27
At almost fourin the morning, exhaustion pulled at Gabe like an undertow. Tom's discovery of the tavern location still glowed on the laptop screen, red GPS dots marking where David had gone repeatedly over two weeks.
Gabe's instinct said go now. Drive north before whoever ran the operation realized someone had found David's trail. His counter-intelligence training had taught him to move fast when leads were hot, to press advantages before they evaporated.
He reached for his keys.
"Bad call." Wade's voice cut through the fatigue. The big man stood near the door with his arms crossed, expression flat. "You're running on fumes. We all are."
"The trail's fresh," Gabe countered. "Every hour we wait?—"
"Is an hour you're not walking into a bar full of smugglers' associates half-asleep and making mistakes that get you killed." Wade's tone stayed matter of fact, stating reality without judgment. "When's the last time you slept?"
Gabe tried to calculate and couldn't. The warehouseescape felt like days ago instead of hours. His body ached with the particular exhaustion that came from sustained adrenaline followed by the crash.
The big man was right. Gabe knew it even if his desperate need to find David resisted the logic. Tired operators made fatal mistakes.
"You need to go when the tavern's operational," Tom added quietly from his laptop. "After dinner rush, but before the crowd gets too drunk to remember faces or answer questions. I’d say more like eight or nine.”
Gabe forced himself to think like the field agent he'd been instead of the desperate brother he was becoming. "Okay." He set the keys down. "We rest. Plan properly. Move tonight at twenty-one hundred."
Relief crossed several faces around Cara's small kitchen. They were all running on empty, held together by determination and too much coffee.
The team dispersed with murmured goodnights and promises to reconvene at the bakery in the morning. Tom and Piper headed home with Reagan right behind them.
Wade stayed long enough to walk through the apartment with Gabe, checking the newly installed security system and verifying all entry points were secure.
"This'll do," Wade announced. "You staying?"
"Yeah." Gabe's tone left no room for discussion. After the warehouse break-in and everything that had happened since, he wasn't leaving Cara alone. "I'll take the couch."
Wade nodded his approval and left without further comment.
Cara emerged from her bedroom wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair pulled back. "You don't have to stay," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
He ignored that and pulled a blanket from the back of her couch. "Get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead."
She studied him for a moment, like she wanted to argue, then disappeared back into her bedroom without another word.
Grateful to escape a fight, Gabe slid off his tactical vest and boots and collapsed on the small couch. The apartment was silent except for the distant sound of waves and the occasional creak of old building settling.
Sleep hit like a hammer.
His phone's alarm dragged him back to consciousness at nine. Those five hours of rest felt like minutes. His body protested movement, but his mind was clearer than it had been in days.
He could hear Cara moving around in her bedroom. He stood, stretched muscles that had stiffened overnight on the too-short couch, and headed downstairs to his rental SUV for his go-bag.
Back in the apartment, he showered quickly in Cara's tiny bathroom and changed into clean clothes. She was making coffee in the kitchen when he emerged, the silence between them still heavy with unresolved tension.
Gabe watched her as he ran through his options one more time. His training said call it in. Contact the local FBI field office. Request official backup and a proper warrant.
But his reality was more complicated.
He didn't have enough evidence for a warrant. GPS data from a missing person's burner phone showing visits to a public tavern didn't meet the threshold for probable cause. Especially since he had no evidence that his brother hadn't disappeared willingly. Any federal magistrate would laugh the request out of court without concrete proof of criminal activity beyond speculation and circumstantial evidence.
No way the Portland field office would jump in without Morrison's approval. They had their own priorities. A rogue IA agent from Philadelphia running an unauthorized investigationinto his brother's disappearance wasn't going to get their resources or attention. And even if he could make the case, it would have to go through Morrison. A definite no go. Morrison would let the case go cold while bureaucracy ground forward at its usual glacial pace.
So it came down to him. Alone. Walking into a rough bar in Granger Point to ask questions that might get him killed.
