“You sure about this?”
She nodded, looking behind them over her shoulder. “Everyone thinks it dead-ends. But there’s a gap in the fence at the back—teenagers use it.”
Lincoln spotted the gap. Threaded the SUV through with inches to spare on either side. They emerged onto a residential street he didn’t recognize.
“Right, then left at the stop sign. It connects to the old mill road.”
He followed her directions. In his mirror, the sedan appeared at the mouth of the alley—too late, facing the wrong way, the driver’s confusion visible even at this distance.
“The mill road’s not on most maps,” Morgan continued. “It’s technically private property, but no one’s maintained the gate in years.”
The road was rough, climbing toward the foothills through terrain the sedan’s low clearance couldn’t handle. Lincoln pushed the SUV harder, feeling the wheels grip and release on loose gravel.
By the time they hit the county road heading out of town, there was nothing behind them but dust and empty pavement.
Lincoln kept driving. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t believe they were clear until Whitefish was miles behind them, untilthe landscape had shifted from town to wilderness, until the only vehicles visible were occasional trucks heading the opposite direction.
Only then did he let himself breathe.
Morgan was gripping the box of letters with both hands, her knuckles bloodless against the cardboard. Her face had gone pale, but her voice came out steady when she spoke.
“Are we clear?”
“For now.” Lincoln checked the mirrors again. Nothing. “But they saw us.”
“Your license plate?—”
“It’s registered through a shell company. Traces to a holding corporation in Delaware that traces to nothing useful.” He’d set that up years ago. Standard precaution for anyone who valued privacy. “They can’t find me from the plate.”
Morgan exhaled. Some of the tension left her shoulders. “So they can’t find you.”
“Not from the plate.” Lincoln paused, weighing how much to tell her. All of it, he decided. She deserved all of it. “But they might have gotten a photo. Through the windshield. When they were behind us.”
“You mean facial recognition?”
“If they have access and got the shot. It’s not instant—not for a private operation without direct feeds to government databases. But it’s possible. Depending on their resources, their connections, how badly they want to find us.”
He didn’t know for certain. Couldn’t know. But Lincoln thought in probabilities, not certainties.
“Could it have been federal?” Morgan asked. “I’m on their list too.”
“Possible. If it was FBI or Marshals, I can probablyexplain it away. I have contacts. History. I could claim I was following a lead, running my own investigation.” He paused. “It would burn some trust, but it wouldn’t destroy me.”
“And if it was Randall’s people?”
“Then they’re already running my face through every database they can access.” The probability that Randall had access to facial recognition technology—or knew someone who did—was higher than he wanted to admit.
“How long?” Morgan asked. “Before they could identify you?”
“Days. Maybe a week or two if we’re lucky. Maybe less if they have better resources than I’m estimating.”
The implications settled over them. Lincoln watched Morgan process it—the way her grip tightened on the box, the way her breathing went shallow, the way she stared out the windshield at the road unwinding ahead of them.
“So we have a window,” she said finally. “But it’s closing.”
Lincoln nodded. The compound was still safe—for now. His security systems, his careful anonymity, the layers of misdirection he’d built over years of paranoid preparation. All of it would hold.
For a while. Nothing could hold forever, not even something he created.
