Chapter 13
SELA
The words come out before I've fully thought them through.
"Use me instead."
The cabin goes silent. Finn looks up. Cara stops typing. Calder's attention snaps to me. Marc's expression shifts from exhaustion to something cold, predatory.
"No."
He's going to fight me on this. I need to make him see it operationally, not personally. Frame it as tactics, not sacrifice.
"Haywood's contractors already threatened me specifically on that phone call. I'm a known target." I stand, walk over to Calder's tactical map still glowing on her tablet. "Jackie's been through enough. She's trying to rebuild her life. But I'm already in this, already marked."
"Which is exactly why—" Marc starts.
"Which is why it makes tactical sense." I cut him off, meet his gaze. "Haywood knows I have access to Emma's files. He knows I called the Bureau. He sees me surface in Anchorage, he has to move immediately or risk me testifying."
Calder's watching me with careful assessment. "You understand what you're proposing? You'd be bait against the same contractors who tried to kill you."
"I understand." My pulse kicks up but my voice stays steady. "I also understand that Jackie didn't volunteer for any of this. She was trafficked, traumatized, and she's been hiding for years. Asking her to paint a target on her back again?" I shake my head. "That's not right."
"Neither is putting you in the crosshairs," Marc says quietly. His shoulders are tight.
"I'm already there. At least this way, we control when and where it happens."
Finn speaks up from his position by the window. "She's not wrong. Sela's a fresher threat. Haywood heard her on that call coordinating with Calder. He knows she's actively working against him right now, not just a witness from three years ago."
"Plus she's medical personnel," Cara adds. "If Haywood thinks she has Emma's files, can interpret the medical evidence as a trauma nurse, and she's talked to at least one of the victims—"
"He'll panic," Calder finishes. "Move faster and sloppier than he would for Jackie."
Marc watches me, reading something I'm not sure I want him to see. The fear, probably. Or worse—the determination that outweighs it.
"A controlled operation," Calder says, already pulling up coordinates. "Anchorage, public location that his people monitor. We wire Sela for audio and video, position surveillance teams in overlapping coverage. The second contractors make contact, we document everything."
"And when they try to grab her?" Marc's voice has edges I haven't heard before.
"Intervention team moves in. We take them alive, get them on record naming Haywood as the one who ordered the hit." She taps the screen. "DOJ wants real-time conspiracy evidence. This gives it to them."
"It also risks Sela's life."
"Everything we're doing risks someone's life." I move closer to Marc, want him to understand this isn't recklessness. "At least I'm choosing it. At least I know what I'm walking into."
He searches my face. Whatever he finds there doesn't seem to satisfy him, but he gives a sharp nod.
"I'm on the intervention team. Non-negotiable."
"Agreed," Calder says. "You'll be positioned nearby but out of sight. We can't spook the contractors before they make their move."
Calder makes calls. Cara unpacks equipment. Finn studies maps. The operation takes shape—body camera disguised as a coat button, audio transmitter wired into my bra, the location chosen: a coffee shop blocks from the federal building, visible from multiple angles, defensible but not obviously so.
Marc doesn't speak much during the planning.
He cleans his rifle with methodical precision, checks his sidearm, runs through gear with the focused intensity of someone preparing for combat.
Each movement is deliberate, controlled.
The click of the magazine, the slide of metal on metal.
The familiar rhythm of a soldier going to war.
I wish I felt half that confident about what I've volunteered to do.
When Calder steps outside to finalize coordinates with DOJ, Marc joins me at the tactical map.
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
"No." He's close enough I feel his warmth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You could walk away. Disappear into witness protection, let DOJ build their case without you."
"And let Haywood keep killing?" I shake my head. "That's not who I am."
"I know." His hand comes up, cups my face with surprising gentleness. "That's what scares me."
Neither of us moves. The air feels charged with everything this case has pushed aside but hasn't erased. My heart kicks against my ribs, not from fear this time.
"If something goes wrong—" he starts.
"It won't." I cover his hand with mine. "You'll be there."
"If I'm not fast enough—"
"You will be." I hold his gaze, want him to believe it as much as I'm trying to. "You've kept me alive so far. I trust you."
His thumb traces my cheekbone, and for one suspended breath he might kiss me. Instead, he drops his hand, steps back.
"We run this operation my way. You follow every instruction exactly. No improvising, no heroics."
"Agreed."
But I catch the fear underneath his control. Not for himself, but for me.
We leave for Anchorage before dawn. Separate vehicles, staggered timing. Calder rides with me, running through protocols and contingencies while Cara monitors frequencies from the back seat.
"Contractors make contact, you stay calm," Calder says. "Let them approach, let them talk. We need them to articulate intent clearly enough for the recording."
"What if they just grab me?"
"Then we intervene immediately." She adjusts the body camera hidden in my coat. "But if Haywood's smart—and he is—he'll have them try persuasion first. Offer you protection, money, whatever story gets you to come quietly."
"And if I refuse?"
"They'll escalate. That's when we get the best evidence—clear coercion, clear criminal intent."
My stomach tightens. Easy to talk tactics in a cabin surrounded by armed personnel. Harder to maintain that calm when I'm alone with contractors who've already killed.
Cara's laptop chimes. "Finn's in position. Marc's moving to secondary overwatch."
Marc's out there somewhere in the Anchorage morning, rifle ready, watching approaches I can't see. The thought steadies me more than it probably should.
Anchorage materializes through the windshield—gray buildings, wet streets, normal people living normal lives. They have no idea what's about to happen in their coffee shop.
Calder parks a few blocks away. "You're on comms as soon as you enter the shop. We'll be listening to everything. Any sign of immediate danger, say the word 'hospital' and we extract you."
"Understood."
She hands me a purse I've never seen before. "Phone's inside, already transmitting. Keep it on the table where cameras can see it."
I take it, feel the unfamiliar weight. Leather's soft under my fingers, expensive, not mine. Nothing about this morning is mine anymore.
"Sela." Calder's expression softens slightly. "You're doing the right thing. Not many people would have the courage."
"Or the stupidity," I say, but it comes out shaky.
She checks her watch. "Marc's already threatening to pull you if we don't move. Time to go."
Walking to the coffee shop feels surreal. Normal people pass me on the sidewalk—mothers with strollers, businessmen checking phones, students rushing to class. None of them know I'm walking into an ambush... or that I'm the bait.
Cold air bites my cheeks. Early morning traffic hums past, tires hissing on wet pavement. Somewhere a car horn blares. Life continuing, oblivious, while my pulse hammers and my hands want to shake.
Inside the coffee shop, warmth hits me along with the sound of the espresso machine and quiet conversations. The smell of roasted beans, vanilla syrup, something baking. A barista calls out an order. Someone laughs at a corner table.
I order tea I won't drink, choose a table by the window like Calder instructed. I position the purse with the phone on the table where the camera has a clear view.
Then I wait.
Minutes crawl. I watch traffic through the window, track faces in the crowd, try to spot where Marc and Finn are positioned. Can't see them. That's the point.
My tea cools in its paper cup. Steam rises, dissipates.
I wrap my fingers around it anyway, something to do with the nervous energy building in my chest. Around me—a student typing on a laptop, headphones in, completely absorbed.
Two women discussing someone's wedding. A man in a suit reading the newspaper.
All of them safe. All of them unaware.
I check my phone like I'm reading messages, give the camera views of the street, the entrance, the other customers. My reflection looks back from the screen—pale, tense, trying to look casual and failing.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Eventually, Cara's voice whispers through the earpiece hidden in my hair. "Two contacts approaching from the south. Male, both armed based on movement patterns. Thirty seconds."
Sweat pricks my palms. I force myself to stay seated, keep my breathing even. Count the seconds.
The door opens.
Two men enter. Same breed as the contractors at the cabin. They scan the room like they're memorizing it: exits, people, sight lines. One's older, graying hair and a scar across his knuckles. The other's younger, built like he lives in the gym, neck thick with muscle.
Recognition flashes across the older one's face.
Gray-hair says something to his partner, too quiet for me to hear. Gym-rat moves to the door, blocking the exit.
Gray-hair approaches. "Sela Mitchell?"
I widen my eyes, let confusion cross my face. "Do I know you?"
"Mutual friend suggested we talk." He pulls out the chair across from me without asking, settles into it. "You've got information that belongs to our client. He'd like it back."
"I don't know what you're talking about."