That's either reassuring or terrifying.
CJ's office is three doors down. Spartan, functional—no personal effects, no photos, nothing that says a human being spends time here rather than a particularly efficient machine. He designed it that way. Says sentiment is a liability in operational spaces. I think he just doesn't want anyone asking questions he doesn't want to answer.
He closes the door. Doesn't sit.
"Solo extraction. Sierra Nevada foothills, roughly ninety minutes east of Sacramento." He pulls up Mitzy's map on the wall screen—satellite overlay, terrain features, a red pin marking a cabin in a sea of green. "Witness to a cartel hit. Federal judge, five days ago, birthday party. She came forward, FBI took her into protective custody."
"And protective custody isn't protecting her?”
"Agent Moreau—the handler who placed her—turned up dead two hours ago." CJ's voice is granite. "Staged suicide.Single gunshot, service weapon, typed note. Textbook Bureau cover-up."
The picture sharpens. "Someone inside made him disappear."
"SA Diane Yates thinks so. Counterintelligence, twenty-two years in. She's been running an off-book investigation into cartel infiltration at the Bureau—money moving the wrong way, agents living above their means, cases going sideways at convenient moments. Moreau was one of the few people she trusted." CJ pulls up a second image. Two men, surveillance photos, the grainy quality of long-lens shots. "Agents Derek Stillman and Travis Wood. They took over protective custody three days ago. Yates flagged them six months back—lifestyle inconsistencies, unexplained travel. She thinks they're being directed by political interests in Sacramento that reach into the Bureau's upper management."
"Political how?"
"The Consortium—the group running the muscle—has friends in high places," CJ says. "The kind of friends who sign paychecks and kill investigations before they reach a courtroom. Yates hasn't nailed the names yet, but someone with a lot of weight in the capital wants this witness silenced before she identifies the shooters. By the time Yates gets authorization through proper channels?—"
"There won't be a witness to authorize protection for."
"That's her assessment. Local law enforcement is unreliable at best, compromised at worst. This is cartel country—they've got tendrils in half the sheriff's departments within a hundred miles. FBI is obviously compromised at the field level. No time for warrants, no time for interagency coordination, no time for anything that moves through official channels."
"So she called you."
The ghost of something crosses his face—memory, maybe, or the particular weight that comes with debts between people who've bled together.
"She's out of options, Riot. This woman is going to die in that cabin, and everyone who should protect her is either bought or blocked."
I look up and find the photo. Evangeline Sinclair. Evie, probably—the license says Evangeline, but no one looks that warm and goes by their full name. A small scar marks her left eyebrow, barely visible. A story there. Everyone's got stories in their scars.
"What's the site layout?"
CJ pulls up the satellite imagery. The cabin sits in a clearing—single story, maybe twelve hundred square feet, surrounded by pine forest. One gravel access road, half a mile to the nearest paved surface. Limited sight lines, which cuts both ways. Hard to see out, hard to see in.
"Two confirmed hostiles. Derek and Travis. But the cartel knows she's there, which means reinforcements are a phone call away. Once those agents realize something's wrong—once they miss a check-in or spot an approach—backup will be inbound. You'll have a narrow window."
"Exfil route?"
"East. Into the mountains." He traces the path on screen. "They'll expect her to run west, toward Sacramento, toward civilization. You go the opposite direction. It's harder terrain, but it buys time. I'll push extraction coordinates to your nav once you're clear of immediate pursuit."
"Extraction how?"
"Helicopter. Two-hour window once you call it in. Mitzy's already working the logistics."
Two hours. A lot can happen in two hours.
"Rules of engagement?"
"The agents are dirty. Confirmed dirty." I meet his gaze, and there's no softness there, no hesitation. "Don't lose sleep over them. Priority one is the witness. Get her out, get her here, keep her breathing. Everything else is secondary."
I nod once. The math is simple. Two hostiles, one civilian, unknown terrain, ticking clock. Kandahar was worse. Mogadishu was worse.
But those weren't kindergarten teachers who trusted the FBI.
"She's been in that cabin five days." CJ's voice drops. "With men who know they're going to kill her. She might not know it consciously, but part of her knows. She'll be scared, probably defensive, won't have any reason to trust another stranger with a gun. You need to get her moving before she has time to think."
"Charming women is kind of my specialty, boss."
