"Military politics," he finally says. "Got tired of covering for people who didn't deserve it. Tired of watching good soldiers get thrown under the bus while the brass protected their own." His jaw tightens. "Alaska seemed like a good place to stop caring about any of that."
"And is it?"
"Most days."
Something shifts in his voice, like a door closing. Fair enough—I've got my own stories I don't share.
"What about you?" he asks. "Rhys said you just started at Palmer Regional. Where were you before?"
"Fairbanks. Years in their trauma unit."
"That's a good program. Why leave?"
Lying to Marc feels pointless. He'll see through it. And we're going to be stuck together for days, maybe weeks. Might as well start with honesty.
"Bad breakup," I say. "Another nurse. We worked opposite shifts, barely saw each other, and when we did, we were too exhausted to function. He wanted me to cut back my hours. I told him I couldn't. He said I was married to the job. I said maybe I was. It ended badly."
Marc doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, "He wanted you to need him."
It's not a question. It's a statement. Like he's seen this exact dynamic before.
"Yeah," I admit. "And when I didn't, he made it about me being broken. Cold. Unavailable." I shrug, even though he's not looking at me. "Maybe I am. But I'm good at my job. I save lives. That matters more than being someone's project."
"You're not broken." His voice is matter-of-fact, no sympathy, no judgment. Just stating a fact. "You're just not interested in being rescued."
The accuracy of that statement hits hard.
"No," I say quietly. "I'm not."
"Good. Because I'm not here to rescue you. I'm here to keep you alive long enough for Cara to crack that drive and for us to nail whoever's running this network." His eyes flick to the rearview again. "That's the job. Nothing more complicated than that."
Relief floods through me. There are no expectations, no rescuer complex, no white knight bullshit. Just a man doing his job and a woman trying not to get killed.
Finn's brake lights flash. Marc slows the truck. Ahead, Finn's pulling off onto what barely qualifies as a trail. More like a gap between trees that might have been a road once.
"This is it?" I ask.
"Looks like it."
The truck bounces over ruts and exposed roots. Branches scrape against the sides, a sound like fingernails on metal.The headlights catch glimpses of dense undergrowth, massive tree trunks, darkness that swallows everything beyond the immediate path.
This place is isolated. The kind of isolated where you could scream and nobody would hear you.
It's good for hiding, but bad if someone finds us anyway.
Marc seems to be thinking the same thing. His hand drops to his weapon, draws it from the holster, and lays it on the seat beside him. His jaw is tight, eyes tracking movement in the shadows.
"You know how to use a gun?" he asks quietly.
"Basic training. Shooting range a few times."
"There's a spare in the glove compartment. Glock 19. If things go wrong, point and pull the trigger. Don't hesitate."
I open the glove compartment. The gun sits there, compact and deadly. I take it out, feel the weight of it in my hand. Knowing it's there changes something. Makes this more real.
The trail opens into a small clearing. Finn stops his truck. Marc pulls up beside him, engine idling.
A cabin sits at the far edge of the clearing. It's small, maybe one room or two at most, with log construction, weathered wood, and a porch that sags slightly on one side. Solar panels on the roof catch the moonlight. There are no other structures visible, no lights anywhere except what our headlights provide.
