Chapter 5
SELA
The truck's cab smells like coffee and worn leather. The heat vents blow warm air that does nothing to cut the tension sitting between us.
Marc drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes moving between the road and the mirrors. His gaze never stops—rearview, side mirror, road, repeat. The pattern is so consistent I could set a watch by it.
Finn's taillights glow red ahead. We've been following them for over an hour, climbing in elevation as the highway narrows into something that barely qualifies as a road. Now we're on packed dirt that winds through forest so dense the headlights barely penetrate.
I should probably say something. Maybe make conversation, ask questions, do any of the normal things people, who don't know each other, do when they're trapped in a vehicle together.
But normal went out the window the moment someone tried to kill me in a hospital parking garage.
Marc shifts in his seat. His right hand drops from the wheel for a moment, adjusts something near his hip. His holster, probably, making sure his weapon is accessible. Then the hand returns to two o'clock, and we continue to drive into the darkness.
I study him in the dim light from the dashboard.
He has a sharp jawline and military posture even while sitting.
That kind of control doesn't come naturally—someone drilled it into him.
Years of training, not just natural discipline.
He holds tension in his shoulders, but his hands stay relaxed on the wheel.
He's compartmentalizing, separating the stress from the action.
I do the same thing. You can't be a trauma nurse if you fall apart every time someone codes on your table.
"How far?" My voice sounds loud in the quiet.
"Another hour, maybe less." He doesn't look at me when he answers. "Depends on the road conditions."
"And after Finn shows us the cabin?"
"He'll help me secure the cabin and make sure we're safe before he heads back to help the task force." Marc's eyes flick to the rearview. "We stay put until they decrypt the drive and figure out our next move."
"Just the two of us."
"Yeah."
The word hangs in the air between us. Just the two of us, in an isolated cabin, for an indefinite amount of time, with a federal official hunting me and professional contractors who might already be tracking our route.
"You do this often?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Hide witnesses in the wilderness?"
"Not recently." His mouth almost quirks into something that might be a smile but doesn't quite make it. "CID work was different. More investigative, less babysitting."
"Is that what this is? Babysitting?"
"Protection detail." He glances at me, just for a second, then back to the road. "There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Babysitting implies you can't take care of yourself." He adjusts his grip on the wheel. "You went low in that parking garage before I could even draw my weapon. That's not someone who needs babysitting."
The compliment surprises me. Most people don't see it. They just see the panic, not the decision to drop instead of freeze.
"Nursing teaches you to move fast," I say. "Someone starts crashing, you don't have time to think. You just react."
"Same principle. Different circumstances."
Silence settles again. The truck climbs higher, the forest pressing closer. Finn's taillights bob and weave as the road curves. My stomach protests the motion, but I ignore it.
"So why Alaska?" I ask. "If you were CID, you could have gone anywhere. Why here?"
Marc is quiet for a long moment. The only sound is the engine, the tires on dirt, the occasional creak of the suspension.
"Military politics," he finally says. "Got tired of covering for people who didn't deserve it. Tired of watching good soldiers get thrown under the bus while the brass protected their own." His jaw tightens. "Alaska seemed like a good place to stop caring about any of that."
"And is it?"
"Most days."
Something shifts in his voice, like a door closing. Fair enough—I've got my own stories I don't share.
"What about you?" he asks. "Rhys said you just started at Palmer Regional. Where were you before?"
"Fairbanks. Years in their trauma unit."
"That's a good program. Why leave?"
Lying to Marc feels pointless. He'll see through it. And we're going to be stuck together for days, maybe weeks. Might as well start with honesty.
"Bad breakup," I say. "Another nurse. We worked opposite shifts, barely saw each other, and when we did, we were too exhausted to function. He wanted me to cut back my hours. I told him I couldn't. He said I was married to the job. I said maybe I was. It ended badly."
Marc doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, "He wanted you to need him."
It's not a question. It's a statement. Like he's seen this exact dynamic before.
"Yeah," I admit. "And when I didn't, he made it about me being broken. Cold. Unavailable." I shrug, even though he's not looking at me. "Maybe I am. But I'm good at my job. I save lives. That matters more than being someone's project."
"You're not broken." His voice is matter-of-fact, no sympathy, no judgment. Just stating a fact. "You're just not interested in being rescued."
The accuracy of that statement hits hard.
"No," I say quietly. "I'm not."
"Good. Because I'm not here to rescue you. I'm here to keep you alive long enough for Cara to crack that drive and for us to nail whoever's running this network." His eyes flick to the rearview again. "That's the job. Nothing more complicated than that."
Relief floods through me. There are no expectations, no rescuer complex, no white knight bullshit. Just a man doing his job and a woman trying not to get killed.
Finn's brake lights flash. Marc slows the truck. Ahead, Finn's pulling off onto what barely qualifies as a trail. More like a gap between trees that might have been a road once.
"This is it?" I ask.
"Looks like it."
The truck bounces over ruts and exposed roots. Branches scrape against the sides, a sound like fingernails on metal. The headlights catch glimpses of dense undergrowth, massive tree trunks, darkness that swallows everything beyond the immediate path.
This place is isolated. The kind of isolated where you could scream and nobody would hear you.
It's good for hiding, but bad if someone finds us anyway.
Marc seems to be thinking the same thing. His hand drops to his weapon, draws it from the holster, and lays it on the seat beside him. His jaw is tight, eyes tracking movement in the shadows.
"You know how to use a gun?" he asks quietly.
"Basic training. Shooting range a few times."
"There's a spare in the glove compartment. Glock 19. If things go wrong, point and pull the trigger. Don't hesitate."
I open the glove compartment. The gun sits there, compact and deadly. I take it out, feel the weight of it in my hand. Knowing it's there changes something. Makes this more real.
The trail opens into a small clearing. Finn stops his truck. Marc pulls up beside him, engine idling.
A cabin sits at the far edge of the clearing.
It's small, maybe one room or two at most, with log construction, weathered wood, and a porch that sags slightly on one side.
Solar panels on the roof catch the moonlight.
There are no other structures visible, no lights anywhere except what our headlights provide.
Finn gets out of his truck. Marc kills the engine but doesn't move.
"Wait here," he says. "Let me clear it first."
"Clear it?"
"Make sure nobody's waiting for us." He opens his door. "Lock it behind me. Don't open it unless I tell you to."
Then he's gone, moving toward the cabin with Finn. Both of them have weapons drawn now. They split up, Finn going right, Marc going left, approaching the cabin from different angles.
I lock the door and watch them move through the darkness with practiced efficiency. They don't hesitate. They've done this before, worked together before, know each other's patterns.
The cabin door is locked. Marc tests it, then nods to Finn. Finn produces a key from his pocket. They go in together.
Minutes crawl by. I count my breaths. One. Two. Three. I try to keep my heart rate steady.
The cabin's dark. I can't see anything happening inside.
Then a light comes on, faint and probably battery-powered. Marc appears in the doorway and gives me a signal.
I unlock the truck door and step out into cold air that bites through the borrowed fleece jacket. It's below freezing, probably. My breath makes clouds in the darkness.
I tuck the Glock into my jacket pocket, feeling its weight against my side.
The clearing is silent except for wind in the trees. There are no animal sounds, no distant traffic, just wind and darkness and cold.
Finn walks over as I approach the cabin. "It's clear," he says. "Nobody's been here in months. Solar panels are working, water tank is full. You've got supplies for weeks if you need them."
"I appreciate this," I tell him.
"Emma deserved better." His expression is hard to read in the dim light. "Anyone who's trying to finish what got her killed needs to be stopped. You staying alive helps stop them."
He's practical with no heroics.
Marc appears on the porch. "We're secure. I'll do a perimeter check before Finn heads out."
Finn nods and heads back to his truck. He pulls out a duffel bag and brings it to the porch. "Extra supplies. Food, batteries, first aid kit. Radio's charged. Frequency is already set to the sheriff's station."
"Thanks," Marc says.
Finn looks at me. "Cell signal up here isn’t too great but the clearest spot is on the northwest ridge, a couple hundred yards up from here.
You get up there, you can always get a cell signal.
Line of sight to a tower on the next mountain.
but keep it brief. Someone could triangulate if you're on too long. "
I nod. It's an emergency exit if things go wrong.
Marc disappears into the darkness beyond the clearing, flashlight beam cutting through the trees.