Chapter 8
MARC
Iwake to gray light filtering through the guest cabin's window and the immediate knowledge that I've fucked up.
Sela sleeps beside me, her breathing soft and even, dark hair spread across the pillow, one arm curled under her head. She looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way she never is when awake.
I slept with a civilian under my protection.
Less than a day after pulling her out of a kill zone, I crossed every professional line that matters. Deputy sheriffs don't fuck witnesses. CID investigators don't compromise cases by sleeping with people involved in ongoing investigations. The rules exist for good reasons, and I know better.
My shoulder throbs where the bullet grazed me yesterday. The bandage Sela applied pulls tight when I shift. Pain grounds me, reminds me that yesterday was real—the gunfire, the blood, contractors trying to kill us both.
And after all that, after getting her to safety, I took her to bed.
My last CO in CID ignored the rules, cut corners, protected his buddies who were running black market operations out of supply depots. When I reported it, the system closed ranks. My CO got a lateral transfer. His buddies got reassignments. I got pushed out for being "difficult to work with."
The rules failed me then. But without them, you're just another guy with a badge doing whatever feels right in the moment.
And last night, what felt right was Sela.
I slip out of bed carefully. She doesn't stir.
The wood stove has burned down to embers, and cold has crept into the cabin overnight.
My breath mists in the air. I add wood, get it going again, then dress in yesterday's clothes—blood on the sleeve from the graze, dirt on the jeans.
I need a shower and clean clothes, but neither are happening right now.
My phone shows multiple missed calls from Rhys. I step outside to call him back.
Dawn is breaking over the mountains. Finn's place sits in a clearing surrounded by dense forest with good sight lines, defensible position, motion sensors on the perimeter. He and Cara chose well when they built here.
Frost crunches under my boots. The temperature dropped hard overnight, well below freezing. Winter may be on the way out, but she still has some bite.
Rhys answers on the first ring.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yeah. Lost them on the back roads. Finn intercepted. We're at his place."
"Hostiles?"
"At least several operators hit the cabin. Professional contractors, well-equipped. We took out at least one, possibly more. The rest broke off pursuit after Finn disabled their vehicles."
"They'll regroup."
"I know."
Silence on the line. Then Rhys says, "Harlow's working her contacts at Palmer PD, trying to get details on who called in the hit."
"Haywood's too smart to use his own people directly."
"Probably. But contractors leave trails—money, equipment, coordination. Someone had to hire them." He pauses. "How's the nurse?"
"Sela. Her name is Sela."
"How's Sela?"
"Holding up. She returned fire during the breach. Kept her head. Moved when I told her to move."
"Good." Another pause. "Emma's evidence seems solid so far."
"Agreed. Cara's still decrypting, but what we've seen so far is damning. Surveillance photos. Financial records. And audio recordings of trafficking victims naming Haywood as the federal contact who threatened them."
"Jesus."
"Yeah."
"That's enough to bring him down," Rhys says. "If we can get it to the right people without Haywood burying it first."
"That's the problem. He's FBI. He's got resources, connections, and every legal protection in the book. The moment we move on this, he'll classify the evidence as part of an ongoing investigation. Lock it down. Make it disappear."
"So what's the play?"
"I don't know yet. Cara wants a strategy session this morning."
"I'll head up there. Harlow too. This is bigger than just keeping Sela safe. If Haywood's been protecting trafficking operations for years, we need to burn his entire network."
"Agreed."
"Marc." Rhys's voice shifts, going harder. "If this goes sideways, we're all exposed. Haywood can come after badges, arrest authority, everything. You sure you want to do this?"
I think about Lisa Reynolds. She was just a teenager, dead on an ER gurney because nobody stopped the people trafficking her. Because someone like Haywood made sure nobody could.
"I'm sure."
"Good. See you in an hour."
He hangs up.
The mountains catch the first light, pink and orange bleeding across snow-covered peaks.
Alaska is beautiful and brutal in equal measure.
It doesn't care about jurisdiction or procedure.
It doesn't care about rules. You survive here by adapting to reality, not by pretending the world works the way you wish it did.
Maybe that's what I need to do now.
A raven calls from somewhere in the trees, sharp and harsh.
I scan the perimeter out of habit. Motion sensors would alert if anyone approached, but habits die hard.
CID training drilled it in—always check your six, always know your exits, always maintain professional distance from civilians in your protection.
That last one's shot to hell.
The guest cabin door opens. Sela steps out wearing yesterday's clothes, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She's carrying two travel mugs. Steam rises in the cold air.
"Finn made a pot," she says, handing one to me. "Figured you'd need it."
The warmth spreads through my fingers. I didn't realize how cold my hands had gotten.
"About last night," I start.
"We're not doing this," she says.
"Doing what?"
"The awkward morning-after thing where you apologize for crossing professional lines and I pretend I didn't know exactly what I was doing." She meets my eyes. "We almost died. We slept together. We're adults. No reason to make it complicated."
"It is complicated. You're under my protection. I'm supposed to be keeping you safe, not—"
"You did keep me safe. You got me out of that cabin alive. You got me here. And then we both needed something that wasn't about survival or fear or men with guns trying to kill us." She takes a breath. Steam rises from her mug in the cold air. "I'm not sorry it happened. Are you?"
The honest answer forms before I can second-guess it.
I should be sorry. Should be worried about professional consequences and compromised objectivity and all the reasons the rules exist. But standing here in the cold morning light with her looking at me like I'm not some fuck-up who crossed a line but just a man who made a choice, I can't find it in me to regret it.
"No," I say.
"Then we move forward. Figure out how to take down Haywood. Keep each other alive. Everything else is noise." She nods toward the main cabin. "Cara's got breakfast ready. And she wants to show us the rest of what she found on Emma's drive."
She starts to head back inside but I catch her arm.
"Wait. Your phone. The one you used to call the FBI tip line. Do you still have it?"
She reaches into her jacket pocket. Pulls it out. "Yeah, why?"
"That's how they found us."
Her face goes pale. "What?"
"You called the FBI tip line from that number. If Haywood has contacts monitoring the line, they flagged you. Tracked your phone's GPS. Followed you from Palmer to the safe house, then here when we ran."
She stares at the phone like it's a live grenade. "I didn't think—I should have—"
"You're a civilian. You don't automatically think operational security. It's not your fault."
"People almost died because I was careless."
"People almost died because Haywood sent contractors to kill you. That's on him, not you." I take the phone from her hand. "But we need to ditch this now. I'll get you a burner for the victim contacts. Cara can set up encrypted communication. No more traceable calls."
She nods, still looking shaken.
I pull the battery out of her phone, pocket both pieces separately. "Finn will dispose of these. They can't track what's not powered on, but we're not taking chances."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You're learning. That's what matters." I meet her eyes. "Operational security isn't instinct for most people. It's training. And you're doing better than most civilians would in this situation."
She takes a breath, steadies herself. "No more mistakes."
"No more unforced errors," I correct. "Mistakes will happen. We just minimize them."
Sela heads back inside. She just cut through all my guilt and professional conflict in under a minute.
She's right. We move forward.
I drink more coffee, let the caffeine start working. My brain feels clearer now, less tangled in what I should have done differently and more focused on what needs to happen next.
Minutes later, Finn appears from the main cabin, crossing the clearing toward us. We meet him halfway.
"Cara's ready," he says. "Found more files overnight. Wants you to see them."
We follow him back to the main cabin. It's bigger than the guest cabin but still modest with an open floor plan, kitchen, living area, and workspace.
Windows are positioned for tactical advantage.
Maps cover one wall. Radio equipment sits on a side table.
This is a home built by people who understand threats.
Cara's at the kitchen table with her laptop, surrounded by coffee mugs and the kind of scattered focus that comes from working through the night. She looks up when we enter, her expression tight.
"You found something," I say.
"More than something." She turns the laptop toward us. "I finished decrypting Emma's files overnight. There's more than we thought."
Sela and I sit. The smell of coffee fills the space. My stomach reminds me I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, but whatever Cara's found has killed my appetite.
Cara starts the first audio file.
Emma's voice comes through the laptop speakers, calm and professional, recording information the way a nurse would document patient care.