Then he's gone through automatic doors where I can't follow. Rhys materializes at my side, his expression professionally neutral but not unkind.
"We need your statement, Agent Brennan. Everything that happened at that cabin."
I look down at my hands. Finn's blood stains my fingers, dark under my nails, dried on my palms. Years I've been running. Years of staying one step ahead, trusting no one, fighting alone.
Not anymore.
"Where do you want to start?" I ask.
14
FINN
Pain is a language I learned to speak fluently in Afghanistan. The sharp bite of bullet impact. The deep ache of shrapnel embedded in muscle. The slow burn of nerve damage that never quite heals. Anchorage Medical Center smells like antiseptic and floor polish, and the hospital bed is too narrow under my back, but none of that changes the fact that my shoulder is screaming a dialect I know too well.
The surgeon who worked on me is younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with steady hands and the kind of calm competence that comes from putting people back together on a regular basis. Dr. Patel, according to the name embroidered on his scrubs. He stands at my bedside reviewing the imaging results on a tablet, his expression professional as he prepares to deliver news I won't like.
"Bullet went clean through," he says, not looking up from the screen. "Missed the major vessels, which is the only reason you're not in intensive care right now. But the trajectory went through tissue that was already compromised from your previous injury."
Previous injury. That's what he calls the helicopter crash that ended my career and left my shoulder full of metal fragments that show up on every X-ray like a constellation of failure.
"More rehab?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Extensive rehab. The muscle damage is significant, and you've aggravated existing nerve damage." Patel finally looks up, meeting my eyes. "You got lucky, Mr. Ashworth. Two inches lower and we'd be having a very different conversation about vascular reconstruction."
Lucky. Six months of applications, medical reviews, assessments, all leading to a single paragraph that said I could fly again under limited conditions. Light aircraft only. VFR conditions. No passengers until I demonstrated consistent performance over six months.
It wasn't much. It was everything.
I'd told Cara about it during those hours at the cabin, before Montrose attacked. She understood what it meant - the sky I'd lost, the piece of myself I'd been trying to reclaim.
"When can I leave?" I ask.
"Eager to go?" Patel sets down the tablet. "You just got out of surgery six hours ago."
"I don't do hospitals well."
"Nobody does hospitals well. That's why we try to get people out as quickly as possible." He checks the IV line running into my arm. "Another twenty-four hours minimum for observation. If there's no sign of infection or complications, we'll discharge you with strict instructions for wound care and physical therapy."
Twenty-four hours. An eternity of fluorescent lights and monitoring equipment and nurses checking vitals every few hours. But better than the alternative. I think about Cara climbing through that cabin window, flanking around while Montrose fired at me through the walls. The moment when oureyes met across the snow and I saw her calculate the shot. Clean. Professional. The kind of marksmanship that comes from years at Quantico and field operations where hesitation means death. She saved my life. I need to see her.
"Is Cara still here?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
Patel's expression softens slightly. "The woman who came in with you? She's in the waiting room. Has been since we took you into surgery. Nursing staff tried to get her to go home and rest, but she refused to leave."
Of course she did. Stubborn doesn't begin to cover what Cara Brennan is when she decides something matters.
"Can she come back?"
"Family only during recovery," Patel says automatically, then pauses. "But given the circumstances and the fact that she apparently saved your life, I think we can make an exception. Let me check with the charge nurse."
He leaves, and I'm alone with the beep of monitors and the low hum of medical equipment keeping track of every function my body performs. The pain medication they gave me takes the edge off but doesn't eliminate the deep ache radiating from my shoulder down my arm. I can move my fingers, which is something. Can't lift my arm more than a few inches without sharp protest, which is expected.
The waiver I'd spent six months pursuing might not matter anymore. The shoulder that already limited my options has taken another hit. Maybe enough to tip the scales from possible to impossible.
The door opens. Cara slips inside, moving quietly despite obvious exhaustion. Her clothes are still stained with my blood. Dark circles shadow her eyes. She looks like she's been through a war, which I suppose she has.
"Hey," she says softly, crossing to my bedside.
