"Against a small team? Very." I keep my voice level, controlled. "Against a coordinated assault by experienced contractors with professional-grade equipment? Less so."
"Could we move Traci somewhere safer?"
"Nowhere is safer." I walk to the window, look out at the perimeter. I put distance between myself and Helena because standing this near to her while discussing tactical problems is doing things to my concentration I can't afford. "Graves has access to tracking systems, surveillance resources, federal databases. Anywhere we take her, he can find her."
"Then we make our stand here," Helena says, and there's steel in her voice. A matter-of-fact acceptance of tactical realitywithout drama or hesitation. Just pure practical assessment and adaptation. "We fortify defenses, prepare for the assault, and hold the position until Cara can build a case strong enough to bring federal attention that even Graves can't deflect."
"That could take weeks," Cara warns.
"Then we hold for weeks." Helena's tone allows no argument. "Traci's been through enough. She's not running anymore. She's not hiding. She's standing her ground with people who'll fight for her."
I turn from the window, look at her. The doctor who delivered babies and set fractures, who was married to an operative and watched him destroy himself with what he couldn't control. Standing in Finn's compound, surrounded by tactical gear and weapons, calmly discussing how to defend a position we might not be able to hold against threats we can't confirm.
No fear in her expression. No hesitation. Just certainty that this is the right call, and strength that comes from surviving hell and coming out harder on the other side.
Someone who understands what this fight costs and chooses it anyway. Who looks at impossible odds and doesn't flinch.
Who stood in my bedroom last night and met me where I was without asking me to be anything other than what I am.
"We'll need more ammunition," I say, forcing my attention back to the tactical problem. "Better fields of fire on the northern approach. Additional sensors covering the dead zones where the contractors penetrated last night."
"I can handle the sensors," Finn offers. "Extend the perimeter, add overlapping coverage."
"I'll work with Traci on more details," Helena says. "Anything else she remembers about Graves, about the compound, about the network structure. All of it goes to Cara for the case."
Cara nods, already organizing the information into prosecutable formats. "I'll keep digging into Graves's background. Find the financial connections, the shell companies, the money trail. Even if I have to move carefully to avoid tipping him off, I can trace the patterns."
We're moving now. Not reacting to threats but actively building toward a solution. Defensive preparations combined with offensive intelligence gathering. Hold the ground, build the case, force Graves into a position where federal oversight becomes unavoidable.
It's a long shot. A federal marshal with decades of connections and unlimited resources versus a task force that has to move carefully, a grounded pilot, a reclusive operator, and a doctor protecting a traumatized teenager.
But long shots are all we've got.
Helena catches my eye as the group disperses to their assignments. She holds my gaze for just a moment. No words needed. Just acknowledgment that last night happened, that it changed things, and that we're both professional enough to set it aside and do what needs doing.
Then she's gone, heading back to Traci, and I'm left with the knowledge that Simon Graves is coming back with everything he's got.
And when he does, we'll be ready.
I head outside to assess defensive positions. The morning air is cold, clean, carrying the scent of pine and snow from the higher elevations. The Alaska mornings I used to love when I first came to Alaska. Before having to leave my cabin and come to a compound that’s a fortress. Before protecting Traci turned into preparing for war.
The perimeter sensors show clear. No movement, no threats. But that won't last.
Graves is out there. Planning, mobilizing, bringing in contractors who won't hesitate to kill everyone in this compound to eliminate the witness who can destroy his empire.
And somewhere in federal databases, in encrypted communications, in financial records buried under shell corporations, there's evidence that can bring him down. Proof that a decorated U.S. Marshal spent decades building a trafficking network under the protection of his badge.
We just have to survive long enough for Cara to find it.
I check weapons inventory, verify ammunition supplies, mentally map out defensive improvements. The work keeps my hands busy while my mind processes everything Cara uncovered.
Simon Graves. U.S. Marshal. The man who framed Cara, who protected the trafficking network, who's coming back to eliminate the one witness who can expose him.
The man who held my niece in a compound and used her like inventory.
A part of my brain catalogs that information, files it away as motivation. But underneath, the part of me that lived in the wilderness learning to control what I became in the field recognizes something dangerous stirring.
Graves isn't just a target. He's personal now.
