"Someone tried to kill you this afternoon. Yeah, I'm serious."
The vest gets settled over the fleece. It's too big, designed for someone my size, but it'll stop bullets better than nothing.
Cara looks up from her laptop. "I'm running decryption algorithms now. Could take hours, could take days. I'll call when I've got something."
"Keep us updated."
Rhys walks us to the door. "You've got comms. Anything happens, you radio immediately. Don't wait, don't try to handle it yourself. We can have backup there fast if you need it."
"Copy that."
Finn's already outside, checking the street. He gives the all-clear signal.
I lead Sela to my truck. It's the F-250 I've driven for years, practical and reliable. Black paint shows mud from back roads, scratches from branches on narrow trails. It's a work truck, not a show truck. Finn climbs into his own vehicle, a beaten Chevy truck that looks like it's survived everything Alaska can throw at it.
Sela pauses at the passenger door. "You do this a lot? Protect people?"
"I used to. Army CID—investigative work, security details, threat assessment. Different circumstances, same principles."
"And now you're a deputy in a town nobody's heard of."
"It seemed like a good place to stop running." I open her door. "Get in. We're burning time."
The door closes behind her as she settles into the cab. I walk around to the driver's side, load the duffel into the back seat, check my mirrors. The street's empty, but that doesn't mean much. Professional contractors know how to stay invisible until they're ready to move.
Rhys stands on the station steps, watching us. His expression is unreadable.
This could go wrong in a hundred different ways.
But we're doing it anyway because the alternative is letting Sela Mitchell die for doing the right thing.
And that's not something I can live with.
I start the engine. The V8 rumbles to life, familiar and steady. Finn pulls out first, leading the way. I follow, keeping distance, watching the mirrors for anything that doesn't belong.
Sela's quiet beside me. Her hands are still folded in her lap, the same posture as when she sat in the station. She's controlled, focused.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Define okay."
"Not falling apart, able to function."
"Then yeah. I'm okay." She glances quickly in my direction. "You always this reassuring?"
"I'm honest. It seems more useful than lying about how dangerous this is."
"Fair enough." The window draws her attention as we leave Whitewater Junction behind, heading into darkness and wilderness and whatever's waiting at the end of this road.
Main street gives way to highway. Streetlights thin until there's nothing but headlights cutting through the dark. Trees press close on both sides, dense evergreen walls that swallowsound and light. Temperature drops as we climb elevation, frost already forming on the edges of the windshield.
Finn's taillights glow steady ahead. They're red dots leading us deeper into mountain territory, into back roads that don't show up on any GPS.
My mirrors stay clear, but that doesn't mean much. Professional contractors know how to follow without being seen. They know how to wait for the right moment, the right location, the perfect ambush point.
Mountain passes and switchbacks stretch ahead. It's a long drive to get her somewhere defensible. It's a long drive before we know if we got her out clean or if someone's already moving to intercept.
I grip the steering wheel and watch the darkness.
