She studies the map, tactical mind working through scenarios. "We'll need provisions for at least a week. Communication gear in case we need to contact Zeke or the task force. Weapons and ammunition. Medical supplies."
"All of which I have." I straighten up. "Question is timing. We move too fast, we signal that we know we're compromised. We wait too long, we lose the advantage."
"We go tonight. After dark, when visibility is limited and thermal signatures are harder to track through tree cover." She meets my eyes. "But before we do, I need to show you what I've found. The specific evidence I pulled from the box, the connections to Alaska, how close I actually am to naming the Marshal."
I pull out a chair, sit down. "Show me."
She opens her laptop, pulls up encrypted files. "Tom left breadcrumbs. Coded references in his personal notes that his widow kept. Nothing complete, nothing that would hold up in court alone, but enough to point me in the right direction." Her fingers move across the keyboard, bringing up documents. "Three years of following those breadcrumbs. Surveillance on known trafficking routes, witness interviews with people who've worked inside the network, financial analysis tracking money between shell companies and federal accounts."
"You've been building a parallel investigation."
"Yes. The official investigation into Stormwatch blamed me for negligence. But Tom's notes suggested someone wanted that operation to fail. Wanted those agents dead because they were getting too close to the corruption he'd been tracking." She pulls up a spreadsheet showing financial transactions. "I've documented payments from trafficking operations to accounts controlled by federal officials. Patterns that prove coordination between corrupt law enforcement and the network they're supposed to be dismantling."
I lean forward, studying the data. Years of work compiled into comprehensive evidence. "This is solid."
"It's close. I have the financial connections, the witness statements, the operational patterns. But the final piece, the one that ties it all together and puts a name to the Marshal, that's what Tom hid here in Alaska." She switches to another file, showing communication intercepts. "These are encrypted messages between trafficking operations and someone they refer to as 'the Marshal.' The encryption is military-grade, but I've been able to decrypt enough to establish patterns. Locations, timing, coordination with federal operations."
"And the Alaska connection?"
"Tom's notes indicated that trafficking routes run through remote Alaskan communities. Perfect locations for moving people without detection. Small populations, limited law enforcement presence, vast wilderness for hiding operations." She points to specific intercepts. "These messages reference shipments moving through locations in this region. And the timing correlates with periods when certain federal officials were supposedly conducting routine inspections in Alaska."
I process this, understanding the implications. "So the Marshal uses official travel as cover for coordinating trafficking operations."
"Exactly. And Tom died four months before Stormwatch because he'd gotten close to proving it. The widow's safety deposit box contained his research into federal travel records, expense reports, operational schedules. He was tracking someone specific." She pulls up another document. "I've narrowed it down to three candidates. High-ranking officials in positions to influence operations, all with regular travel to Alaska, all with financial irregularities I can document."
"But you need proof of which one."
"Yes. And that proof is here. Somewhere in these remote communities, there's evidence connecting one of those three officials directly to the trafficking network. Physical proof, not just financial correlation. Witness testimony, documentation, something concrete enough to survive legal challenge." She closes the laptop. "That's what Tom died protecting. That's what I came to Alaska to find."
I stand, move to the window. "And now the Marshal knows you're close. Knows you're here looking for the final piece."
"Which is why that man showed up. Professional assessment before they move in." She joins me at the window. "If I can find what Tom hid, I can expose the entire network. Name the Marshal, prove the Stormwatch frame-up, bring down everyoneinvolved in the corruption. But I have to survive long enough to find it."
"Then we make sure you live long enough to finish it." I stand, move to the supply cabinet. "We pack everything you need to complete the investigation. Documents, laptop, communication gear. We relocate to defensible ground, we coordinate with Harlow and the task force, and we make sure when the Marshal's people come back, they find more than they bargained for."
She helps me pack, working with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. Weapons go in waterproof cases. Electronics get wrapped in protective material. Food and medical supplies get distributed for weight balance.
"What about Zeke?" she asks. "We should let him know we're moving."
"I'll send a coded message once we're clear of the cabin. Don't want to risk communication intercepts tipping off whoever's watching." I seal the last case. "He'll understand. Community knows how to provide support without compromising operational security."
We finish loading the snowmobile in thirty minutes. Essential gear only, nothing that screams flight. To outside observation, it looks like routine supply prep for a backcountry run.
Cara stands in the doorway of the cabin, looking back at the space we're leaving behind. "Your home."
"It's a building. I can always come back after this is over." I check the tie-downs one more time. "What matters is making sure you survive to expose the truth. Tom died trying to protect this investigation. Three agents died because someone wanted it buried. We're not letting their deaths be meaningless."
She nods, understanding what I'm saying. This stopped being about individual safety when professional killers showedup. Now it's about finishing what too many people have died trying to accomplish.
"They sent a professional to Alaska," she says quietly. "That means we're close."
"It also means running isn't working anymore." I meet her eyes in the fading afternoon light. "We find the truth, or we die trying."
Sunset paints the mountains in shades of orange and red, beautiful enough to make you forget there are killers hunting through these same forests. Used to be I'd watch sunsets from a helicopter cockpit, calculating fuel and distance and whether I could get wounded soldiers home before they bled out. Different mission now, but the calculations haven't changed much. Distance to the old hunting camp. Hours of darkness for cover. How long before they come back.
We'll move after full dark. I know these mountains, know how to navigate by instruments when visibility drops to nothing. The hunting camp has good bones, defensible positions, enough isolation that anyone coming for us will have to work for it.
My hand tightens around the rifle stock. When nerve damage grounded me, it took away the only thing I'd ever been good at. I thought I was done protecting people, done being useful for anything except hauling supplies through backcountry.
