Chapter 4 #2
"She's solid," I say. "She handles stress better than most trained operators I've worked with. But she's still a civilian with no weapons training, no tactical experience. If this goes bad, she's a liability."
"You worried?"
"Always." I pull body armor from the shelf, check the straps. The ceramic plates are still seated properly, the Velcro still grips. "CID taught me to expect the worst. It hasn't failed me yet."
Finn hands me a tactical radio. The weight settles in my palm. The battery pack is full, the channels are pre-programmed. "You'll have comms. Anything happens, we can coordinate response fast."
"Assuming we have time to call for backup.
" I load magazines into a duffel bag. The sidearm rounds go in first, then rifle ammunition for the AR I keep in my truck.
Metal clicks against metal, a sound that makes my shoulders relax even as my mind runs through worst-case scenarios.
"Assuming whoever comes doesn't jam communications first."
"You planning for a siege?" Finn asks.
"I'm planning for possibilities." I add a trauma kit to the pile. "The way you plan truck or flight routes with contingencies for engine failure."
Finn's quiet for a moment. "She remind you of anyone?"
I've worked enough cases, seen enough victims, to recognize the pattern. A woman who did the right thing, reported what she found, and got targeted for it. The system that should have protected her marked her for death instead.
"Yeah," I say. "She reminds me of every person who trusted the wrong people and paid for it."
"That why you volunteered?"
"Part of it." I check the rifle, clear the chamber, confirm the action's smooth. "The other part is I'm good at this—keeping people alive when someone wants them dead. I did it overseas, did it stateside, might as well keep doing it."
"CID?"
"And before that." I don't elaborate. Finn doesn't push.
We finish loading gear in silence. Body armor and weapons go in first, ammunition nested between medical supplies. Then the food that'll keep without refrigeration, water purification tablets, emergency shelter. Everything I'd need for a sustained defensive position.
Everything I hope we won't actually need.
Rhys appears in the doorway. "Got a minute?"
I nod to Finn. He takes the hint, heads back to the main room.
Rhys waits until we're alone. "She's a civilian, Wells. This goes sideways, it's on us."
"I know."
"Do you?" Rhys leans against the doorframe. It's the posture he uses when he's working through something difficult. "Because I've seen what happens when civilians get caught in operations like this. They panic. They freeze. They make mistakes that get people killed."
"She won't panic."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure enough to put my life on it." I meet his eyes. "She went low in that parking garage before the shooter could adjust. That's not panic. That's someone who assesses threats and responds appropriately."
"She got lucky."
"Maybe. Or maybe she's got better instincts than we're giving her credit for." I zip the duffel closed. Canvas rasps against metal teeth. "Either way, she's got Emma's evidence. That makes her valuable. She's worth protecting."
"Worth dying for?"
The question lands heavy between us. Rhys isn't asking if I'll do my job. He's asking if I'm willing to take a bullet for someone I met hours ago.
The air smells like old coffee. Fluorescent light flickers in the hallway outside. It needs replacing. The station is settling into night mode, quiet except for dispatch radio crackling in the distance.
"If it comes to that, yeah."
Rhys studies me for a long moment. "You're a good deputy, Marc. A good man. But sometimes you carry things you don't have to carry."
"Is this what Emma would want? Her evidence getting someone killed because we didn't protect them?"
His jaw tightens. "No. Emma would want that nurse alive and testifying. She'd want The Marshal exposed and the network destroyed." He pauses. "She'd also want you to come back in one piece."
"I'll do my best."
"Your best is good." Rhys straightens. "Just remember that cabin works both ways. You're defending ground, not taking territory. Someone comes at you, you hold position and call for backup. Don't be a hero."
"I never planned to be." I shoulder the duffel. "Heroes get people killed. I'm just here to do the job."
Back in the main room, Cara's hunched over her laptop, running code I don't understand. Harlow's on the phone, talking to someone about surveillance protocols. Sela stands near the window, looking out at the street.
When I approach, she turns. "Ready?"
"Almost. I need to get you different clothes. Those scrubs make you too recognizable."
"I don't exactly have options."
"Harlow?" I call across the room.
She covers her phone. "Yeah?"
"Sela needs clothes. Practical stuff—jeans, boots, layers."
Harlow nods, says something into the phone, then hangs up. "I've got extra gear handy. We're about the same size. I'll grab a bag."
She disappears through a side door and returns minutes later with a duffel that she hands to Sela. "The bathroom's down the hall. Change quick. We don't know how much time we have before someone starts looking for you."
Sela takes the bag without argument. She heads for the bathroom.
Finn appears beside me. "The truck's loaded. I'll ride up with you and make sure you're squared away. Keep checking the rearview mirror, we need to make sure no one followed us."
"I appreciate it."
"After that, you're on your own until I get back from checking the cabin."
"Understood," I say.
Sela returns wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a thermal shirt under a fleece jacket. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks different now. Less like a hospital employee, more like someone who could disappear into Alaska wilderness without drawing attention.
"Better," I say.
She tugs the jacket sleeves down. "It feels strange. I've been in scrubs since my shift started. I forgot what real clothes feel like."
"You'll adjust." I hand her the body armor I pulled from the locker. "Put this on."
Her eyes fix on the vest. "You're serious."
"Someone tried to kill you this afternoon. Yeah, I'm serious."
The vest gets settled over the fleece. It's too big, designed for someone my size, but it'll stop bullets better than nothing.
Cara looks up from her laptop. "I'm running decryption algorithms now. Could take hours, could take days. I'll call when I've got something."
"Keep us updated."
Rhys walks us to the door. "You've got comms. Anything happens, you radio immediately. Don't wait, don't try to handle it yourself. We can have backup there fast if you need it."
"Copy that."
Finn's already outside, checking the street. He gives the all-clear signal.
I lead Sela to my truck. It's the F-250 I've driven for years, practical and reliable.
Black paint shows mud from back roads, scratches from branches on narrow trails.
It's a work truck, not a show truck. Finn climbs into his own vehicle, a beaten Chevy truck that looks like it's survived everything Alaska can throw at it.
Sela pauses at the passenger door. "You do this a lot? Protect people?"
"I used to. Army CID—investigative work, security details, threat assessment. Different circumstances, same principles."
"And now you're a deputy in a town nobody's heard of."
"It seemed like a good place to stop running." I open her door. "Get in. We're burning time."
The door closes behind her as she settles into the cab. I walk around to the driver's side, load the duffel into the back seat, check my mirrors. The street's empty, but that doesn't mean much. Professional contractors know how to stay invisible until they're ready to move.
Rhys stands on the station steps, watching us. His expression is unreadable.
This could go wrong in a hundred different ways.
But we're doing it anyway because the alternative is letting Sela Mitchell die for doing the right thing.
And that's not something I can live with.
I start the engine. The V8 rumbles to life, familiar and steady. Finn pulls out first, leading the way. I follow, keeping distance, watching the mirrors for anything that doesn't belong.
Sela's quiet beside me. Her hands are still folded in her lap, the same posture as when she sat in the station. She's controlled, focused.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Define okay."
"Not falling apart, able to function."
"Then yeah. I'm okay." She glances quickly in my direction. "You always this reassuring?"
"I'm honest. It seems more useful than lying about how dangerous this is."
"Fair enough." The window draws her attention as we leave Whitewater Junction behind, heading into darkness and wilderness and whatever's waiting at the end of this road.
Main street gives way to highway. Streetlights thin until there's nothing but headlights cutting through the dark. Trees press close on both sides, dense evergreen walls that swallow sound and light. Temperature drops as we climb elevation, frost already forming on the edges of the windshield.
Finn's taillights glow steady ahead. They're red dots leading us deeper into mountain territory, into back roads that don't show up on any GPS.
My mirrors stay clear, but that doesn't mean much. Professional contractors know how to follow without being seen. They know how to wait for the right moment, the right location, the perfect ambush point.
Mountain passes and switchbacks stretch ahead. It's a long drive to get her somewhere defensible. It's a long drive before we know if we got her out clean or if someone's already moving to intercept.
I grip the steering wheel and watch the darkness.