"You scouted extraction paths before we left the cabin."
Not a question. She knows me well enough to expect preparation, knows I don't enter operational environments without mapping every possible exit.
That knowledge makes her anger more complicated. Makes it harder to accept that she sees my disappearance as abandonment rather than necessity.
Masters's vehicle slows ahead, turning into Kalispell's outskirts. Blocks from the main commercial district, the coffee shop sits on a corner with clear sight lines to approaching traffic.It's a good location for clandestine meetings—public enough to blend, isolated enough to spot surveillance.
"Pulling into the grocery store parking lot across the street." I signal the turn, keeping civilian driving patterns intact. "You can monitor from here while I get visual confirmation."
I park several rows back from the street, angled for quick departure. "Stay on communications. If the Committee positioned a counter-surveillance team, they'll use encrypted channels we can intercept."
She's already pulling up monitoring protocols, her fingers moving across the keyboard with efficiency I remember from DC. Late afternoon sun catches her profile, highlights the sharp focus in her expression. Intelligence gathering happens methodically when Sarah works it, thoroughly, refusing to miss details that matter.
I used to watch her like this. Used to find excuses to work late shifts when she was analyzing signals traffic, telling myself it was about her analytical capabilities. Lying to myself about why I memorized how she looked when she was solving problems.
"Micah." Her voice pulls me back. "You're staring."
"Sorry." I grab the small camera from the equipment bag, verify battery level and memory. "I'll position across the street, get photos of whoever Masters meets."
"If he meets anyone." She stays focused on her screen. "Could be a dead drop. Could be he's using public WiFi to send encrypted messages without creating traceable records."
"Either way, we document it." I clip the camera inside my jacket, accessible but concealed. "Anything changes on communications, you signal me."
"How?"
"Text 'supplies' if it's urgent, 'coffee' if I should extract immediately." It's simple code, nothing suspicious if intercepted. "You remember the emergency protocols?"
Her eyes finally leave the screen, meeting mine with something sharp and defensive. "I remember everything from DC. Every protocol, every contingency plan, every promise you made."
The words are precise, aimed at vulnerabilities she knows I carry.
"Sarah—"
"Just go." She returns to her laptop. "Get the surveillance photos before Masters finishes whatever he's doing."
I leave the vehicle before the conversation can deteriorate further. The parking lot is busy enough with shoppers, parents with children, workers finishing errands. People are living their lives, unaware that intelligence operations happen in the spaces between their routines.
A renovated brick building with large windows provides clear views inside—that's the coffee shop. I position at the bus stop across the street, pulling out my phone like I'm checking messages while the camera captures images through my jacket.
Masters sits alone at a corner table, laptop open, coffee cup untouched. His posture is tense, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the shop's interior with more attention than civilian work requires.
He's nervous. He's expecting something.
I snap a series of photos, documenting his position and the shop's layout. The high-resolution lens picks up details—the precise angle of his laptop screen, the way his right hand stays near his jacket pocket, repeated glances toward the entrance.
Movement catches my attention. A woman enters the shop—expensive clothes that signal money without being flashy, designer bag that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. She orders at the counter, pays cash, collects her coffee without sitting. Then she walks past Masters's table, her bag brushing against his laptop case.
Victoria Cross.
The recognition hits like cold water. What the hell is she doing making contact with Masters?
The exchange is smooth. It's practiced. Masters doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge her presence. She continues toward the restroom, disappearing from view for moments. When she emerges, her messenger bag hangs differently, slightly heavier, the leather creased where it wasn't before.
It's a dead drop. She picked up whatever Masters left in his laptop case, probably a flash drive or documents small enough to conceal easily. Now she's leaving the shop, walking toward a dark sedan parked on the side street.
I photograph the exchange, capture Victoria's face clearly, document the timing and positioning. Sarah needs to see this. Victoria Cross meeting with a compromised warehouse supervisor, making dead drops like she's running Committee intelligence operations.
My phone buzzes. Text from Sarah:
