Chapter 4
MARC
Rhys clears the desk, spreads out maps and files.
Paper rustles as Harlow pulls up digital records on her tablet, screen glow casting blue light across her face.
Cara's got her laptop open, already running preliminary scans on the USB drive while we talk.
Keys click in rapid rhythm, a sound that reminds me of rifle fire on a range.
Sela Mitchell sits in the chair beside my desk, hands folded in her lap. She's not crying, not panicking. Not doing any of the things civilians usually do when they realize they're caught in something that might get them killed.
She's just listening.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, throwing harsh shadows across the room.
The coffee's gone cold in mugs scattered across surfaces.
Everyone's operating on adrenaline and stubbornness at this point.
Everyone should have gone home by now, but nobody's leaving until we have a plan that doesn't get this woman killed.
Rhys stands near the evidence bag, arms crossed, and starts laying out everything we know about the trafficking network. He covers Julian Montrose. He covers the fact that someone with federal authority kept the operation running even after we took Montrose down.
Her eyes stay focused. Her breathing stays even. It's trauma nurse training, probably. It's the kind of control you develop when people's lives depend on you not losing your shit.
I respect that.
Harlow's taken a position by the map of Alaska mounted on the wall, already marking locations with a dry-erase marker. Finn leans against the doorframe, watching the street outside through the window.
"Montrose ran logistics," Rhys says. "He moved people through wilderness routes, coordinated with buyers, managed transportation. We took him down months ago. We thought that would cripple the network."
"But it didn't," Sela says. Her voice is steady.
"No. Smaller operations popped up across the Pacific Northwest. Different players, same tactics. Someone rebuilt fast." Rhys glances at Harlow. "Someone with resources and connections."
Harlow adds another mark to the map. Seattle. Portland. Anchorage. They're red circles that might as well be targets. "The task force has been tracking the new cells. They're careful, professional. There's no direct communication we can intercept, no paper trails we can follow."
"Until now," Cara says, holding up the drive. "Emma documented something big enough to get herself killed, something that connects to whoever's running the show."
Sela's gaze shifts to the evidence bag. "The Marshal. Rhys mentioned him."
"Code name," I say. "A federal official with enough authority to protect traffickers, bury investigations, eliminate witnesses. We don't have a real name yet. We don't have proof. We just have patterns that point to someone high up in the system."
"And I called the FBI tip line to report Emma's evidence." Sela's jaw tightens. "Which means The Marshal knows I found it."
"Probably," Rhys says. "The timeline supports it. You made the call this afternoon. The hit happened hours later. That's not standard investigation response. That's someone monitoring tip lines for keywords, triggering alerts, mobilizing assets fast."
Sela processes this. I watch her face. I'm looking for cracks in the composure, looking for the moment panic sets in and she stops being useful.
It doesn't happen.
She takes a breath, lets it out slow. "So what's the play?"
Not 'what do we do' or 'what happens now.' The play. Military economy. Two words for a complex question.
"First, we decrypt the drive," Cara says. "We find out what Emma documented. Names, locations, evidence we can use. It's going to take time and the right setup."
"How much time?"
"It depends on the encryption. Could be hours, could be days." Cara says carefully. "I've got software that can run password algorithms, but if Emma was thorough with the encryption, we might need specialized help."
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, studying the encryption structure. She goes still.
"What?" I ask.
"This encryption signature." She leans closer to the screen. "I know this work. It's Solstice."
"Who?" Harlow asks.
"Hacker out of Anchorage. Brilliant. Does security consulting, white hat work mostly. Very particular encryption style—uses a modified AES-256 with custom salting patterns." Cara looks up. "Emma didn't do this herself. She had help from someone who knew what they were doing."
Rhys straightens. "Solstice. That's Kayla Winters' handle."
Everyone turns to look at him.
"Kayla Winters?" I ask.
"Old friend of Emma's. They went to nursing school together before Kayla dropped out and went into tech." His jaw tightens. "Emma never mentioned she'd contacted her. Never said anything about this."
"She was protecting you," Cara says quietly. "Keeping you out of it so you wouldn't be complicit if something went wrong."
Silence settles over the room. Emma had known the danger. Had prepared for the worst. Had made sure Rhys couldn't be blamed for what she was documenting.
"We should contact Kayla," Finn says. "If she encrypted this for Emma, she might know what else is on the drive. Might be able to help us crack the remaining layers."
Rhys nods slowly. "I'll reach out. See if she'll talk to us."
"Second," Rhys continues, "we keep you alive while Cara works. You can't go home, can't go back to Palmer. The shooter knows your car, your address, probably your routine. You show up anywhere predictable, he'll finish what he started."
"Or they'll send someone else." I add, "Contractors rarely work alone. There's always backup."
Sela's fingers drum once against her knee. A single tap, then it goes still. "So I disappear."
"For now," Harlow says. "Until we know what we're dealing with, until we can identify The Marshal and build a case that doesn't rely on a compromised tip line."
Sela's quiet for a moment. "I just started at Palmer Regional. I'm still in my probation period. If I just don't show up for shifts, I'll be terminated."
"Better than being dead," Rhys says.
"And my apartment. My rent's due in two weeks. My car's still at that parking garage. My bills. How am I supposed to pay for anything if I'm hiding in the mountains?"
"We'll figure that out," I say. "Rhys can contact the hospital, explain you're in protective custody related to a federal investigation. They'll understand."
"Will they?" Her jaw tightens. "I've been there less than a month. They don't know me. They'll think I flaked on the job."
"Then they'll think that," Rhys says. His tone is matter-of-fact, not unkind. "Your professional reputation versus your life. Which one matters more?"
I can see the harsh reality lands. She takes a breath, processing.
"Your car will be impounded as evidence from the crime scene," I add. "We can arrange to have your apartment checked, bills handled. But none of that matters if you're dead."
Another moment of silence. I watch her work through it. Watch her accept the reality she doesn't want to accept.
"Where?" She doesn't pause, doesn't hesitate.
"Nothing official," I say. "We keep the circle small. A friend's hunting cabin. It's remote enough that nobody's going to stumble across it."
Finn speaks up for the first time since the briefing started. "Talon Mountain territory. It belongs to a buddy who's overseas right now. No utilities on record, no property tax trail, just a structure that technically doesn't exist on any map."
"How far?"
"It's a couple hours from here. You'd have high elevation, forest cover, a single access road that's easy to monitor." Finn's voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "You'd have shelter, a water source, a defensible position. It's a good place to wait while we work the problem."
Sela looks at me. "You're law enforcement. Wouldn't you need to stay here and coordinate with Palmer PD, work the investigation?"
"Palmer PD is processing the garage scene. They've got what they need from me." I lean back against the desk. "Rhys can handle coordination. I'm more useful keeping you alive than filling out paperwork."
"You volunteering?" Rhys asks.
"Yeah." I meet his eyes. "I pulled her out of that parking garage. I'm not planning to let someone finish the job because we left her exposed."
Rhys nods slowly. "Alright. Marc takes Sela to the cabin. Finn, you guide them in, make sure it's secure, then get back here. Cara, you work the drive. Harlow and I coordinate with the task force, see what we can shake loose about who might have access to FBI communications."
"What about supplies?" Sela's voice cuts through the planning. "I've got my scrubs and a USB drive. That's it."
"We'll get you what you need," I say. "We'll get you clothes, food, basic gear. You won't have some of your normal comforts, but you'll be alive."
She's running calculations, weighing options. Then she nods. "How long am I out there?"
"As long as it takes," Cara says. "Could be a few days, could be longer. It depends on what we find and how fast we can move on it."
"And if The Marshal figures out where I am?"
"Then we fight," I say. It's simple truth. "But that cabin's easier to defend than anywhere in Palmer. We'll have warning if someone comes, time to prepare. We'll have better odds than you had in that parking garage."
Sela's quiet for a moment. Then she nods. "Okay. When do we leave?"
"Soon as I load gear," I say. "It won't be long."
Finn offers, "I'll help Marc prep, make sure you've got everything you need."
The room shifts into motion. Harlow starts making calls, coordinating with task force contacts. Rhys pulls up files on his computer, cross-referencing Montrose's known associates.
I head for the equipment locker. Finn follows.
Metal hinges creak when I pull the door open. The shelves are stocked with tactical gear we hope to never use but keep ready anyway.
"Thoughts?" he asks quietly.