Chapter 13 #2
"The real evidence is in three locations," Crane continues, his tone that of a professor explaining something obvious to a slow student.
"Grotto Falls, which is why we're here. Anchorage, First National Bank—where your sister's team is currently breaking several federal laws.
And Seattle, a Greyhound station locker that I emptied two weeks ago. Did I miss anything?"
Sarah's voice crackles through the earpiece, tight with tension. "Rhett, sitrep."
Static, then Rhett's voice, clipped and urgent: "Bank's locked down. Federal agents everywhere. It's a trap. We're pulling back now."
My stomach drops. The cold suddenly has nothing to do with the weather.
"Your friends are about to be arrested," Crane says, watching Gabe's face for reaction.
"We've arranged quite the scenario—warrants for three murders in Billings, a staged federal agent killing in Montana.
Body placed yesterday, forensics doctored to show Nate Barrett's gun as the murder weapon.
Very thorough work. The moment your friends presented that bank key, they became accessories to multiple felonies. "
Gabe's voice stays level but I can hear the strain underneath. "You're bluffing."
"Check the news in about thirty minutes.
You'll find our work quite thorough. We even have witness statements, security footage, a very compelling narrative about rogue operators going vigilante.
" Crane pulls out his phone, the screen bright in the dim morning light.
"I make one call, your friends go to prison.
Your sister loses everything—security clearance, career, freedom.
Sheriff MacAllister gets investigated for harboring a fugitive.
This charming town becomes a federal crime scene with reporters and investigators crawling over every detail. "
"Or?" Gabe asks, though we all know what's coming.
"Or you disappear. Permanently. New name, new face, new continent. South America is lovely this time of year. Everyone else walks free, goes back to their lives, never hears from you or Chimera again."
Wind whistles through the frozen falls, a lonely sound that echoes off the granite walls.
"Why not just kill us?" Gabe asks. "Simpler. More permanent."
"Congressional hearings in six weeks. If those files surface during a murder investigation, questions get asked that I can't answer. Bodies get exhumed. Timelines get checked. Your death creates complications. Your disappearance solves them cleanly."
"He's lying," Sarah says through the earpiece, her voice hard. "The moment you're out of sight, we're all dead. This is theater."
Through my scope, I track one of Crane's men. He's drifted closer to where Sarah disappeared, moving with practiced stealth. Hunting. They know she's out there somewhere, invisible but dangerous.
"Alex," I breathe into my mic, keeping my voice barely audible. "Hostile moving on Sarah's position. Your two o'clock, maybe thirty meters into the tree line."
"Acquired. Tracking."
Gabe's phone buzzes. He glances at it, and something changes in his face—tension releasing, replaced by grim satisfaction. "It's done."
"What's done?" Crane's pleasant mask slips slightly.
"The upload. Tommy Walsh has been monitoring this conversation from Montana.
The moment you showed up, he started copying the evidence to every major news outlet, three congressional offices, and the FBI's public corruption task force.
Thirty minutes of continuous upload. The files are already received and being opened. "
Crane's mask cracks completely, control fracturing. "You're bluffing."
"Check your phone. Check the news feeds. Check your secure email."
Crane does, his fingers moving fast across the screen. His face goes white, then red, rage breaking through decades of professional control.
"I didn't hide the evidence in three places," Gabe continues, his voice strengthening with each word.
"I hid it in four. Tommy's been working with Sarah for weeks, building redundancies, creating dead man switches.
Your Committee's operations are sitting in inboxes across Washington right now.
Reporters are already writing stories. FBI agents are already pulling files. You're done."
Crane's hand moves toward his weapon—fast, decisive, the move of a man with nothing left to lose.
Sarah's rifle cracks from the tree line, the sound sharp and final.
One of Crane's men drops, the spray of blood dark against white snow.
Return fire erupts immediately, the parking lot transforming into chaos.
I swing my rifle to the operative closing on Sarah's position, squeeze the trigger.
The recoil punches my shoulder, familiar and violent. The man staggers, clutching his leg.
"Mara, move!" Gabe's voice cuts through the chaos, command and concern mixed together.
I'm already running, instinct overriding fear, using the boulder formations for cover as rounds spark off granite with screams of metal on stone.
The truck seems miles away across exposed ground.
Alex's rifle speaks from somewhere up on the ridge—precise, controlled shots that keep Crane's people pinned and scrambling.
Gabe and Sarah converge on my position, moving like parts of the same organism. We're outnumbered but we have terrain and they're exposed.
"Fall back to the truck!" Sarah orders. "Fighting retreat! Covering fire!"
We move as a unit, a dance we've never practiced but somehow know.
Gabe fires, I run. I fire, Sarah runs. Sarah fires, Gabe runs.
Leapfrog movements, always someone shooting, always someone moving.
My rifle feels heavy, unfamiliar despite years of practice.
This isn't paper targets at the range or deer in the forest. These are people trying to kill us.
A round hits the boulder six inches from my head. Granite chips sting my face, drawing blood. I fire back toward the muzzle flash, just trying to make them duck, make them hesitate.
The truck's thirty feet away. Twenty. Might as well be a mile.
The black SUV blocking the exit explodes in flame—Caleb's work from somewhere up on the ridge. The blast wave knocks me flat, air driven from my lungs. My ears ring with a high-pitched whine that drowns everything else.
Hands pull me up—Gabe's face, mouth moving, words I can't hear. He's dragging me toward our truck, half-carrying me. Sarah's already in the driver's seat, engine roaring.
I tumble into the back. Gabe throws himself beside me, his body covering mine. Sarah doesn't wait—the truck lurches forward, tires spinning uselessly before finding purchase in packed snow beneath.
We ram through debris from the burning SUV, metal scraping metal, paint peeling away in long strips. The truck fishtails wildly but Sarah keeps it under control through pure will, accelerating hard down the narrow mountain road.
Shots follow us, rounds punching through the tailgate with sharp cracks, one starring the rear window.
I stay low. Gabe covers me with his body, his weight solid and real.
The truck takes a hairpin turn too fast, slides toward the cliff edge, tires kissing the edge before catching traction and pulling us back from the drop.
A mile down the mountain, Sarah finally slows. The gunfire has stopped, replaced by wind and engine noise and my own ragged breathing.
My ears are still ringing, the world muffled like I'm underwater. But Gabe's voice breaks through, urgent and worried. Sarah's breathing, fast but controlled. The truck's laboring engine, something damaged but still working.
"Everyone okay?" Sarah asks, eyes on the road, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
"Yeah," Gabe says. "Mara?"
I flex my fingers, checking for damage. No blood except the granite cuts on my face. Nothing broken. "I'm fine."
"Alex, Rhett, Colton, status?"
Static, then Alex's calm voice: "Clear. Crane's pulling back to regroup. I count three hostiles down, two wounded badly enough they're out of the fight. Caleb's got one pinned on the ridge but I told him to let them go."
"Good call. We're not executioners."
"Copy that."
Rhett's voice breaks in, slightly breathless: "We're clear of Anchorage. Feds showed up in force but we were already gone—never even made it to the bank entrance."
"The evidence?"
"Got it. We used a secondary approach Sarah set up two days ago. Safety deposit box contained everything. USB drives, documents, the whole package. It's all here."
My breath comes out in a rush I didn't know I was holding. We did it. Somehow, impossibly, against all odds, we actually did it.
"Rendezvous point?" Sarah asks, navigating another hairpin turn with practiced ease.
"The lodge," Gabe says. "We regroup, verify the files uploaded successfully to Tommy, then we figure out our next moves. This isn't over—Crane's wounded but not dead."
The truck carries us down the mountain, back toward something that might be safety or might just be a brief pause before the next fight. My hands have stopped shaking. The rifle sits across my lap—not grandmother's gun anymore, not really. Mine now. Blooded.
Three days. That's how long it took for everything to change.