I sit on the bed, hold the radio, and stare at nothing. FBI Agent Lyle Haywood. Finally, a name. But names are dangerous. Names get people killed.
And I'm sitting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere having turned over proof that could bring down that federal agent.
I lie back on the bed and close my eyes, listening to Marc's footsteps move through the main room from window to door to window. The pattern never breaks.
I listen to the rhythm, counting his footsteps like a lifeline, knowing it won't be enough if they come.
6
MARC
Sela's breathing shifts sometime late into the night. I hear it through the bedroom door. Still restless, still tense, but quieter. Not sleep. It's exhaustion wearing down her defenses.
She needs rest. We both do.
But I keep moving. Window. Door. Window. The pattern holds me steady, keeps my mind focused on the present instead of spinning through worst-case scenarios.
My laptop sits on the table where I left it, screen dark. It's waiting.
Cara sent a few files earlier tonight. Said she'd cracked the first encryption layer and pulled what she could before the system locked her out again. Told me to review everything, cross-reference names, look for connections we might have missed.
I haven't opened them yet. Been too busy making sure nobody's coming up that access road with suppressed weapons and night vision.
But the cabin's quiet. Forest sounds filter through the walls. Wind in the trees, something small moving through underbrush.It sounds normal. No engine noise. No footsteps. No radio chatter from hostiles coordinating an approach.
There's wilderness and cold and darkness that goes on for miles.
I settle into the chair, angle the laptop screen away from the bedroom door so the light won't wake Sela, and open Cara's encrypted file transfer.
The first image loads.
Julian Montrose sits across a table from a man in business casual. Dark blazer, no tie. A federal employee pretending he's not. A coffee shop setting. Vancouver, based on the storefront visible through the window behind them.
The second man's face is clear. Sharp features, graying at the temples. Confident posture. Hands folded on the table like he owns the room.
FBI Agent Lyle Haywood.
My jaw tightens. I've seen his face before. Testimony photos from the Stormwatch investigation. Video depositions where he sat in front of congressional oversight committees and swore under oath that Cara Brennan had compromised operational security. He presented fabricated evidence of communications she never sent, records she never accessed, decisions she never made.
He buried her career while three agents died and traffickers walked free.
Cara's been hunting the bastard who framed her for a long time. Never had proof. Never had anything concrete enough to challenge his testimony.
Emma photographed him with Montrose.
I click through the next images. Same two men, different locations. A roadhouse outside Fairbanks. I recognize it, passed it dozens of times on patrol. A parking garage in Anchorage, a high-end downtown structure where nobody parks unlessthey're trying not to be seen. A trailhead in the Chugach Mountains where nobody goes in winter without a specific reason.
Months of meetings. Emma time-stamped each photo, added GPS coordinates, noted weather conditions and potential witnesses nearby. She built a timeline that shows pattern and intent, not coincidence.
The surveillance is professional. Patient. Precise. Evidence built to survive a defense attorney's cross-examination.
She knew what she was doing. Knew she was building something that could stand up in court.
Knew it might get her killed.
The next folder contains transaction records. Bank transfers, cryptocurrency movements, shell company formations. Emma traced money from Montrose's operation through layers of corporate structures before it landed in accounts she couldn't directly link to Haywood but that showed the same patterns as his known financial activity.
I zoom in on one transaction. Tens of thousands moved from a Vancouver-based import/export company to a consulting firm in Delaware. The Delaware firm exists only on paper. No employees, no office space, just a registered agent and a bank account. Days later, an equivalent amount minus transfer fees appears in an investment account linked to a trust Haywood established for his daughter's college fund.
