"You know, I make it a habit to stay informed. News, law enforcement bulletins, that sort of thing." He keeps his eyes on the road, hands relaxed on the wheel. "Especially when an FBI agent's face gets plastered across every news channel for betraying her team. Three years isn't that long."
Ice floods my veins. Every instinct screams to bolt, to make excuses, to salvage what's left of my cover. But we're doing sixtyon a mountain road, and Finn's hands stay steady on the wheel, his tone conversational like he just mentioned the weather. Hours stretch in front of us. Hours with a man who knows exactly who I am and hasn't kicked me out of his truck yet.
Either he's waiting to see what I'll do, or he already knows I didn't betray anyone.
2
FINN
Three miles pass before either of us speaks. Cara stares through the windshield at the mountain road unwinding before us, and I can practically hear her brain working through scenarios and contingencies. She hasn't reached for the door handle, hasn't tried to spin some desperate excuse, hasn't done anything except breathe steadily.
Smart. Panic gets people killed in situations like this.
"So," she says finally, each word measured. "Are you planning to turn me in, or did you just want to see how I'd react?"
"Still deciding." I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady at ten and two. Black ice hides on curves like this, waiting for overconfidence or distraction. "Depends on what you tell me in the next few hours."
"You could have called the authorities the moment you recognized me."
"Could have." I tap the brake for a switchback, feel the truck respond smoothly under my hands. "Didn't."
"Why not?"
Good question. One I've been asking myself since I walked into Sadie's café yesterday afternoon and saw her sitting at thecounter. FBI Agent Cara Brennan, wanted for corruption and betrayal, three stools down like she belonged there. Recognition slammed through my chest hard enough I almost stumbled.
Every instinct I'd honed through my years of military service screamed that something didn't add up. The news painted her as a traitor who sold out her team for money, but the woman I observed yesterday didn't move like someone comfortable with betrayal. She moved like someone hunting.
"Because I've seen what happens when the system decides you're guilty," I say. "Due process stops mattering. Evidence shows up that shouldn't exist. People who should know better believe whatever story fits the narrative."
Cara's head turns toward me, and I catch the movement in my peripheral vision. "That sounds personal."
"Afghanistan, 2018. My unit pulled civilians out of a compound under fire. Saved twenty-three people, including eight kids." Memory drags me back to chaos and cordite, rotor wash and gunfire. "A reporter embedded with us wrote it up as unnecessary aggression. Said we endangered civilians by engaging Taliban fighters who were actively shooting at us. Made us sound like cowboys looking for a fight instead of pilots trying to keep people alive."
"What happened?"
"The story got picked up by major outlets. My CO spent six months defending our actions to investigators who wanted to believe we'd violated ROE." I check the mirrors, though there's no traffic up here at this hour. "We were cleared eventually, but the damage was done. Command never trusted us the same way after that."
"So you don't trust journalists."
"Not as a rule, no." I glance at her briefly before returning attention to the road. "But you're not really a journalist, are you?"
"I'm writing a story," she says, which is an answer without being an answer.
"About supply logistics in remote Alaska." Skepticism colors the words. "That's your cover."
"It's research." Her response carries quiet steel. "Everything I told Sadie was true. I do need to understand how goods move through communities like Glacier Hollow. I need to know who controls the routes, who has access, who people trust."
"Because you think someone's using those routes for something illegal."
"Yes."
Single word, no embellishment, no justification. Just confirmation that whatever brought her here runs deeper than clearing her name. I appreciate the directness even as it complicates everything.
"Trafficking," I say. Not a question.
"How did you—" She stops herself, recalibrates. "You've noticed something."
"Hard not to, once you know what to look for." My hands tighten on the wheel briefly before I force them to relax. "Packages that don't match manifests. Delivery requests to locations that don't exist on any map. Money moving through town that doesn't connect to legitimate business."
