Chapter 25
Coffee in hand, Cory was just settling at the computer across from Izzy the next morning when his phone buzzed.
She sat surrounded by a fortress of printouts, multiple laptops open on the conference table, completely absorbed in whatever Knight Tactical's cybersecurity whiz, Zara, had sent her.
Morning light caught the exhaustion under her eyes, but also the fierce determination that made something tighten in his chest.
He put the phone to his ear. "Fraser here."
He straightened. "What kind of situation?"
"Eugene Holcomb borrowed his grandson's snowmobile." A pause. "He's doing donuts in the Safeway parking lot."
Cory pinched the bridge of his nose. Eugene. Of course. "How fast is he going?"
"Fast enough that three shopping carts are now modern art installations. Manager's threatening to call in those FBI agents if we don't handle it."
"On my way." He disconnected, catching Izzy's amused glance.
"Eugene again?"
"Snowmobile in the Safeway lot."
Her lips twitched. "Testing winter readiness?"
"That’d be my guess." He grabbed his jacket, not liking the idea of leaving her alone even in her secured building. "You'll be—"
"Go." She waved him off, already turning back to her screens. "Eugene needs you more than I do. Besides, I've got shell companies to unravel."
Twenty minutes later, Cory sat in his SUV watching Eugene's grandson retrieve the snowmobile while Eugene himself signed autographs for a group of impressed teenagers. The old man had been properly chastised, the Safeway manager appeased, and the shopping carts would live to roll another day.
This was his town. These were his people—even the ones who decided Tuesday morning was perfect for geriatric snowmobile adventures.
The FBI might have resources and federal authority, but they didn't know that Eugene only acted out when he missed his late wife.
They didn't know the manager's bark was worse than his bite, or that those teenagers would spread the story until Eugene felt like a hero instead of a nuisance.
Local knowledge. It mattered more than the feds realized.
He turned onto Main Street, intending to head straight back to Knight Tactical, when Landing Love Ice Cream caught his eye. The converted cottage with its painted wooden steps looked like something from a snow globe, complete with icicles hanging from the gingerbread trim.
His foot found the brake before his brain caught up.
She'd been working nonstop. Barely eating unless he put food in front of her. When was the last time she'd had something just for pleasure, not fuel?
He parked and climbed those wooden steps he'd watched her navigate so many times. Usually with Chantal bouncing ahead, both of them laughing. The memory made his chest tight with the unfairness of it all—a six-year-old in hiding because someone wanted to hurt her mother.
The shop smelled like waffle cones and happiness. But when faced with the tousled teen behind the counter, he froze. He and Izzy had shared danger…but not ice cream preferences. Realizing there was no such thing as too much ice cream, he ordered six different pints.
He was smiling when he texted her to raise the hangar door. Inside, he found Izzy exactly where he'd left her, except now she'd built a wall of manila folders around her laptop like a papery fortress.
"Do I need to post bail for Eugene?" she asked without looking up.
"Released on his own recognizance. Banned from motorized vehicles for a week." He set the bag on the table beside her, careful not to disturb her organization system. "Thought you could use a break."
She peeked inside, blinking at the ice cream, then up at him, surprise softening her features. "You got one of everything. Oooh. Mint Chip."
He felt like he’d struck gold. "I have nieces. I learned a long time ago that ice cream preferences are serious business."
“Wise man. That’s no joke.” She hauled out the container, holding it out. “Do I need to share?”
He shook his head. “I’m strictly a butter pecan guy.”
She shuddered. “Seriously?”
Before he could defend himself, her phone erupted in buzzes. She glanced at it and burst out laughing.
"What?"
She tapped a quick response and turned the screen toward him, scrolling through the texts. "My team."
Zara: Why is there a moose in our trailer?
Izzy:...what?
Kenji: Axel fed it. Now it won't leave.
Axel: His name is Kevin.
Ronan: We're NOT keeping the moose.
Cory grinned. "Kevin the moose?"
"Apparently." She shook her head, but her smile was fond. "Axel has a thing about wildlife. Last deployment, he adopted six stray dogs and a goat named Henderson."
She typed back quickly, then set the phone aside and headed into the kitchen, his ice cream haul in hand. “Follow me if you want any.”
Ten minutes later, sated and happier than they’d been since the Unicorn pancakes, Izzy motioned to him to head back to the situation room.
"Okay, you need to see what I found while you were wrangling Eugene. I’m not Kenji or Zara, but I can work my way around the internet."
She shifted her laptop so he could see, her shoulder brushing his as he leaned in. The screen showed a complex web of companies, lines connecting them like a conspiracy theorist's dream board.
"I dug deeper into those seven med-evac operations that went under," she said. “You’re not gonna like this.” She pulled up another screen. "Every single case had two things in common. Tom Morrison did the insurance evaluation, and Reed Osgood handled the FAA investigation."
Cory studied the data. "That's a lot of coincidences."
"You think?" She switched screens again. "Look at the timeline. The sabotage started three years ago, small stuff. The technique's evolved, gotten more sophisticated. Zara tracked the shell companies through about fifteen layers of ownership. They're good at hiding, but not Zara-good."
Her phone rang—video call from Kenji. She accepted, and Cory could see the team's medic lounging in what looked like a luxury resort lobby. Mountains visible through massive windows behind him, a fire crackling in a stone fireplace that belonged in a ski magazine.
"Nice digs," Izzy said. "Upgrade from the tents?"
"Client felt bad about the whole 'almost murdered by avalanche' thing. Comped us the lodge." Kenji's expression grew serious. "Listen, Iz, I did that financial deep dive you asked for."
"And?"
"Reed Osgood is loaded. Like, mysteriously loaded. We're talking offshore accounts, real estate holdings, the works."
Eyes wide, Izzy met Cory’s gaze. “How much are we talking?”
Kenji blew out a breath. “Twenty mil at least.”
Cory’s mouth dropped open. "How certain are you?”
"Dead certain. The money started showing up about three years ago. Small deposits at first, then bigger ones. Always just under reporting limits."
"Structured deposits," Cory muttered. "Classic money laundering. Anything on Tom Morrison?”
Kenji shook his head. “Guy looks completely clean.”
Cory and Izzy shared another look. Maybe yes. Maybe no.
"There’s one other thing," Kenji added, his voice suddenly tentative. "It’s about Andrew."
Izzy tensed beside him. "What about him?"
"That Florida flight school he supposedly works for? It's owned by Sunshine Aviation Services, which is owned by Coastal Air Holdings, which is owned by—"
"MedFlight," Izzy breathed.
"The lady gets it in one. They're paying him through so many layers it took even Zara hours to trace. Somebody really wanted him to have clean-looking money for this custody play."
"When are you back?" she asked.
"Day after tomorrow, latest. Sooner if you need us. Say the word and—"
"No." Her voice was firm. "Finish the job. The client needs you."
"The client's safe. You need—"
"I'm fine. Cory's here, got my six." She glanced at him, something vulnerable flashing across her face before she locked it down. "We're close to breaking this open."
After she disconnected, they sat in silence, processing the implications. All roads led back to MedFlight, and now Reed Osgood, but knowing it and proving it were different animals.
"We need something concrete," Cory said finally. "Paper trail's suggestive but not conclusive."
"Reed's dirty money would be a start. If you arrest him, the chances are good he’ll want to cut a deal, right? He’ll have to give up MedFlight."
Cory ran a hand over his face. Maybe. Unless the big-money corporation terrified the man into silence. Plus, they hadn’t yet tied Osgood’s millions to payoffs. “We’ve got a long way to go to prove the dots connect,” he cautioned.
He stood, pacing now. "The FBI should be looking at this, but they're too focused on you as a suspect."
"Thanks for the reminder." But there was no heat in it, just exhaustion. “We need to tell them, yeah?”
The old Cory would have agreed instantly. But now, he wasn’t so certain. Oh, he’d make sure they got the intel, but something told him he and Izzy should decide how to play this first.
He watched her return to her screens, shoulders tight with tension. The evidence was building, but it felt like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. Every time they got close, it slipped away.
Lord, grant us wisdom. Show us what we're missing. Protect her from those who would harm her, and give us the tools to bring justice.
"Okay, we need to think this through." Cory pulled up a chair across from her. "We've got two major revelations here."
Izzy minimized her screens, giving him full attention. "Reed's dirty money and Andrew's MedFlight connection."
"Right. The question is, which thread do we pull first?"
She drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. "Andrew's not the sharpest tool in the shed. He won't know anything useful about the bigger picture. MedFlight gives him money, he harasses me. Simple transaction."
"Agreed. But Reed..." Cory leaned forward. "An FAA investigator with offshore accounts and real estate holdings? He knows exactly who's paying him and why."
"He's been ruling these crashes as mechanical failure for three years." Izzy's eyes sparked with anger. "People could have died. People probably have died, and he just rubber-stamped it for money."
"The FBI should be looking at him instead of you."
"But they're not." She pulled up Reed's information on her screen. "So we need to. Where is he now?"
Cory checked the time. “Should be in the Reno office unless he’s out on another investigation."
Izzy jumped to her feet. “Let’s go.”
"Izzy—"
"We can't sit here analyzing spreadsheets while he's out there covering up crimes." She stood, energy crackling around her like electricity. "We've got probable cause—"
"We've got suspicious financial activity that we learned about through questionable means." Cory hated being the voice of reason, but someone had to be. "We can't just storm into his office."
"Then what do you suggest?"
He thought it through. "We approach him carefully. Maybe catch him leaving the office, somewhere public but private enough to talk. Feel him out, see if he'll crack."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we watch him. See who he contacts after we spook him. Guilty people often run to their handlers when threatened."
Izzy nodded slowly. "That could work. Zara can track his phone, his emails—"
"We need any charges to stick. Legally obtained information only," Cory warned.
"Of course." Her innocent expression fooled no one. "So let’s go. It won’t hurt to get into town early."
"We need an interrogation strategy.”
"Easy. We tell him the FBI's about to crawl up his finances with a microscope." Izzy's smile was sharp. "Which will be true, once we point them in the right direction."
Cory stood, matching her determination. "All right. Let's go corner Reed Osgood."
"Finally." Izzy was already grabbing her jacket. "Action instead of analysis."
"We still need to be smart about this." He checked his weapon, a habit so ingrained he didn't think about it. "Public place, stay calm, don't give him anything he can use against us."
"I know how to run an interrogation, Fraser." But her tone was teasing rather than irritated.
They were halfway down the stairs when the intercom buzzed, the sharp electronic sound freezing them both in place.
Cory moved to the security monitor, Izzy right behind him. A man stood at the main entrance, shifting his weight nervously. Puffy jacket, snow-dusted beanie, nervous energy, holding a manila folder like it might bite him.
Not FBI—they traveled in pairs and had better tailoring.
"Process server," Izzy breathed, the color draining from her face. "Andrew's up to something."
The man buzzed again, more insistent this time. Through the camera, they could see him checking his watch, glancing around the empty parking lot like he expected trouble.
"We don't have to answer," Cory said quietly.
"Yes, we do." Her voice had gone flat, resigned. "Running makes it worse. Whatever bomb Andrew's about to drop, better to know now."
She moved toward the stairs, and Cory caught her arm gently. "We face it together."
The look she gave him held gratitude and something else, something that made his chest tight. Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and headed down to face whatever new disaster Andrew had orchestrated.
The manila folder in the server's hands seemed to grow larger with each step they took toward the door.