorry," I say, because what else is there to say?
"Everyone loses people. Everyone loses things that matter. Question is whether you let it destroy you or whether you find a way to keep going." He straightens up, brushes soot from his hands. "You've lost people too. Tom. Your career. Years of your life spent running."
The mention of those losses brings everything rushing back. Tom's murder. Stormwatch going wrong. Three agents dead because I made the wrong call, because I trusted intelligence that turned out to be false, because someone inside the Bureau wanted the operation to fail.
Finn knows about the deaths. I told Zeke about them, laid out the facts. But what Finn doesn't know is how those deaths haunt me. The faces I see when I close my eyes. The way I replay every decision, every choice, wondering if I could have seen the trap before they walked into it.
The guilt sits heavy. I've told him the facts, but not the weight of them. Not the parts that make me wake up at three in the morning, heart pounding, convinced I hear their voices.
