"Montrose ran logistics," Rhys says. "He moved people through wilderness routes, coordinated with buyers, managed transportation. We took him down months ago. We thought that would cripple the network."
"But it didn't," Sela says. Her voice is steady.
"No. Smaller operations popped up across the Pacific Northwest. Different players, same tactics. Someone rebuilt fast." Rhys glances at Harlow. "Someone with resources and connections."
Harlow adds another mark to the map. Seattle. Portland. Anchorage. They're red circles that might as well be targets. "The task force has been tracking the new cells. They're careful, professional. There's no direct communication we can intercept, no paper trails we can follow."
"Until now," Cara says, holding up the drive. "Emma documented something big enough to get herself killed, something that connects to whoever's running the show."
Sela's gaze shifts to the evidence bag. "The Marshal. Rhys mentioned him."
"Code name," I say. "A federal official with enough authority to protect traffickers, bury investigations, eliminate witnesses. We don't have a real name yet. We don't have proof. We just have patterns that point to someone high up in the system."
"And I called the FBI tip line to report Emma's evidence." Sela's jaw tightens. "Which means The Marshal knows I found it."
"Probably," Rhys says. "The timeline supports it. You made the call this afternoon. The hit happened hours later. That's not standard investigation response. That's someone monitoring tip lines for keywords, triggering alerts, mobilizing assets fast."
Sela processes this. I watch her face. I'm looking for cracks in the composure, looking for the moment panic sets in and she stops being useful.
It doesn't happen.
She takes a breath, lets it out slow. "So what's the play?"
Not 'what do we do' or 'what happens now.' The play. Military economy. Two words for a complex question.
"First, we decrypt the drive," Cara says. "We find out what Emma documented. Names, locations, evidence we can use. It's going to take time and the right setup."
"How much time?"
"It depends on the encryption. Could be hours, could be days." Cara says carefully. "I've got software that can run password algorithms, but if Emma was thorough with the encryption, we might need specialized help."
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, studying the encryption structure. She goes still.
"What?" I ask.
"This encryption signature." She leans closer to the screen. "I know this work. It's Solstice."
"Who?" Harlow asks.
"Hacker out of Anchorage. Brilliant. Does security consulting, white hat work mostly. Very particular encryption style—uses a modified AES-256 with custom salting patterns." Cara looks up. "Emma didn't do this herself. She had help from someone who knew what they were doing."
Rhys straightens. "Solstice. That's Kayla Winters' handle."
Everyone turns to look at him.
"Kayla Winters?" I ask.
"Old friend of Emma's. They went to nursing school together before Kayla dropped out and went into tech." His jaw tightens. "Emma never mentioned she'd contacted her. Never said anything about this."
"She was protecting you," Cara says quietly. "Keeping you out of it so you wouldn't be complicit if something went wrong."
Silence settles over the room. Emma had known the danger. Had prepared for the worst. Had made sure Rhys couldn't be blamed for what she was documenting.
"We should contact Kayla," Finn says. "If she encrypted this for Emma, she might know what else is on the drive. Might be able to help us crack the remaining layers."
Rhys nods slowly. "I'll reach out. See if she'll talk to us."
"Second," Rhys continues, "we keep you alive while Cara works. You can't go home, can't go back to Palmer. The shooter knows your car, your address, probably your routine. You show up anywhere predictable, he'll finish what he started."
