CHAPTER 16
DANE
We leave Kepler before sunrise.
The mountain has not finished with the storm. Snow still moves across the road in thin white sheets, but the wind has weakened and the plow passed sometime after midnight. Its work is already disappearing beneath fresh powder.
Tessa drives the main vehicle. She made the decision while I was checking the southern gate and informed me after loading two evidence bags into the rear compartment.
Noah rides beside her with his injured leg extended as far as the dashboard allows. Aaron lies across the back seat beneath two blankets, fever reduced but not gone.
I follow in the pickup Noah drove through the lower tunnel.
The front tire has been replaced. The steering pulls right, the heater works only when the engine is moving, and the driver’s window does not close completely. Snow enters through the narrow gap and melts against my left shoulder.
The pain in my side has become a constant pressure. Manageable if I do not turn too quickly, breathe too deeply, or pretend it is irrelevant. Tessa watches me in the rearview mirror of the vehicle ahead.
I can tell because the mirror changes every time I move closer. Neither of us has spoken privately since the service bay.
Her kiss remains more immediate than the cold. The way she touched the front of my jacket before closing the distance. The question in her eyes after I asked permission. The moment her body relaxed against mine because she understood I would stop.
I wanted to continue. I stopped because wanting something does not make the conditions clean. The distinction was easier to identify before she kissed me.
We descend the first six miles without seeing another vehicle. At the lower junction, Tessa turns toward an old ranger station where Tomas arranged a medical handoff.
The building is closed for winter. A dark blue van waits beneath the roof overhang.
A man in his early sixties steps out. Heavy brown coat, gray beard cut close to his face, posture too balanced for someone who spent his life behind a desk. He keeps both hands visible.
Tomas.
Noah reaches for the pistol beside him. Tessa says something I cannot hear through the vehicles. Noah’s hand leaves the weapon. I park thirty feet away and approach from the side.
Tomas looks at me once.
“You’re Calloway.”
It has been less than a day since Tessa began using the name. Hearing it from a stranger feels like finding an unlocked door in a building that should be sealed.
“Who told you?”
“Noah, five years ago. When he was drunk enough to remember he had friends and sober enough to regret mentioning them.”
Noah opens his door.
“I was never drunk.”
Tomas looks at the crutch across the floor.
“You also weren’t shot.”
“Technical disagreements.”
Tomas’s attention moves to Tessa.
She has stepped out of the driver’s side wearing her gray coat over the blue sweater. Her hair is tied back with the strip of cloth. The holster at her waist is empty, but the magazine remains in her coat pocket and the unloaded pistol is inside the evidence bag.
She did not discard either.
“Tessa Marlowe,” Tomas says.
“Yes.”
“My wife saw you on the news.”
“I would prefer she not mention seeing me here.”
“She won’t.”
“You trust her?”
Tomas studies Tessa for a second. “Thirty-one years.”
Tessa nods as if the length matters but is not proof by itself.
“Who is caring for Aaron?” she asks.
“Retired emergency physician. No electronic intake. No questions until the bleeding stops.”
“Questions afterward?”
“If he wakes up unpleasant, probably many.”
Aaron speaks from the back seat.
“I’m awake.”
Tomas looks through the open door. “Then we can begin with why you allowed someone to wrap that shoulder like a Christmas ham.”
Tessa’s expression sharpens.
“I wrapped it.”
Tomas reconsiders the bandage without moving closer.
“It looks excellent.”
Noah laughs and regrets it when the movement pulls at his leg. Tomas helps transfer Aaron to the van. Tessa gives him medication times, fever readings, wound details, and three separate warnings about movement. Tomas listens without interrupting.
When she finishes, he asks, “Are you coming?”
“No.”
I answer before Tessa can.
Tessa turns. I correct the mistake before she has to.
“She has another route.”
Tomas looks between us.
“Does she?”
Tessa answers. “I’m meeting someone connected to the records.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
“A working phone?”
“Not one I trust.”
“Transportation?”
She lifts the vehicle keys. Tomas’s gaze moves to me one final time.
“Then it sounds voluntary.”
The assessment irritates me because I am relieved by it. Noah remains outside the van.
“You should go with Aaron,” I tell him.
“I should do many things. Experience suggests I won’t.”
“Your daughter may be connected to the surveillance around June.”
His face changes. Tomas looks away, giving Noah a privacy he does not know how to accept.
“You need to speak to him,” Tessa says.
Noah looks at Tomas.
“Not here.”
“Then inside the van,” Tomas replies. “You can avoid your life while I drive.”
Noah turns to me.
“If Iris gives you the off-site location, do not go without contact.”
“I won’t.”
“You are lying.”
“I’m leaving options open.”
“That is your educated version of lying.”
He looks at Tessa. “If he disappears, assume he has confused sacrifice with planning.”
“I have already identified the pattern.”
Noah’s mouth moves. He reaches into his jacket and gives me a small radio.
“One use before the frequency burns.”
I take it. Then he turns to Tessa.
“June is inside the federal building with Ruiz. Tomas has someone outside. No new watcher since last night.”
“Thank you.”
The simplicity of her gratitude leaves him briefly without a defensive answer. He nods and gets into the van. Tomas closes the doors. Before entering the driver’s side, he looks at me again.
“Hannah remembers him.”
Noah cannot hear through the closed van.
“Does she know he’s alive?” I ask.
“No. She remembers him anyway.”
Then Tomas drives away. Tessa watches until the van disappears. The ranger station parking lot becomes quiet. My pickup idles behind us, exhaust turning white in the cold. Her vehicle remains warmer, supplied, and less damaged.
“We take yours,” I say.
“No.”
“It is safer.”
“I know.”
She walks to the driver’s side of the main vehicle.
“I’m driving.”
I could argue that I know the routes better. That I can respond faster to pursuit. That her death has placed her face on every public alert between here and Denver.
All true.
None removes her ability to drive. I get into the passenger side. Tessa adjusts the mirror.
“You look uncomfortable.”
“The seat is too far forward.”
“You can move it.”
“I know.”
The use of my own answer against me is deliberate. I move the seat. We leave the ranger station together.
For the first twenty minutes, the road requires all her attention. Ice covers shaded sections, and wind has pushed new drifts across the cleared lane. She does not overcorrect. Her hands remain steady, though her injured right hand tires and she begins favoring the left.
“You need to change your grip,” I say.
“I am driving.”
“I noticed.”
“You are offering advice like a man trying to recover possession of the vehicle through commentary.”
“Your wrist is compensating for the cut.”
She looks down briefly, sees that I am right, and adjusts without answering. At the first town, we pass a gas station with my vehicle’s description displayed on a small television through the window.
Tessa keeps driving.
“Do you want to stop?” I ask.
“No.”
“Food?”
“I am not hungry.”
“That does not mean you do not need food.”
“I have met that sentence before.”
She drives another mile, then pulls into a grocery store parking lot and turns off the engine.
“Why are we stopping?”
“You said food.”
“I can go inside.”
“So can I.”
“Your face may be associated with the incident.”
“So may yours.”
“Yes.”
She removes a wool cap from the rear seat and pulls it over her hair. Then she takes a pair of glasses from a station supply case.
The frames are too large and make her look like someone attempting to appear less recognizable by wearing the first disguise found in an office drawer.
“Those do not help,” I say.
“They alter the shape of my face.”
“They make people look longer.”
“Good. They will remember the glasses rather than me.”
She has a point. I dislike the number of times that has happened. We enter separately.
Tessa buys bread, cheese, fruit, bottled water, and two paper cups of coffee. She also buys a small package of hair ties, antiseptic, and a birthday card. I see the card when she places it on the counter.
No birthday is listed in any immediate file. She notices my attention.
“June’s birthday is next month.”
“You are buying the card now.”
“I may not be able to later.”
The statement is practical. The fear beneath it is not. We leave before anyone looks at us twice. In the vehicle, she places the card inside her notebook.
We eat while parked behind a closed farm-supply store. Tessa finishes half a sandwich and wraps the rest.
Her body has begun to believe food may be available again. Exhaustion follows.
“We need a place to stop before the meeting,” I say.
“Iris said tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“She sent instructions while we were inside.”
I show her the message on the disposable receiver.
BELLFORD TRANSIT TERMINAL. 2:20 P.M. WEST ENTRANCE. COME WITH THE WITNESS. NO OTHER OPERATIVES VISIBLE.
“The witness is me.”
“Yes.”
“She does not want to see you.”
“She expects me to be nearby.”
“That is different from being present.”
“I will be present.”
Tessa looks at the message.
“You agreed I would choose whether to continue.”
“Yes.”
“I am continuing. That does not give you permission to control the meeting.”
“No.”
Her gaze lifts. I continue before she asks.
“I will identify exits and threats. You conduct the exchange.”
“That sounds almost reasonable.”
“It is temporary.”
She puts the vehicle into gear. We reach the motel after noon.