"I'll head up there. Harlow too. This is bigger than just keeping Sela safe. If Haywood's been protecting trafficking operations for years, we need to burn his entire network."
"Agreed."
"Marc." Rhys's voice shifts, going harder. "If this goes sideways, we're all exposed. Haywood can come after badges, arrest authority, everything. You sure you want to do this?"
I think about Lisa Reynolds. She was just a teenager, dead on an ER gurney because nobody stopped the people trafficking her. Because someone like Haywood made sure nobody could.
"I'm sure."
"Good. See you in an hour."
He hangs up.
The mountains catch the first light, pink and orange bleeding across snow-covered peaks. Alaska is beautiful and brutal in equal measure. It doesn't care about jurisdiction or procedure. It doesn't care about rules. You survive here by adapting to reality, not by pretending the world works the way you wish it did.
Maybe that's what I need to do now.
A raven calls from somewhere in the trees, sharp and harsh. I scan the perimeter out of habit. Motion sensors would alert if anyone approached, but habits die hard. CID training drilled it in—always check your six, always know your exits, always maintain professional distance from civilians in your protection.
That last one's shot to hell.
The guest cabin door opens. Sela steps out wearing yesterday's clothes, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She's carrying two travel mugs. Steam rises in the cold air.
"Finn made a pot," she says, handing one to me. "Figured you'd need it."
The warmth spreads through my fingers. I didn't realize how cold my hands had gotten.
"About last night," I start.
"We're not doing this," she says.
"Doing what?"
"The awkward morning-after thing where you apologize for crossing professional lines and I pretend I didn't know exactlywhat I was doing." She meets my eyes. "We almost died. We slept together. We're adults. No reason to make it complicated."
"It is complicated. You're under my protection. I'm supposed to be keeping you safe, not?—"
"You did keep me safe. You got me out of that cabin alive. You got me here. And then we both needed something that wasn't about survival or fear or men with guns trying to kill us." She takes a breath. Steam rises from her mug in the cold air. "I'm not sorry it happened. Are you?"
The honest answer forms before I can second-guess it. I should be sorry. Should be worried about professional consequences and compromised objectivity and all the reasons the rules exist. But standing here in the cold morning light with her looking at me like I'm not some fuck-up who crossed a line but just a man who made a choice, I can't find it in me to regret it.
"No," I say.
"Then we move forward. Figure out how to take down Haywood. Keep each other alive. Everything else is noise." She nods toward the main cabin. "Cara's got breakfast ready. And she wants to show us the rest of what she found on Emma's drive."
She starts to head back inside but I catch her arm.
"Wait. Your phone. The one you used to call the FBI tip line. Do you still have it?"
She reaches into her jacket pocket. Pulls it out. "Yeah, why?"
"That's how they found us."
Her face goes pale. "What?"
"You called the FBI tip line from that number. If Haywood has contacts monitoring the line, they flagged you. Tracked your phone's GPS. Followed you from Palmer to the safe house, then here when we ran."
She stares at the phone like it's a live grenade. "I didn't think—I should have?—"
