They got back in the SUV, and this time when Sarah put on music, she chose something softer, less aggressively cheerful. She pulled out one of her laptops. "These routing numbers from Arlington," she said, clearly needing to focus on work, on something she could control. "Some of them repeat in patterns. A signature."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning whoever set up the payment system has a style. A fingerprint. If I can match it to other known financial crimes..."
"You can identify who inside the FBI is running this."
"Exactly." She watched the flat scenery speed past, then glanced at him. "You really don't believe in using the interstate?"
"Too exposed. These back roads add time, but they're safer."
"And more scenic, I suppose." She gestured at the endless rangeland. "Very... brown."
"You have something against Wyoming?"
"I'm from Connecticut. We have trees. And hills. And things that aren't brown." She was trying for normal conversation, he could tell. Grasping for something that wasn't about death and conspiracy.
"Give it time. It grows on you."
"Like a fungus?"
This time he did smile. "Sure. Like a fungus."
As the sun set, they stopped for gas in a town that barely qualified as a dot on the map. While Griff filled the tank, Sarah stretched her legs, testing out her new boots. She still checked every car that passed, still positioned herself with clear sight lines to escape routes, but she was managing her fear better.
She looked younger in the casual clothes, less like a federal agent and more like someone's daughter or sister. It made the protective instinct he'd been fighting even stronger.
"Meal break?" she asked when he finished with the gas.
"We eat in the car. Keep moving."
"You really never stop?"
"Stopping gets people killed."
She studied him. "That must be exhausting. Always being on alert."
"It's necessary."
"But exhausting."
He didn't answer, but she was right. He was tired down to his bones, had been since Tank died. Maybe before that. The constant vigilance, the inability to trust, the weight of keeping everyone safe—it was grinding him down.
Griff pulled back onto the road. "We need to focus."
"On what? We have thirty more hours of driving. We can't be on high alert every second."
"Yes, we can."
"No, Griff, we can't. Humans aren't built that way. Even you need to occasionally act like a person instead of a weapon."
The words hit harder than she probably intended. Is that what he'd become? A weapon? Point and shoot, no humanity left?
"Tell me about Tank," she said suddenly, shifting the conversation. "Not how he died. How he lived."
Griff's hands tightened on the wheel. "Why?"
"Because we have a long way to go, and I want to know about the man we're risking everything for." She paused. "And because talking about good things keeps the bad things from taking over."
