"Which gives us the advantage."
"If we see them coming." He distributes ammunition, checks each magazine. "But Montrose and his people are good. They won't announce themselves."
I watch him work, recognizing the ritual. The methodical preparation that keeps soldiers sane when violence is coming and you can't stop it, can only get ready to meet it. I've done the same thing before raids. Check your weapon. Test your comms. Review the plan. Physical actions that ground you in the present,keep your mind from spiraling into what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
I organize files, encrypt backups, prepare redundant transmission packages. An investigator marshaling evidence. My own ritual, my own way of staying focused when the walls are closing in.
The stove ticks as metal expands from heat. Outside, wind shifts direction, carrying new sounds. Tree branches creaking under ice. Small animals moving through underbrush. The ambient noise of wilderness that never truly sleeps.
Or is that something else? Footsteps trying to mimic natural sounds? Equipment being positioned in the dark?
I catch myself listening too hard, reading threat into every variation in the background noise. That way lies paranoia and exhaustion. The assassin might be out there. Probably is. But we won't hear them until they want us to.
Finn finishes checking the defensive positions and returns to the table. We sit in the growing warmth of the stove, surrounded by evidence that could bring down a Deputy Assistant Director and expose a trafficking network spanning three states.
Hours until dawn. Hours until Zeke's team is in position. Time spent wondering if the professional will find us first.
I check the satellite equipment one more time. Everything's ready. The files are organized, encrypted, backed up in three separate locations. Tom's three-year-old breadcrumbs have finally led me to the truth.
Now I just have to stay alive long enough to tell it.
12
FINN
The darkness before dawn is the coldest part of any night in the mountains. I sit at the window with the rifle across my lap, watching shadows shift between the trees while Cara sleeps in the bunk behind me. My breath fogs in the air despite the fire I've kept burning low in the stove. Outside, the temperature has dropped to somewhere around fifteen below. Cold enough to kill if you're not prepared. Cold enough to slow anyone tracking us through the forest before first light.
My watch reads four thirty. Half an hour until Zeke's team finishes staging three miles south. Ninety minutes until we transmit the evidence that will expose Julian Montrose and bring down his network. Hours until reinforcements can reach us if things go wrong.
The shoulder aches where shrapnel caught me outside Kandahar. Phantom pain flares when the weather turns cold or when I'm holding still too long. I shift position carefully, keeping the rifle steady, and the movement sends familiar tingles down my arm. Nerve damage from the crash that ended my flying career.
Six months ago, I applied for a medical waiver anyway. Limited flight status for non-commercial operations. The kind of certification that would let me take the Cessna up for personal use, maybe run scenic tours for tourists if I wanted. It was more hope than expectation when I filed the paperwork. The FAA’s Civilian Aerospace Medical Institute doesn't hand out waivers to pilots with documented nerve damage in their dominant hand. But I applied anyway because hope is what keeps you going when everything else says quit.
The forest stays quiet. No movement except wind stirring branches heavy with snow. No sounds except the natural creaks and whispers of wilderness settling into the hour before dawn. But my instincts are screaming that something is wrong. The kind of awareness you develop flying into hot zones, the sense that tells you incoming fire is seconds away even when you can't see the threat yet.
I stand slowly, keeping away from the window. My left hand grips the rifle with steady strength while my right hand supports the stock with less precision but enough control. Years of adapting to the injury have taught me how to compensate, how to use what I have instead of mourning what I lost. The weapon feels solid and familiar. Ready.
Behind me, Cara shifts in her sleep. Exhaustion finally claimed her around midnight after hours of preparing transmission packages and encrypting files. She needs the rest. What's coming will require every bit of energy we both have.
Movement catches my eye. Not in the trees where I've been watching, but further south. A shadow that doesn't belong, too smooth and deliberate to be wildlife. My pulse stays steady as combat reflexes take over. Identify the threat. Assess the danger. React with controlled precision.
The shadow resolves into a man moving through the forest with tactical efficiency. He's dressed in white winter camouflagethat blends with the snow. His approach angle uses natural cover, staying in the darkest shadows where moonlight can't reach. He carries a rifle with practiced ease, weapon up and ready. This is not someone lost in the wilderness. This is a predator who knows exactly where he's going.
They found us. Zeke's team isn’t yet in position to provide backup.
I cross to the bunk where Cara sleeps and touch her shoulder gently. Her eyes open immediately, no grogginess or confusion. Three years as a fugitive have taught her to wake alert and ready.
"Company," I say quietly. "One contact, south approach. Combat movements."
She's on her feet in seconds, reaching for the weapon she kept within arm's reach. "How many?"
"One that I can see. Could be advance scout." I move back to the window, keeping low. "He's maybe two hundred yards out, using the tree line for cover. Smart approach angle that limits our sight lines."
Cara joins me at the window, staying to the side where she won't silhouette against interior light. "Zeke's team isn't in position yet."
"I know. We need to slow this guy down, buy time for backup to arrive."
"The traps you set yesterday?"
