"Okay," Helena says, reading whatever Traci wrote. "A compound. Mountain location, remote. Guards rotating on schedules. You counted how many?"
The scritch of pen on paper.
"Many guards at any given time. More during deliveries." Helena's voice stays calm, clinical. Doctor mode rather than horror at what she's hearing. "And the man in charge. The one who ran the operation. Did you see him?"
A pause. Then writing.
"Older. Gray hair. Spoke with authority. The guards deferred to him." Helena reads it back, making sure she has it right. "Did anyone use his name? Call him anything specific?"
A longer pause. I can picture Traci hesitating, pen hovering over the paper. Afraid of what sharing this information might cost her. Afraid of making herself more of a target by becoming a witness who can identify the people who held her.
Finally, writing. Fast, urgent.
Helena's breath catches. Just slightly, but I hear it. A small sound, barely audible, but it tells me everything I need to know about what she just read.
"Simon," she says. "You heard them call him Simon."
More writing.
"Simon Graves." Helena's voice goes hard. Different from the gentle coaxing tone. This is the voice of someone who spent time married to an operative, who understands what sort of man would run a trafficking compound. "You're sure? That's the exact name?"
An affirmative sound. Traci must have nodded.
"Okay. That's good, Traci. That's exactly what we needed." Helena's tone shifts back to gentle reassurance, but I can hear the steel underneath. "You did the right thing telling me. Now we can start building a case that actually sticks."
I'm already moving toward the communications room. Cara needs this information immediately. Simon Graves. A name, finally. Something concrete to investigate.
Cara looks up when I walk in. She's surrounded by laptops, screens showing database searches and encrypted communications channels. Her expression sharpens when she sees my face.
"What happened?"
"Traci gave Helena a name. Simon Graves. Ring any bells?"
Her fingers are already flying across the keyboard before I finish the question. Multiple windows open, database searches launching simultaneously. Law enforcement databases, federal personnel records, background checks running in parallel.
"Simon Graves," she mutters, scanning results as they populate. "U.S. Marshal, Alaska district. Based out of Anchorage. Decorated record, multiple commendations forfugitive apprehension." She pulls up personnel files, assignment histories. "And he worked the Stormwatch operation."
My gut tightens. "Same operation where you got framed."
"Same operation where I got framed," Cara confirms, her voice going flat. Controlled fury underneath. "He was part of the inter-agency task force. Had access to everything. Intelligence reports, surveillance data, witness statements. He knew about my investigation into the trafficking connection. Knew I was getting close to identifying the protection network."
The pieces click together with cold precision. "He helped set you up."
"More than that. He orchestrated it." She pulls up more files, comparing timelines. "The frame happened weeks after I submitted my preliminary report on the trafficking network. Weeks after I identified patterns that suggested law enforcement protection. Graves saw that report. He knew I was onto something."
I study the photos of Simon Graves populating her screens. Distinguished-looking man in his fifties, silver hair, confident posture. A face that inspires trust in courtrooms and congressional hearings. The sort of man who could hide a trafficking empire behind a badge and federal authority.
"So the man everyone calls the Marshal isn't just some criminal mastermind," I say. "He's a federal officer using his position to protect the network."
"Using his position to run the network." Cara leans back in her chair, pieces fitting together. "Think about it. U.S. Marshals handle witness protection, fugitive transport, federal prisoner transfers. Graves would have known about every high-value target moving through the system. Known which ones had money, connections, leverage. Known exactly how to make them disappear into a trafficking network instead of protective custody."
The scope of it settles over me like ice water. Not just corruption. Systematic exploitation of federal authority for criminal enterprise.
"How many victims?" I ask.
"No way to know without accessing his operation directly. Could be dozens. Could be hundreds." Cara's jaw tightens. "Every witness who went missing, every protected person who vanished, every federal prisoner who never made it to their destination. All of it could lead back to Graves."
Helena appears in the doorway. She's pulled herself together into doctor mode. Professional, composed, dark hair pulled back from her face in a way that makes me want to undo it. Nothing in her expression suggests what happened between us last night except maybe the faint shadow under her eyes from too little sleep.
