5
SELA
The truck's cab smells like coffee and worn leather. The heat vents blow warm air that does nothing to cut the tension sitting between us.
Marc drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes moving between the road and the mirrors. His gaze never stops—rearview, side mirror, road, repeat. The pattern is so consistent I could set a watch by it.
Finn's taillights glow red ahead. We've been following them for over an hour, climbing in elevation as the highway narrows into something that barely qualifies as a road. Now we're on packed dirt that winds through forest so dense the headlights barely penetrate.
I should probably say something. Maybe make conversation, ask questions, do any of the normal things people, who don't know each other, do when they're trapped in a vehicle together.
But normal went out the window the moment someone tried to kill me in a hospital parking garage.
Marc shifts in his seat. His right hand drops from the wheel for a moment, adjusts something near his hip. His holster, probably, making sure his weapon is accessible. Then the handreturns to two o'clock, and we continue to drive into the darkness.
I study him in the dim light from the dashboard. He has a sharp jawline and military posture even while sitting. That kind of control doesn't come naturally—someone drilled it into him. Years of training, not just natural discipline. He holds tension in his shoulders, but his hands stay relaxed on the wheel.
He's compartmentalizing, separating the stress from the action.
I do the same thing. You can't be a trauma nurse if you fall apart every time someone codes on your table.
"How far?" My voice sounds loud in the quiet.
"Another hour, maybe less." He doesn't look at me when he answers. "Depends on the road conditions."
"And after Finn shows us the cabin?"
"He'll help me secure the cabin and make sure we're safe before he heads back to help the task force." Marc's eyes flick to the rearview. "We stay put until they decrypt the drive and figure out our next move."
"Just the two of us."
"Yeah."
The word hangs in the air between us. Just the two of us, in an isolated cabin, for an indefinite amount of time, with a federal official hunting me and professional contractors who might already be tracking our route.
"You do this often?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Hide witnesses in the wilderness?"
"Not recently." His mouth almost quirks into something that might be a smile but doesn't quite make it. "CID work was different. More investigative, less babysitting."
"Is that what this is? Babysitting?"
"Protection detail." He glances at me, just for a second, then back to the road. "There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Babysitting implies you can't take care of yourself." He adjusts his grip on the wheel. "You went low in that parking garage before I could even draw my weapon. That's not someone who needs babysitting."
The compliment surprises me. Most people don't see it. They just see the panic, not the decision to drop instead of freeze.
"Nursing teaches you to move fast," I say. "Someone starts crashing, you don't have time to think. You just react."
"Same principle. Different circumstances."
Silence settles again. The truck climbs higher, the forest pressing closer. Finn's taillights bob and weave as the road curves. My stomach protests the motion, but I ignore it.
"So why Alaska?" I ask. "If you were CID, you could have gone anywhere. Why here?"
Marc is quiet for a long moment. The only sound is the engine, the tires on dirt, the occasional creak of the suspension.
