Chapter 5 #2
"Come on," Finn says. "No point standing out here freezing while he works."
We step inside the cabin. It's warmer than outside but not by much. The space heater hums quietly in the corner.
Finn leans against the doorframe, watching through the window. "Marc comes off a bit like Dudley Do-Right, doesn't he? All protocol and by-the-book."
"Is that a bad thing?" I ask.
"Nah. Just don't let it fool you." Finn's expression is thoughtful. "Guy's got more edge than he shows. Army CID doesn't train boy scouts. They train investigators who can handle themselves in bad situations." He pauses. "Rhys trusts him. That tells you everything you need to know."
I process that. Marc Wells, the quiet deputy who pulled me out of a parking garage firefight without hesitation. Who's now checking the perimeter in the dark to make sure I'm safe.
Maybe Finn's right. Maybe there's more beneath that controlled surface than he's let me see.
Through the window, the flashlight beam reappears from the opposite side of the clearing, completing the circuit. Marc emerges from the shadows and gives Finn a nod through the glass.
"Clear," he says. "You're good to go."
Finn steps out of the cabin and walks to his truck. He climbs in, and the engine starts, loud in the quiet. Then he's backing out, following the trail away from the cabin, taillights disappearing into the forest.
And then it's just us—Marc and me, in the middle of nowhere, with a killer looking for me.
Marc walks to his truck, starts the engine, and drives it into the trees beside the cabin. I watch through the window as he uses branches to camouflage the vehicle, covering the windshield and breaking up the outline. Making it invisible from above or from anyone approaching the clearing.
Smart. Tactical.
When he's done, he stamps snow off his boots on the porch, then comes inside and closes the door behind him. Locks it.
The cabin is small. One main room with a kitchenette along one wall, a wood stove in the corner, a worn couch and two chairs. A door leads to what I assume is a bedroom. Another door probably goes to a bathroom. That's it. There are no frills, no luxury, just shelter.
But it's warm. The solar panels are running a space heater, taking the edge off the cold. And it's defensible. One way in, small windows, thick log walls.
"Bedroom's through there," Marc says, nodding toward the door. "Take it. I'll sleep out here."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." His tone leaves no room for argument. "I need to be between you and the door. That's the only way this works."
It's a protection detail. He's not being chivalrous. He's being tactical.
"Okay," I say.
He nods toward my jacket pocket where the Glock sits. "Keep that on the nightstand beside the bed. If someone gets past me, you'll need it within reach."
I touch the weight of the gun through the fabric. The reality of what he's saying sinks in deeper.
He sets the duffel bags down and starts unpacking gear with the same methodical precision he uses for everything else. He places weapons on the table, ammunition beside them, then the radio, first aid kit, food supplies organized by type.
I watch him work. He checks every item, confirms it's functional, places it exactly where he wants it. There's no wasted motion, no hesitation.
He's competent and controlled. Absolutely my type.
And if I'm being honest, he's easy on the eyes too. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, the kind of build that comes from actual work instead of gym posing. Not that it matters right now, but I'd have to be dead not to notice.
I grab Harlow's duffel and head for the bedroom. It's a small space with a double bed, a dresser, and a window with heavy curtains. I shut the door behind me, lean against it, and take a breath.
I'm a professional. He's a professional. We can handle a few days in close quarters without it getting complicated.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. There's no signal, like Finn said, but there's a notification. Voicemail from earlier.
I almost ignore it. Then I see it's from Palmer Regional.
I listen anyway.
"Ms. Mitchell, this is Andrea from HR at Palmer Regional.
We need to discuss your employment status.
You missed your scheduled shift this evening without notice.
Please call us as soon as possible to explain your absence.
Failure to contact us within twenty-four hours will result in termination under our probation period policy. "
The message ends. My stomach twists.
There it is. My new job, gone. Exactly like I knew it would be.
I delete the voicemail, sit down on the edge of the bed, and stare at the wall.
Someone tried to kill me for doing the right thing. Now I'm losing everything.
There's a knock on the door. "You okay?" It's Marc's voice.
I don't answer right away. My throat feels tight.
The door opens. Marc stands in the doorway, his expression cautious. "Sela?"
"Got a voicemail from Palmer Regional HR," I say. "Missed my shift without notice. They're terminating me if I don't contact them within twenty-four hours." I look up at him. "So there goes my new job."
He steps into the room, leans against the dresser. "We'll figure it out. Rhys will contact them, explain things. They'll understand."
"Maybe."
"Probably not," he admits. "But you'll be alive to find another job. That's what matters."
He's right. I know he's right. It still sucks.
He straightens from the dresser. "Get some rest if you can. I'll be out there if you need anything." He heads for the door, then pauses. "You did the right thing, Sela. Finding that drive. Calling it in. Don't let them make you regret doing what's right."
Then he's gone, closing the door quietly behind him.
I unpack Harlow's duffel. There are jeans, thermal shirts, a heavy jacket, and hiking boots. All of it is practical and borrowed. Nothing belongs to me.
My life, reduced to a borrowed duffel bag in a cabin I've never seen, with a man I met hours ago.
The door opens. Marc's holding the radio. His expression is different now, tight and focused.
"Sela."
"Cara just called," he says. "She cracked the first layer of encryption on Emma's drive."
My pulse kicks. "What did she find?"
"Surveillance photos. FBI Agent Lyle Haywood meeting with Julian Montrose. Multiple meetings over years. Emma documented everything." His jaw tightens. "Harlow identified him from the photos—he's been on the trafficking task force's suspect list."
The room tilts. An FBI agent was meeting with a trafficker. Emma had proof.
"That's what got her killed," I say.
"Yeah." Marc's jaw tightens. "And now we know why The Marshal wants that drive back so badly. Because Emma didn't just find evidence of trafficking. She found evidence of federal corruption at the highest level."
"What do we do?"
"We stay alive." He hands me the radio. "And we wait for Cara to decrypt the rest. Because if Haywood is on that drive, there might be others. And if there are others, this goes deeper than anyone thought."
The radio crackles in my hand with static and distance. I feel the weight of what we're holding.
A woman died for this. A fellow nurse. She died to document proof that the people supposed to protect victims were the ones enabling their exploitation.
Now I'm the one holding that proof; now I'm the one they want dead.
Marc's watching me, waiting to see if I'm going to panic or if I'm going to break. I don't break.
"Then we wait," I say. "And we make sure Emma's evidence doesn't die with us."
He nods just once. It might be approval or respect.
"Get some rest," he says. "I'll take first watch. We've got a long few days ahead."
He closes the door. I hear him moving around in the main room, checking windows, testing locks, doing what he does.
I sit on the bed, hold the radio, and stare at nothing. FBI Agent Lyle Haywood. Finally, a name. But names are dangerous. Names get people killed.
And I'm sitting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere having turned over proof that could bring down that federal agent.
I lie back on the bed and close my eyes, listening to Marc's footsteps move through the main room from window to door to window. The pattern never breaks.
I listen to the rhythm, counting his footsteps like a lifeline, knowing it won't be enough if they come.