"I'll be right out."
I wait until his footsteps retreat before standing. The mirror above the dresser shows me what I already know, I look like hell. Dark circles under my eyes, tension lines around my mouth, my usually immaculate bun coming loose in wispy pieces.
This is what happens when you don't sleep for six weeks. When every shadow could be a gunman and every stranger could be the one who finally succeeds.
I straighten my blazer, push my glasses back up, and lift my chin. Vivian Russo does not fall apart. Vivian Russo has put cartel leaders on death row and made defense attorneys cry in open court. She can handle one grumpy veteran and a few weeks in the wilderness.
Even if that veteran looks like he was carved out of the mountain itself.
The main room is warm, the wood stove radiating heat that seeps into my bones after hours in the cold SUV. Deck has set two places at a rough-hewn wooden table. The smell coming from the kitchen is unexpectedly delicious.
"You cook?" I don't mean for it to sound like an accusation.
He glances at me as he sets a cast iron skillet on the table. "I live alone in the wilderness. Cooking was a skill you had to learn or starve."
Fair point.
The meal is simple but good with rice, vegetables, some kind of seasoned meat I don't recognize. I'm hungry enough that I don't ask questions, just eat with more enthusiasm than I've shown for food in weeks.
"When did you last have a real meal?" Clinical. Detached. Like he's assessing a patient.
"Define real."
"Not vending machine garbage or cold takeout."
I think about it. The safe houses were stocked with provisions, but I was too paranoid to eat anything I hadn't watched being prepared. Too many poison delivery methods learned from years of prosecuting creative murderers.
"Two weeks. Maybe three."
His jaw tightens. "You can't operate at peak efficiency on an empty stomach. Starting tomorrow, you eat three meals a day. Non-negotiable."
"Are you always this bossy, or is it a special performance for me?"
"I'm responsible for keeping you alive. That includes making sure you don't pass out from malnutrition when you need to run."
The casual mention of running makes my appetite falter. I set down my fork and study him across the table.
He's changed since I arrived into a simple black Henley now, straining across his shoulders and chest. Dark hair cropped short, military regulation, but silver threading through the temples and into the full beard covering his jaw. Distinguished in a way that's deeply unfair.
"Tell me about the security setup here." I keep my voice professional. Prosecutor mode. "I want to understand my environment."
"Perimeter sensors at two hundred and four hundred meter ranges. Motion-activated cameras at all approach points. Reinforced doors and windows, designed to withstand rifle rounds. Panic room in the basement with independent communications and enough supplies for two weeks."
"And if someone gets past all that?"
His jaw tightens. "They won't."
"The man who broke into the last safe house got past federal security. Bypassed an alarm system, picked three locks, made it to my bedroom door before I heard him."
"Federal security isn't designed for this terrain. They think in terms of buildings and streets, CCTV and response times." He gestures at the darkness beyond the windows. "Eleven miles of wilderness with one access road that I can disable in thirty seconds. Anyone coming for you has to do it on foot, through terrain I know better than my own name, past sensors and cameras. And me."
"You sound confident."
"I sound realistic. This is my ground. I've been preparing for threats here for five years. The Castellanos might have money and connections, but they don't have mountain assault specialists. They have city killers. City killers die in these mountains."
There's anticipation in his voice. Like he's looking forward to testing his defenses.
"Have you ever lost someone you were protecting?"
