Finn offers, "I'll help Marc prep, make sure you've got everything you need."
The room shifts into motion. Harlow starts making calls, coordinating with task force contacts. Rhys pulls up files on his computer, cross-referencing Montrose's known associates.
I head for the equipment locker. Finn follows.
Metal hinges creak when I pull the door open. The shelves are stocked with tactical gear we hope to never use but keep ready anyway.
"Thoughts?" he asks quietly.
"She's solid," I say. "She handles stress better than most trained operators I've worked with. But she's still a civilian with no weapons training, no tactical experience. If this goes bad, she's a liability."
"You worried?"
"Always." I pull body armor from the shelf, check the straps. The ceramic plates are still seated properly, the Velcro still grips. "CID taught me to expect the worst. It hasn't failed me yet."
Finn hands me a tactical radio. The weight settles in my palm. The battery pack is full, the channels are pre-programmed. "You'll have comms. Anything happens, we can coordinate response fast."
"Assuming we have time to call for backup." I load magazines into a duffel bag. The sidearm rounds go in first, then rifle ammunition for the AR I keep in my truck. Metal clicks against metal, a sound that makes my shoulders relax even as my mind runs through worst-case scenarios. "Assuming whoever comes doesn't jam communications first."
"You planning for a siege?" Finn asks.
"I'm planning for possibilities." I add a trauma kit to the pile. "The way you plan truck or flight routes with contingencies for engine failure."
Finn's quiet for a moment. "She remind you of anyone?"
I've worked enough cases, seen enough victims, to recognize the pattern. A woman who did the right thing, reported what she found, and got targeted for it. The system that should have protected her marked her for death instead.
"Yeah," I say. "She reminds me of every person who trusted the wrong people and paid for it."
"That why you volunteered?"
"Part of it." I check the rifle, clear the chamber, confirm the action's smooth. "The other part is I'm good at this—keeping people alive when someone wants them dead. I did it overseas, did it stateside, might as well keep doing it."
"CID?"
"And before that." I don't elaborate. Finn doesn't push.
We finish loading gear in silence. Body armor and weapons go in first, ammunition nested between medical supplies. Then the food that'll keep without refrigeration, water purification tablets, emergency shelter. Everything I'd need for a sustained defensive position.
Everything I hope we won't actually need.
Rhys appears in the doorway. "Got a minute?"
I nod to Finn. He takes the hint, heads back to the main room.
Rhys waits until we're alone. "She's a civilian, Wells. This goes sideways, it's on us."
"I know."
"Do you?" Rhys leans against the doorframe. It's the posture he uses when he's working through something difficult. "Because I've seen what happens when civilians get caught in operations like this. They panic. They freeze. They make mistakes that get people killed."
"She won't panic."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure enough to put my life on it." I meet his eyes. "She went low in that parking garage before the shooter could adjust. That's not panic. That's someone who assesses threats and responds appropriately."
"She got lucky."
