I look down. Blood is soaking through my jacket, dark and spreading. The hike reopened the shoulder wound. Maybe tore something that was barely holding together.
I need to rest. Just for a minute. Just long enough to catch my breath and figure out my next move.
The cabin door isn't locked. I push inside, find basic supplies—cot, blankets, emergency rations. A place to wait out bad weather or worse circumstances. I sink onto the cot and try to think through the fog of exhaustion and pain.
Mercer has a primary location. Somewhere within range of this secondary shelter. If I can just rest for a few hours, I can search the area, find him, ask for help finding Gabe.
If I can just rest.
The world tilts sideways. I'm aware of lying down, of the rough blanket against my face, of warmth seeping through my jacket that shouldn't be there.
Blood. Still bleeding.
I should do something about that. Should apply pressure, find the medical kit, stop the bleeding.
Should stay conscious long enough to make a plan.
My eyes drift closed despite every intention to keep them open.
Just for a minute. Just to rest.
Gabe is missing. Harper is dead. Micah is silent.
And I'm bleeding out in a stranger's cabin, waiting for help that might never come.
Darkness takes me, and I fall without anyone to catch me this time.
5
MICAH
The Committee conference room smells like expensive cigars and cheaper lies.
I sit at the polished mahogany table as Michael Hayes—logistics coordinator for special operations—and watch General Marcus Webb pontificate about supply chain efficiency. My fake credentials say I'm former Army logistics, dishonorably discharged for creative accounting, recruited by the organization for my willingness to move questionable cargo without asking questions.
Truth is I've been bleeding them dry of intelligence, and they still think I'm one of them.
"Hayes." Webb's voice cuts through my analysis. "The Baltimore shipment. Status?"
"Delayed." I keep my tone flat, bored. Michael Hayes doesn't care about the details, just the money. "Port inspector got curious. Had to reroute through Norfolk, grease some palms. Cost extra, but the manifest's clean now."
Webb nods, makes a note on his tablet. Around the table, other operatives do the same. Every detail I feed them gets documented in their system, and every document I access gets copied to the encrypted drive hidden in my belt buckle. Patientinfiltration, and I'm finally in the room where they're making the kind of decisions that get people killed.
"Senator Morrison wants the Philadelphia pipeline operational by month's end," Webb continues. "Can you handle the vehicle acquisition?"
Morrison—Committee leadership, the man orchestrating the systematic elimination of burned operators across three continents. I've spent all this time working my way close enough to gather proof that will put him in a federal prison for the rest of his natural life, or it could get me killed if I make one wrong move.
"Not a problem," I say. "I've got a contact at a seized asset auction. DEA impound, pre-screened, clean titles. How many vehicles you need?"
"Multiple. Unmarked panel vans, nothing flashy."
I make a show of consulting my phone, doing mental math that Michael Hayes would do. "Enough to make it worth my time. I can have them ready in a couple weeks."
"Good." Webb leans back. "Morrison's pleased with your work. Efficient, discreet. We value that."
Webb's praise settles wrong in my gut, but I nod like it matters. Like I'm grateful to be part of their operation instead of dismantling it from the inside.
They discuss supply routes, personnel assignments, and "problematic elements" that need "permanent resolution." Euphemisms for murder, delivered in the same tone they'd use to discuss quarterly earnings, and I take notes. Memorize names. Build the case one meeting at a time.
