Silence settles over the cabin. Nobody moves for three seconds, then everyone moves at once.
Calder pulls out her phone, typing. "Ex-military contractor based on the phrasing. Local—they gave you a deadline, which means they're close enough to act."
"Can you trace it?"
"If they're smart, it's a burner already dumped." Cara's typing, running traces anyway. "But the call itself proves coordination between Haywood and outside contractors."
"Evidence of intimidation," Calder says. "Not enough. We need him ordering a hit directly. Something DOJ can't ignore."
Her phone rings. She answers, listens, her shoulders going rigid. "When did this happen? Where?"
She hangs up, looks at me. "Someone just tried to breach my place back in Anchorage. Posed as maintenance. Security stopped them."
"The contractors were looking for you," Finn says.
"Haywood's not just targeting witnesses." Calder's jaw sets. "He's going after the investigation itself."
"You need protection," Sela says. "FBI resources?—"
"And tip off whoever's feeding Haywood information from inside?" Calder shakes her head. "I'm burned until DOJ moves. Anyone I contact could be compromised."
"Then you stay here." Cara gestures around the cabin. "We've got defensible positions, armed personnel, perimeter sensors."
"I can't ask?—"
"You're not asking," I interrupt. "You're our only shot at stopping this. You die, the investigation dies."
Calder weighs it, her gaze tracking between us. Quick nod. "Until DOJ moves. After that, I go official and take my chances with Bureau protection."
"Understood."
We spend the rest of the day fortifying. Finn runs diagnostics on sensors. Cara monitors law enforcement channels and runs digital traces. Harlow arrives mid-afternoon with supplies and equipment, her truck loaded with gear she's pulled from the task force stockpile.
"I heard you got suspended," she says, unloading cases. "Haywood's burning through favors fast."
"Scared and cornered." I grab one of the heavier cases. "Makes him more dangerous."
"It also makes him sloppy." Harlow sets down ammunition. "Desperate people make mistakes."
We work in efficient silence, years of tactical training turning the setup into practiced routine. Extra ammunition distributed to fighting positions. Communication gear tested and retested. Fields of fire cleared and marked. Calder watches from the cabin porch, absorbing how we operate—the hand signals, the spacing, the way we move around each other without getting in the way.
"You've done this before," she observes.
"Different countries, same principles." I secure a spare magazine. "Create layers of defense, eliminate dead angles, maintain clear retreat routes."
"Military?"
"Army CID. Deployed with combat units." I don't elaborate. She doesn't push.
By the time darkness falls, we're as ready as we'll get. Rhys and I are running exterior patrol when Finn's voice crackles through the radio.
"There's movement in the northeast sector. Multiple contacts are approaching through the trees."
I shift position, rifle up, scanning the darkness. Figures emerge from the tree line—hand signals, covering sectors, experienced operators moving with tactical precision. They're contractors heading for the main cabin, heading for Calder.
"Finn, light them up."
Floodlights slam on, catching them in harsh illumination. They freeze, hands drifting toward weapons.
