Chapter 21 #2
I sit at the small kitchen table instead, the evidence case in front of me, and pull out a phone.
Not the burner Hunter's contact set up. A different one. One bought with cash at a truck stop, back when the ambush was still fresh enough that I'd started running my own contingency math separate from whatever Spartan Elite's official channels were doing. I'd learned a long time ago in a job that requires trusting chains of custody I can never fully verify, that the smartest thing anyone can do with something irreplaceable is make sure it exists in more than one place. I kept this from Dozer, which ate at me, but I couldn’t tell him that there was a time I didn’t trust him and had hidden something from him. I think he’d understand but every time I thought about bringing it up… well, it’s not like things had gone smoothly.
I turn it on. Wait. Nothing. For three seconds, I almost let myself believe it failed. Then one bar appears.
I exhale. "Come on," I whisper, tapping the screen. "Don't make me regret spending twenty-seven dollars on you."
The phone searches, connects, and sits there innocently in my hand, looking like the least important object in the room. Which is exactly how I like it. I send the text and wait for a response.
Dozer comes out of the shower before I've finished, hair still damp, T-shirt clinging slightly to his shoulders, moving with the particular stillness of a man who's spent the last few hours quietly carrying a failure he didn't earn and isn't ready to set down yet.
"You should eat something," he says.
I almost smile. Except right now I have something heavier to hand him than gratitude for looking out for me.
"Before I do," I say, setting the phone facedown on the table, "there's something I need to tell you. And I need you to hear the whole thing before you react."
He goes still. Then he sits across from me instead of continuing whatever else he was about to do, forearms resting on his thighs, attention narrowing entirely onto me.
"Okay."
The single word lands harder than a demand would have.
"The night we secured the body," I say, "before the convoy split into what went to federal custody and what stayed with us, I didn't just document the samples I handed over.
I pulled a second set. Full duplicates. Tissue and fluid both, preserved properly, logged under a chain of custody nobody officially knows exists. "
His expression doesn't change. That's almost worse. I keep going because stopping now would be worse than finishing.
"I hid them. Not with the case you've been watching me carry this whole time.
That case has real evidence in it, real samples, but it's not the full picture, and it was never supposed to be.
I mailed the actual duplicates to a contact I trust more than I trust most official channels, days before the ambush even happened.
The truck stop we stopped at, the one with the showers, also had a fully functioning UPS counter. "
His eyes stay on mine. "Why?"
"Because some part of me clocked how exposed this whole operation was from the beginning and decided I wasn't going to let one single point of failure be the only thing standing between this truth and the people who need to see it."
"You didn't tell anyone."
"No."
"Not Hunter."
"No."
"Not me."
"No."
His jaw tightens once. I make myself hold his gaze because this needs to land honestly or not at all.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't know you yet.
Not really. Not in a way that meant I trusted you with something that important.
And by the time I did trust you, telling you felt like it would put the knowledge somewhere that could be extracted from you if things went badly enough. " I sigh. "I know how that sounds."
"Do you?"
"It sounds like I didn't trust you."
"Did you?"
The question is quiet. Too quiet. I swallow.
"I trusted you with my life about four days ago." My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. "I just didn't trust the world around either of us not to find a way to get this information out of you if it came to that. There's a difference, even if it doesn't feel like much of one right now."
He studies me for a long moment. I hate this part. The waiting. The possibility that I've just taken everything we've built over the last week and dropped it between us like a grenade.
Then he leans back slightly. "The body's gone," he says. "But the real evidence isn't."
"No."
"Where is it?"
"Safe." It’s not that I don’t trust him, I don’t trust the location. There could be bugs in here. There could be people listening in that we don’t know about. I make a hand motion to indicate that to him.
"How safe?"
"Safer than anything we've carried with us."
Something shifts across his face. Not anger or betrayal.
I watch as he processes the information I’ve given him.
I’ve seen him with this exact look at crime scenes, in gunfights, in the middle of conversations when somebody says one thing that changes the entire shape of a problem. He's doing it now. He’s recalibrating.
"You're not just a consultant."
"I never said I was."
"You've been running your own operation this whole time."
"I've been running contingencies. I always back up my work.
There's a difference." Despite myself, the corner of my mouth lifts. "But yes. I think somewhere in my head, some part of me has been treating this whole mission like a case I couldn't fully trust anyone else to protect properly. Including Spartan Elite. I trust Hunter completely. But I don’t know everyone on the team, all the contractors and connections he has. I can’t trust people I don’t know.
" I hesitate. "Including, for a while, you. "
He doesn't flinch. That somehow makes it worse. "I'm not upset."
"You should be a little upset."
"I'm considering the information."
"That sounds suspiciously like Dozer for I'm annoyed but don't want to admit it."
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "You're even better than the file said you were."
I've spent years being underestimated by people who thought competence had to look a certain way. Years being the woman people sent into rooms because they wanted the facts afterward but didn't necessarily expect her to be the one who found them. I’ve been misjudged because of my uniqueness and people are scared of my authentic self. In a male dominated profession, I’ve been overlooked by being female.
Very few people have ever seen me for who I am or what I’m capable of.
"Thank you," I say, quieter.
His gaze stays on mine. "You should've told me."
"I know."
"But I understand why you didn't."
That one hurts more. Not because it's cruel. Because it's kind. I’m not sure I deserve his complete forgiveness, but I think, if the roles had been reversed, I would have understood.
"The body's gone," he says again, his voice lower now. "The real evidence is somewhere nobody knows about. Which means the case isn't dead."
"No."
"It means you're the only person left who knows where it is." I don't answer. He sits forward. "And that makes you the target."
The room seems to get smaller. I look at him across the table, at the man who's spent the last week putting himself between me and every threat in our path, and something cold settles beneath my ribs.
"I know."
"We'll protect you at all costs," he says.
"You're saying we."
"I am."
Something in my chest gives a small, painful twist. "You realize this is how people get emotionally compromised in romantic thrillers."
"I don't read romantic thrillers."
"That's because you apparently enjoy living without joy."
His thumb moves once over the back of my hand. Barely there. Enough.
"You're distracting me."
"I'm trying to keep you from spiraling."
"Is that your professional assessment?"
"No."
"What is it?"
His eyes hold mine. "Personal."
There are probably a dozen things I could say. For once, I don't say any of them. The phone in my hand buzzes. We both look down. The moment disappears so quickly it almost hurts.
I pick up the phone, expecting the confirmation I'd been waiting for, the message from my contact acknowledging receipt of the package, the one channel in this entire operation that shouldn't exist on anyone's radar except mine and one person three states away who I trust with my life.
Instead, there is a text. No caller ID. No number. Just seven words that shouldn't be possible for anyone to send to a device nobody is supposed to know exists.
We know what you sent. And where.
For one second, I can't breathe.
Dozer's hand closes around mine. "What's wrong?"
I turn the screen toward him. His expression changes. The softness disappears. The operator comes back. But his hand doesn't let go of mine.
Someone knows. Someone has found the one secret I thought I'd kept beyond their reach. And now they know exactly where to find me.
I look at Dozer. "Someone knows," I say.
His eyes lift to mine. "Then they just made a mistake."
They told us they're coming.
And this time, we're ready.