"Three minutes for the full package. Encrypted bursts to Rhys and Harlow at the task force, congressional oversight, and three media outlets." Her fingers move across the keyboard. "Once it starts, anyone monitoring satellite traffic in this region will pick up the signal."
"Then they'll know exactly where we are."
"They already know where we are. That's why he's here." She hits the final keys and the transmission begins. "Now we make sure the evidence survives even if we don't."
The words hang in the cold air. Outside, the hostile has gone quiet again. Repositioning. Planning his next move. The smart play would be to pull back, call for backup, wait for better conditions. But he must know what we're doing. Knows that every minute we hold this position is another minute for evidence to spread beyond his reach.
He'll come hard now. Fast and aggressive. It's what I would do in his position.
Movement flickers in my peripheral vision. Not from his last known position but from the west. A flanking maneuver, using my focus on his previous location to shift approach vectors. I'm starting to understand why Montrose has survived so long operating in the shadows.
"West side," I call to Cara. "He's moving on your position."
She swings her rifle to cover the new angle. "I see him. Seventy yards and closing."
"Wait for a clean shot. Make it count."
The transmission bar reaches thirty percent. Satellite bandwidth out here is limited, compressed by terrain andatmospheric conditions. The upload crawls along while he closes the distance between us. Sixty yards. Fifty. He's using cover effectively, moving between trees in bounds that minimize exposure.
Cara's rifle cracks once. Sharp. Precise. Through the window I see the figure stumble, catch himself against a tree. She hit him. Not a kill shot by the way he's moving, but solid contact. Blood darkens his white camouflage along his left side.
He returns fire immediately. Three quick shots that force Cara back from the window. Then he's moving again, faster now despite the wound. Forty yards. Thirty-five. If he reaches the cabin before the transmission completes, he can destroy the equipment and everything we've fought to protect.
I step into the doorway and fire three rounds at his position. The distance is too great for guaranteed hits with a rifle in pre-dawn darkness, but I don't need to hit him. I need to slow him down. Make him think about the cost of pressing forward.
He drops behind cover. I use the moment to check the transmission progress. Sixty-two percent. Still crawling. An eternity when someone is actively trying to kill you.
"Finn, behind you!"
Cara's warning comes half a second before I hear footsteps in the snow. I spin, bringing the rifle up, and nearly shoot Zeke before recognition kicks in. He's dressed in winter tactical gear, rifle in hand, moving with the same disciplined competence the hostile displayed.
"Heard shots," Zeke says, taking position beside me. "Moved up the timeline. Figured you might need backup."
Behind him, two more figures materialize from the forest. Nate and Caleb from Glacier Hollow. They spread out in a defensive perimeter around the cabin without needing instructions.
"One hostile," I tell Zeke. "Skilled operator, wounded but still combat effective. Last known position thirty-five yards northwest. Based on the tactical approach, we think it's Montrose."
"The Marshal himself came personally." Zeke's expression hardens. "That means this matters to him. Means he can't afford to let the evidence reach the task force."
"Too late for that." Cara calls from the equipment. "Transmission at eighty-six percent. It's out there now. Even if he destroys this equipment, the files are already reaching their destinations."
The forest erupts with gunfire. The hostile has spotted the reinforcements and knows his window is closing. He's laying down suppressive fire, trying to create space to either advance or retreat. The rounds slam into the cabin walls and the trees around us with lethal precision.
Zeke's team returns fire with disciplined control. No wild spraying, no wasted ammunition. Each shooter picks their angles and their moments. Controlled work that speaks to serious experience.
The transmission bar hits ninety-five percent. Somewhere in satellite transmission space, encrypted files are reaching servers that will distribute them to the task force, to oversight committees, to journalists who will publish what they receive. Three years of investigation. Tom Rearden's final breadcrumbs. Proof of corruption that reaches to senior levels of federal law enforcement.
One hundred percent. Transmission complete.
"It's done," Cara says quietly. "The evidence is out."
The gunfire stops. Sudden silence settles over the forest, broken only by the wind and the distant calls of birds beginning their morning songs. Dawn is breaking over the mountains,painting the sky in shades of gold and pink that seem wrong for a battlefield.
"He's pulling back," Zeke says, watching the tree line. "Knows he lost. Now he's focused on extraction."
"We can't let him escape." I move toward the door, but Zeke stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
"Task force wants him alive if possible. They need him to testify, to name the people who funded his operation." Zeke keys his radio. "All units, hostile is retreating northwest. Pursue but do not engage unless fired upon. We want him breathing."
