The team moves into the forest in pursuit. I watch them disappear between the trees, tracking Montrose through terrain he doesn't know as well as locals who have spent years learning every ridge and valley.
Cara stands beside me in the doorway. Blood streaks her face from a cut above her eyebrow. Flying glass from one of Montrose's shots. Her hands are steady on her rifle despite the violence we just survived.
"We did it," she says. "The evidence is out. No matter what happens to us now, the truth is coming."
"Yeah." I look at the woman who walked into Sadie's café less than a week ago and turned my quiet life into a combat zone. The woman I chose to stand with when I could have walked away. "We did it."
Dawn continues breaking over Talon Mountain. Somewhere in the forest, Zeke's team is hunting the Marshal. The files we transmitted are already spreading through networks that will bring him down. Three years of running. Three years of gathering evidence. It's over.
Except it's not over. The Marshal is still out there. Still dangerous. And Cara's standing beside me with blood on her face and determination in her eyes that says she's not done fighting.
My shoulder throbs where old shrapnel sits buried in muscle. My right hand trembles slightly on the rifle stock. Nerve damage that ended my flying career, turned me into something I never planned to be.
But I'm still standing. Still armed. And Zeke's team is hunting the bastard who tried to kill us.
Time to finish this.
13
CARA
The transmission is complete. Somewhere in the digital world, encrypted files are racing through servers, reaching the task force, congressional oversight, three different media outlets. Evidence that will destroy Julian Montrose and expose the network he protected. Three years of investigation, Tom Rearden's death, Operation Stormwatch and the agents who died there, all of it validated and documented in files that can't be buried or destroyed.
But Montrose is out there in the forest. Zeke's team is hunting him, tracking him through terrain they know better than any corrupt federal official from Washington. Finn stands beside me at the cabin door, rifle ready, blood from the cut on my forehead dried on my face. Dawn is breaking over the mountains, painting everything in shades of gold and pink that feel wrong for what's happening.
"Zeke will get him," Finn says quietly. "Montrose doesn't know this ground. They do."
I want to believe that. Want to trust that professional hunters tracking a wounded operator through familiar territory will end this without more bloodshed. But three years of running havetaught me that men like Montrose don't go quietly. They fight until the end because surrender means prison or worse.
The forest has gone silent. No gunfire. No shouting. Just wind moving through spruce and the distant calls of birds who don't care that humans are killing each other in their territory. The quiet should be reassuring. Should mean Zeke's team has Montrose contained or captured. Instead it makes my skin crawl with the wrongness of it.
"Too quiet," I say.
Finn hears what I'm not saying. His posture shifts, subtle changes that speak to combat reflexes activating. "Yeah. Something's wrong."
Movement flickers at the tree line. Not from the direction Zeke's team went, but from the east. A shadow separating from other shadows, moving with purpose and speed toward the cabin. Toward us.
"Finn, east side!"
We both pivot, bringing rifles up, but Montrose is already firing. Rounds punch through the doorframe inches from my head. Wood splinters. I drop and roll, coming up behind the dubious cover of the cabin wall while Finn returns fire from his position.
Montrose isn't retreating. Isn't running. He's attacking with the desperation of a man who has nothing left to lose. The files are out. His network is exposed. His only play now is eliminating the witnesses and disappearing before the full weight of law enforcement descends on him.
He wants us dead.
Bullets tear through the cabin wall. Not random spray but calculated shots, searching for targets, driving us back from defensive positions. Professional marksmanship combined with tactical aggression. This is what made him dangerous enough to run a trafficking network for years without getting caught.
"Cara, back window!" Finn shouts over the gunfire. "Go!"
I don't argue. Don't waste time asking what he's planning. I move low and fast toward the rear of the cabin while Finn provides covering fire. Glass shatters somewhere behind me. More rounds punching through walls that were never meant to stop high-velocity ammunition.
The back window is small but functional. I knock out the remaining glass with my rifle stock and squeeze through, dropping into snow on the far side of the cabin. Cold air hits my face. My breath fogs. The wound on my forehead throbs with each heartbeat, sending sharp pain through my skull.
Finn's still inside, still firing, drawing Montrose's attention. Buying me time to flank around, to get an angle on the bastard who destroyed my career and killed Tom and tried to eliminate me when I got too close to the truth.
I move along the cabin wall, using the structure for cover while I work toward a position where I can engage. The rifle feels solid in my hands. My arms tremble with adrenaline.
Montrose has stopped firing. The sudden silence is worse than the gunfire. Either he's repositioning or he's realized Finn is alone in the cabin now. Either option means Finn is in immediate danger.
