Chapter 7
The cabin sat at the edge of a small lake, just like Emily's contact had described. Wood-framed, green roof gone gray with age, surrounded by pines so thick the afternoon light barely reached the ground. The kind of place a man might go to disappear.
The kind of place Ryan Costa had gone. And left.
The Marshals had already cleared it. Twelve hours, the lead one said. Maybe less. Food in the trash, bed unmade, coffee pot cold. The small signs of a life interrupted and a man who'd known it was time to move.
Jake stood in the doorway and read the room. One space serving as everything, furniture old but maintained, a paperback on the bedside table cracked halfway through. Legal thriller. He almost smiled.
Emily moved through the cabin, cataloging. He watched her open the single closet, check under the bed, run her fingers along the windowsill like she might find answers in the dust. The frustration coming off her was almost visible.
"Twelve hours," she said. "We were twelve hours behind him."
"I know."
"If I'd pushed harder on the warrant—"
"You pushed plenty hard. Judges move when judges move." Jake pitched his voice low. "This isn't on you, Em. This is the job. Sometimes you're twelve hours late."
She looked up at him. The mask slipped, and he saw how much she'd wanted this win. Not for the case. For herself. Proof that crossing lines and trusting instincts actually led somewhere.
"Does it get easier?" she asked.
"Does what get easier?"
"Missing. Being close and not close enough."
Jake considered the question. Really considered it, the way he did when it mattered.
"No," he said. "It doesn't get easier. You just get better at carrying it."
Ray had wandered to the far side of the room, examining a shelf of old books and giving them space. But Jake caught him glancing over, watching with the attention of a man who noticed everything and commented on almost nothing.
"There was a compound in Syria," Jake said. He hadn't planned to say it. The words just came. "2019. We had solid intel on a high-value target. Terrorist financier, moved money for half the cells in the region. We'd been tracking him for months."
Emily's posture shifted. The frustration fading into attention.
"We hit the compound at 0300. Perfect insertion, perfect weather, everything by the book.
And he was gone. Missed him by less than an hour.
" Jake could still see it. The empty bed, the tea glass still warm on the table.
"We found out later his wife had gone into labor early.
He'd left to be with her. Random chance.
Nothing we could have predicted or planned for. "
"Did you ever get him?"
"Three months later. Different location, different approach." Jake met her eyes. "The miss doesn't mean the mission fails. It means the mission takes longer."
Emily was processing. He could almost see her filing the story away, fitting it into whatever framework she was building for understanding him.
"Thank you," she said. "For telling me that."
"It was relevant."
"It was more than that." She said. "I know it was more than that."
Before he could respond, she turned and walked out through the screen door. Jake watched her go, then became aware of Ray standing at his shoulder.
"I'm going to talk to her," Ray said. "That okay?"
Jake nodded. "Yeah. It's okay."
Through the window, he watched Ray cross the small yard to where Emily stood at the edge of the lake, arms wrapped around herself despite the heat.
Emily heard footsteps on the grass behind her but didn't turn. She knew it was Ray before he spoke. Jake moved quieter, and the Marshals were still finishing up inside.
"Mind some company?"
She shook her head, and Ray came to stand beside her, both of them looking out over the still water.
"You know Jake and I go back to when we were kids," Ray said. "I've known him longer than anyone except his family."
"He mentioned."
Ray was watching the water. "Whatever's happening between you two, it's real.
I can see that." His voice carried no judgment.
No warning. The assessment of a man who'd spent his career reading people and his whole life watching out for this particular one.
"It's moving fast, and I'm not going to pretend I'm not paying attention. "
"I wouldn't expect you not to."
"He's a good man, Emily. One of the best I know." Ray turned to look at her directly. "Just don't make me regret saying that."
"I won't."
Ray studied her, then nodded. "Yeah. I believe you."
He walked back toward the cabin, and Emily stood alone at the edge of the lake and let the afternoon settle around her.
Jake appeared a few minutes later, coming to stand beside her the way Ray had. But where Ray had kept a professional distance, Jake stood close enough that their shoulders touched.
"Ray had something to say?" he asked.
"He did."
"About us?"
"About you, mostly." She turned to look at him. "What you told me in there. About Syria. That wasn't just a pep talk."
"No."
"That was real."
"Yeah. It was."
Emily reached over and took his hand. Simple, but it felt like a declaration.
"Thank you," she said again.
They stood there for a while, watching the light shift on the water. The cabin behind them, empty. Costa in the wind. The case stalled.
But somehow, standing here with Jake's hand in hers, it didn't feel like failure.
"So what now?" she asked finally. "Costa's gone. Vance is hunting him. We're back to square one."
Jake looked at her, and the serious expression gave way to that familiar warmth.
"Only one thing left to do now," he said.
Emily nodded, already shifting into work mode. "Dig deeper into his financials? See if there's another property we missed?"
"No."
She frowned. "Reinterview his associates?"
"Em." He waited until she looked at him. "The Anchor. Tomorrow night. All of us. We need to reset — physically, emotionally, and alcoholically."
"Alcoholically isn't a word."
That smile. The one that had been dismantling her defenses since they met. "Yes ma'am, it most certainly is."
The Anchor on a Friday night had its own rhythm. The jukebox playing The Killers, the bar comfortably full without being packed, and Tommy holding court in the big corner booth like he'd built the place himself.
Emily walked in beside Claire, both of them having made an effort without quite admitting it to each other. Claire had suggested the sundress; Emily had agreed without argument. Sometimes you wanted to look good for no reason other than feeling good.
Jake was already there, standing at the bar with Ray and Gator. No cap tonight — just faded jeans and a worn gray Florida shirt that somehow made him look more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. When he caught sight of her coming through the door, his whole face changed.
Not a smile, exactly. But what lives underneath a smile. Recognition.
"There she is," Tommy called from the booth. "The woman who's got Walsh acting like a human being. Get over here, let me buy you a drink."
"He's in fine form tonight," Claire murmured.
"When isn't he?"
They made their way through the room. Jake met them halfway, his hand finding the small of Emily's back like it belonged there.
"You made it," he said.
"Was there doubt?"
"With you? Always a little."
She should have had a comeback. Instead she just looked at him, the easy confidence, the way his eyes lost their edge when they found her, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing — and let herself feel it.
"I'm here," she said. "I'm trying."
Jake's expression softened. "I know you are."
The booth was controlled chaos. Tommy launched into a story about a bail jumper and a pet alligator before Emily had slid into her seat.
Ray listened with the patience of a man who'd heard every version.
Claire was already laughing, picking up the thread of comfort she'd established at their first Anchor visit.
Gator worked behind the bar, but his attention kept drifting to their table. When the first round arrived, he brought it himself instead of sending one of the servers.
"Emily." He set down her wine with a nod of acknowledgment. "Claire." A second glass, and an expression that was almost warm. "You two eating, or just drinking?"
"Is there food?" Claire asked. "I didn't see a menu."
"There's no menu. But there's food." Gator's weathered face creased slightly, the closest thing to a smile Emily had seen from him.
He disappeared back to the bar. Claire watched him go with interest.
"He's intense," she said.
"He's Gator," Tommy said, as if that explained everything.
"How long have you known him?"
“About a year.” Tommy took a long pull of his beer. "Met him when I started coming around with Jake after he got out. He doesn't warm up to people fast, but once you're in, you're in."
Claire considered this. "How did he and Jake meet?"
Tommy glanced at Jake, who gave a small nod.
"Gator was Jake's team lead," Tommy said. "During selection. Picked him up, mentored him, ran operations with him for years before he retired." He said it simply, but the meaning underneath was clear. "Everything Jake knows about being who he is, Gator taught him."
Claire absorbed this, her eyes tracking back to the bar where Gator was pouring drinks with mechanical efficiency.
"That's the Wikipedia version," she said. "What's the real story?"
Tommy laughed. "You'd have to ask Gator that. Good luck getting him to tell it."
"Maybe I will."
The intensity in her tone made Emily glance over. Claire had that look she got sometimes , curious, like she was approaching a wild animal she didn't want to spook.
Twenty minutes later, when Tommy was deep into another story and Ray had excused himself to take a call, Claire slipped away from the booth. Emily watched her cross to the bar, slide onto a stool, and lean forward to talking to Gator.