Chapter 22
Three months ago:
Binary: I’ve been calculating risk assessments. Theoretical scenarios for new software I’m developing.
Mercury: That sounds ominous.
Binary: If you had to give up everything familiar to protect something that mattered—would the math be simple or complicated?
Mercury: Depends on what mattered.
Binary: Something irreplaceable. Something that made you who you are.
Mercury: Then it wouldn’t be math at all. It would just be the answer.
Binary: That’s not logical.
Mercury: No. But some things aren’t.
Two days since Morgan’s apartment in Whitefish. Two days since the sedan had followed them through town, close enough and long enough to capture a photo through the windshield.
Lincoln watched his monitors, waiting for the hit that would end everything.
He forced his attention back to the primary screen. Coordinates. Another batch Morgan had recited that morning, numbers pulled from the chaos Randall had poured into her head. Chicago. Phoenix. Houston. The same pattern as yesterday. Major cities, no connections, no thread he could pull.
Two days back from Montana, and Morgan was still drowning in data that refused to mean anything. All Lincoln could do was watch her struggle and try to find patterns that weren’t there.
“Forty-one point eight seven eight one, negative eighty-seven point six two nine eight.”
Her voice carried across the command center, once again flat with exhaustion. She’d been reciting for three hours. Her tea sat untouched beside her keyboard, cold by now.
Lincoln typed the coordinates into his cross-reference system. Watched the results populate. Another urban center. Another dead end.
On his tertiary monitor, messages continued piling up.
Treasury. FBI. Homeland. His NSA back channel.
The subject lines had shifted over the past week—Request for Assistance becoming Priority Inquiry becoming Urgent: Response Required.
He’d been deflecting them with vague assurances, buying time with professional courtesy that was wearing thin on both sides.
The latest message from his FBI contact sat unread at the top of the queue. He didn’t need to open it to know what it said. They were losing patience. They wanted Morgan Reece, and Lincoln Bollinger—the consultant who’d never failed to deliver—had suddenly gone useless.
“Still nothing?” Morgan asked.
“No. No connections.”
She leaned back in her chair, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I’m so tired of reciting things that don’t matter.”
Lincoln turned to look at her. The shadows beneath her eyes had deepened since Montana. She’d been sleeping beside him every night, but the rest wasn’t reaching her—he could see it in the way she held herself, coiled tight, waiting for the next blow.
“We’ll find the pattern,” he said.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true. The information connects somewhere. We just need—”
“More time.” She cut him off, not unkindly. “Which we don’t have.”
“We’re going to find—”
“We don’t know if Randall’s people are searching for you through their facial recognition software.” She cut him off. “And any given two-year-old could see that the government agencies are getting fed up with your lack of results in finding me.”
“I don’t think two-year-olds can read, so…”
“You know what I mean, Lincoln. We’re running out of time.”
She wasn’t wrong. But stating that was just going to add more pressure, which would, in turn, just slow things down and cause more—
His security system chimed.
The sound cut through the command center like a blade. Lincoln’s attention snapped to the gate camera, and what he saw made everything else fall away.
Callum Webb’s vehicle. Coming up his private drive.
The sheriff of Oak Creek. Here. Now. Without warning.
Morgan was staring at the monitor too. “Is that…?”
“Our town sheriff. Yes.”
“Please tell me he’s the bestie you never mentioned and that he stops by four or five times a week for coffee and so you guys can braid each other’s hair.”
“Yeah. Did I not mention that?”
Morgan seemed torn between being proud of him for telling a joke and terrified because law enforcement was about to knock on their door.
He cupped her cheeks. “There’s a safe room. Behind the bookshelf in my bedroom—press the third shelf bracket, and the panel slides open. Stay there until I come get you.”
She nodded, not even looking surprised, gathered the box of letters she’d kept within arm’s reach since Montana, and moved toward the stairs. Lincoln watched her on the security feed until she disappeared into his bedroom, until the bookshelf panel slid closed behind her.
Then he went to answer the door, finding Callum on the porch in civilian clothes—jeans, flannel, boots softened by years of wear. Off duty. This wasn’t official.
That made it worse.
“Linc.” Callum nodded at him. “Mind if I come in?”
Lincoln stepped aside. Refusal would only confirm whatever suspicions had brought the sheriff to his door, and right now, uncertainty was the only advantage Lincoln had.
Callum moved through the foyer with the familiarity of someone who’d been here before.
They had history—not friendship exactly, but the kind of professional respect that came from years of quiet cooperation.
Lincoln had fed him information on cases that couldn’t be solved through official channels.
Callum had looked the other way when Lincoln’s methods strayed into gray areas.
That history was about to cost them both.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Callum said, stopping in the living room. He didn’t sit. Didn’t make himself comfortable. Just stood there, hands loose at his sides, watching Lincoln with the patient assessment of a man who’d spent decades reading people.
Lincoln waited. Let the silence stretch. In uncertain conversations, the first person to speak usually revealed more than they intended.
Callum didn’t seem inclined to fill the quiet either. He just watched, and Lincoln felt the weight of that gaze like pressure against his chest.
It was Callum who finally spoke. “You’ve done a lot for this town, Lincoln.
Cases you’ve helped solve without wanting credit.
Information you’ve passed along when official channels couldn’t get it done.
” Callum paused. “And for me personally—the Kozak brothers’ situation.
Sloane would be dead now if it weren’t for the information you provided. ”
Lincoln remembered. He’d never asked for thanks, never expected it. That wasn’t why he’d helped.
Callum shifted his weight, a subtle movement that somehow made the room feel smaller. “Pretty much everyone in Oak Creek owes you for something, whether they know the details or not.”
The trap was closing. Lincoln could feel it—the careful construction of obligation, the foundation being laid for whatever came next.
“I had an interesting conversation with Sloane this morning,” Callum continued. “She saw the FBI bulletin on my desk. Said the woman looked familiar but couldn’t place it at first. Then she remembered Joy mentioning you’d brought someone to the Eagle’s Nest a couple nights ago.”
Lincoln’s hands stayed loose at his sides. His face stayed neutral. But something cold had settled at the base of his spine.
“I asked around,” Callum said. “Bear couldn’t seem to remember a single detail about the woman you brought. Not her hair color, size, shape. Nothing.”
Lincoln wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Just someone I met in the parking lot. She wasn’t very memorable.”
“Seems that way. Because not only could Bear not remember anything about her, neither could Joy. Derek and Becky drew a blank too. Theo and Eva—same story.”
He paused. Let that land.
“Six people. Smart people. People I would, and have, trust with my life. People who notice everything and forget nothing.” Callum’s eyes never left Lincoln’s face.
“And not one of them could describe a single detail about the woman who spent an entire evening in their company. That’s a lot of collective amnesia from some of the sharpest people in Oak Creek. ”
Lincoln said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t make this worse.
“Linc, I’m not here as the sheriff.” Callum’s voice dropped, something almost like regret bleeding through.
“I’m here because you’ve given me reasons to trust you.
Because when you do something that looks wrong from the outside, there’s usually something I can’t see that makes it right.
” He took a breath. “I’m giving you a chance, Lincoln.
Whatever this is. Whatever’s going on. Tell me. ”
The offer hung between them like a hand extended across a chasm.
Lincoln thought about Morgan upstairs, clutching her letters. Thought about what she’d survived, what she was still carrying, the federal databases that wanted to swallow her whole. He thought about Callum—a good man, a fair man, someone who’d earned the truth.
But he thought about what the truth would cost Morgan. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t trust Callum.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie tasted like ash in his mouth. “Whoever was at the Eagle’s Nest—I can’t imagine why anyone would find her interesting.”
Callum studied him. Lincoln watched the calculation happen—the weighing of words against instinct, the cop’s brain cataloging every microexpression, every tell. Callum knew he was lying. They both knew.
The silence stretched until it became its own kind of answer.
“All right,” Callum said finally. He moved toward the door, and Lincoln followed, each step heavier than the last. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
At the threshold, Callum paused. His hand rested on the doorframe, but he didn’t turn around.
“Whatever you’re protecting, Lincoln…” His voice was quiet. Almost sad. “I hope it’s worth what it costs.”
Then he was gone.