I pull up the file I compiled on Montrose months ago. One of three high-ranking officials I'd narrowed down as potential suspects. Personnel file showing a thirty-year career with the Bureau. Steady promotions, solid performance reviews, nothing to indicate corruption on the surface. Travel records that initially looked routine—inspections, conferences, operational oversight. But when I cross-reference the dates with my trafficking timeline, patterns emerge like images developing in a darkroom.
Every major shipment that moved through Alaska, Montrose was in the region within forty-eight hours. Every operation that got compromised, he'd had access to the briefing materials. Every witness who disappeared, he'd been in a position to know their location and protection details.
He had the access to leak information. Could sabotage operations before they began. Was perfectly placed to frame me when it all went wrong and three agents died.
Finn straightens, processing the implications. "Who's paying him?"
"I don't know yet. The payments go through so many shell companies and offshore accounts that I can't trace them to a source." I pull up the financial records, show him the pattern. "But someone is. Someone with resources and reach that make Montrose look like middle management."
"Can you prove what you do have? Can you prove Montrose is the Marshal?"
"I have financial records. Witness testimony. Operational patterns. Tom's notes pointing to corruption at the senior executive level of the Bureau." I gesture at the evidence spread across the table. "Individually, each piece could be explained away. But together? Together they paint a picture that any competent investigator would recognize."
"Will anyone believe you? You're a fugitive. Montrose has institutional backing."
"That's why we need to transmit this to the right people. Not just to law enforcement—Montrose has influence there. We need to send it to journalists, congressional oversight committees, internal affairs divisions at multiple agencies. Saturate the channels so it can't be buried."
Finn moves to the window, scanning the forest outside. "Satellite communication is possible from here. I have equipment for emergencies. But the moment we start transmitting, anyone monitoring frequencies in this region will pick it up. They'll have our location within minutes."
"How long would we have before they arrive?"
He turns back to face me. "Not enough time to pack up and run. We'd have to defend this position until help arrives."
"What about Zeke's team? Can we coordinate with them first?"
"I can send a coded message. Let him know our location and that we're planning to transmit. Give him time to stage backup nearby." Finn checks his watch. "It's almost midnight now. If I message him in the next hour, he could have people in position by dawn."
"And if Montrose's people find us before then?"
"Then we make sure they regret it." Finn checks his rifle, confirms the magazine is full. "This cabin has good defensivepositions. Limited approaches. Anyone coming for us has to expose themselves to get close."
Dawn. Hours away in the darkness. Sitting in this hidden cabin with evidence that could bring down a Deputy Assistant Director and expose a trafficking network spanning three states. Time for Montrose's people to find us, to eliminate the threat we represent before we can transmit anything.
"Do it," I say. "Contact Zeke. Tell him we have proof. Tell him we'll transmit at first light when his people are in position to provide cover."
Finn nods and pulls out a satellite phone from the supplies. The device is bulky, military-grade. He moves outside to get a clear signal, leaving me alone with three years of investigation finally coalescing into actionable evidence.
Julian Montrose. The man behind the Marshal designation. The corrupt official who built a protection racket around trafficking networks. Who sacrificed federal agents to protect his income stream. Who framed me to cover up his crimes.
But there's something else. Something in the pattern of payments that bothers me. The amounts are too clean, too regular. Like Montrose is passing money up the chain rather than keeping it all. Like he's not the top of this operation, just the highest-ranking piece I can prove.
"He destroyed my career," I say quietly. "Got three of my agents killed. Made sure I took the fall for an operation he sabotaged. And he's been protecting trafficking networks for years because someone's paying him to do it."
I have his name now. Have the proof. Have everything Tom died trying to gather.
All we have to do is survive until dawn.
Finn returns ten minutes later, stamping snow off his boots.
"Zeke's moving people into position. He'll have a team staged three miles south of here by oh-five-hundred. We transmit at oh-six-hundred, right after first light. Gives them time to deploy if things go sideways."
I should feel afraid. Probably would if I had enough energy left for fear. But all those months of running, of gathering evidence piece by careful piece, of carrying the weight of dead agents and a murdered mentor—all of it has burned through normal emotional responses.
My hands stop shaking. The tightness in my chest releases. Everything narrows to a single point: survive until dawn. Transmit the evidence. End this.
Finn works through the cabin and the perimeter, checking defensive positions, setting traps, ensuring windows are secured and the like. He pulls blackout material over the glass, eliminating any light signature visible from outside. Tests the door locks, examines the frame for weak points. His movements are efficient, practiced. A soldier preparing for combat.
"The chimney vents through baffles in the hillside," he says, more to himself than to me. "Disperses smoke across multiple exit points. No visible plume to track even in daylight." He accesses the weapons cache he's stocked here. "Approaches are limited. Front door is the only ground-level access. The roof is too steep and too well camouflaged for insertion from above. They'd have to come at us straight on."
