"Agreed. But we do it without painting bigger targets on my team." He pulled out his encrypted phone, showing her a message thread. "Look at this."
The messages were from someone called 'Needles':
Weather's clear if you need wings
Hangar 7 still available
No questions asked, brother
"Pilot friend?"
"Former Marine aviator. Flies charter now. He's offering to extract us if needed."
"That's good?—"
"That's him taking a risk he shouldn't have to take." Griffpocketed the phone. "These guys already picked off one of us. I won't add to that number."
Sarah saw the weight he carried then, the guilt that drove him. "Tank's death wasn't your fault."
"Tank died because he trusted the system. Trusted his backup. Trusted that doing the right thing would protect him." His voice hardened. "I won't make that mistake."
"So you'll trust no one?"
"Besides my team? No way. But I'll trust you," he said simply. "Because you have as much to lose as I do. And because you've already proven you can think tactically, not just analytically."
Sarah saw the trap he'd walked himself into. He needed the names to protect his team, but getting the names meant taking risks he wasn't willing to take.
"So we go to Arlington," she said. "Get the names. Then you call your team with actual intel."
He was quiet for so long she thought he might refuse entirely. Finally: "How long to drive there?"
She pulled up a map onscreen. "From Montana? Thirty-six hours if we're careful."
He rubbed his chin, the sound of his palm against stubble filling the room. "Make that Forty-eight. We'll need to switch vehicles, avoid main routes. Garafolo’s got a serios SUV in the garage, and enough armament to defend this place for months. We’ll leave as soon as I pack. Drive in shifts."
"What? But?—"
"Every minute we wait increases the chance they'll find this place. You've been pinging banking servers for three hours. Even with encryption, that leaves traces."
Sarah's stomach dropped. She'd been so focused on finding answers she hadn't thought about digital footprints. “You pack the weapons, I’ll make the coffee.”
“Deal.” He stretched, reaching his long arms skyward andarching his back. A warrior prepping for action. “No sugar. And light on the cream.”
She sketched him a salute, wishing her arm wasn’t shaking. “Sir. Yes, sir.”
How was it that barely 30 hours ago, she’d given Harold one last dribble of water and locked the door of her boring apartment, and now she was in a billionaire’s safe house with a real-life action hero, planning a break in?
