“Fine.” She clung to her anger because it was safer than fear. “I don’t like it.”
“I know.”
The tension between them had nothing to do with thetavern and everything to do with the night he’d spent on her couch.
The team scattered. Wade and Gabe stepped aside for a quiet conversation. Tom stared too intently at his laptop. Reagan found sudden interest in reorganizing the supply closet.
Cara threw herself into restocking. The espresso machine became her entire world—cups aligned, counters wiped, motions repeated—anything to avoid thinking about Gabe walking into danger in a few hours.
The afternoon crawled by, thick with forced normalcy that fooled no one.
Wade referenced sightlines, back exits, and blind corners. Cara filed away the details, the same way she always did when something didn’t quite line up.
And she stood apart, watching Gabe become the federal agent she’d met on day one—the man who worked alone.
He always worked alone.
And that, more than the danger, tightened something in her chest.
Around five, Gabe caught her eye and jerked his head toward the storage room.
She followed.
“I know you don’t like this decision,” he said.
“You have no idea.” She met his gaze, letting the fear and frustration show. “I could help you out there. You know I could.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he said. “You’d be too helpful in ways that raise questions neither of us can afford. I can’t worry about protecting you and your cover while I’m trying to find information about David.”
“But I need to know you’re safe.” He paused. “I can’t focus on the mission if I’m worried about you here.”
Her jaw worked against the promise he wanted.
“I’ll be careful,” she said instead—because it was the only answer that didn’t feel like a lie.
Frustration flickered across his face, quickly buried.
“I will too,” he said.
She nodded, the space between them charged with everything unsaid.
His hand lifted, as if he might reach for her—then fell back to his side. He turned and left before she could do something reckless.
The next four hours passed in tense preparation. Piper extracted promises of updates every thirty minutes. Reagan packed protein bars and water he probably wouldn’t touch. Tom triple-checked communications and pulled up satellite images of the tavern and surrounding streets.
And Cara watched. Not passively—never that—but attentively, absorbing angles, timing, patterns.
At eight-thirty, Gabe slung his go-bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. He’d changed into darker clothes, his weapon concealed but accessible. He looked focused, capable, and ready.
Their eyes met across the bakery.
She wanted to say something important—to tell him to be careful, to admit that watching him leave felt like loss.
Instead, she held his gaze and let the silence speak.
He nodded once, understanding passing between them, and turned away. The door closed behind him.
Cara moved to the window and watched his rental SUV pull onto Main Street, heading north toward Granger Point and the Rusty Anchor.
