Chapter 10
SARAH
The cabin sits a few miles outside Whitefish, Montana, positioned on a ridge that gives clear sight lines to the valley below where Samuel Masters's logistics warehouse operates.
Micah chose the location. I coordinated the rental through one of Tommy's shell corporations.
We arrived separately at different times, maintaining the appearance of unrelated travelers passing through.
Standard surveillance protocols, the kind that feel surreal to execute with someone who used to know my coffee order by heart.
He used to know a lot of things by heart.
I set up my equipment on the table near the window—signals intelligence receiver, encrypted laptop, analysis software that will monitor Masters's communications.
Micah's handling physical surveillance, camera equipment positioned to track vehicle movements and personnel entering the warehouse facility.
A professional division of labor based on our respective skill sets. It's nothing personal. We're just two operatives executing a mission with maximum efficiency.
Except nothing about working with Micah has ever been just professional, and pretending otherwise is exhausting.
"Coffee?" His voice cuts through my setup routine.
I don't look up from calibrating the receiver. "I'm fine."
"You've been driving for hours. You need caffeine."
"I said I'm fine."
He doesn't argue. He moves toward the kitchen. The coffee maker starts up. The sound is too familiar, unwelcome. The equipment needs my focus—adjusting frequencies, building filters that will separate his communications from background noise.
The warehouse operates as a legitimate logistics hub for outdoor recreation equipment.
Shipping containers arrive weekly, get processed through customs, distribute to retail locations across the Pacific Northwest. On paper, everything's clean.
But Victoria's financial records show payments to Masters that make no sense unless she’s actively working against Echo Ridge.
Someone's using our logistics network to move information. We just need to prove it.
My receiver locks onto his office frequency. Audio filters engage, clearing static and isolating voice communications. The analysis software starts recording, timestamps syncing with the surveillance camera feeds Micah's monitoring.
Dark roast fills the cabin, strong enough to qualify as a controlled substance. It's exactly how I used to drink it during late nights tracking Committee financial networks when time zones stopped meaning anything.
The bastard remembers.
Micah sets a mug on the table beside my laptop. My eyes stay on the screen. Data streams fill the display as his office phone connects to an outbound call.
"Black, just the way you like it."
My fingers go still on the keys. Black. No sugar, no cream, no hesitation. The detail he shouldn't remember after years of silence, the detail I definitely didn't tell him when we were planning this operation.
He knows it the same way he knows how to move through tactical situations with unconscious precision. Some things his body remembers even when his mind should have forgotten.
I force myself to keep typing. "Thanks."
He moves to his surveillance station in silence, settling into the monitoring routine with focused intensity. Equipment hums. Occasional vehicle sounds drift up from the valley below.
Masters's call connects. I pull on headphones, listening to logistics coordination that sounds completely legitimate. I hear delivery schedules, customs documentation, warehouse capacity planning. Nothing that suggests intelligence gathering or Committee contact.
I document everything anyway. I build timelines, cross-reference with Victoria's financial records, look for patterns that might indicate hidden communication.
Time passes. The coffee sits beside my laptop, cooling slowly while I work. I don't touch it. Don't let myself think about what it means that he still knows details about me that most people never notice in the first place.
But the temperature's perfect now. Not scalding, not cold—exactly the window where it's most drinkable.
The first sip floods my system, familiar and exactly right. Black, dark roast strong enough to strip paint. It's the same fuel we used for late nights when we were building cases together, when I still believed we had time to figure out what we were becoming.
"Anything on the communications?" Micah asks from his station.
"Routine logistics. Nothing flagged yet." Another data stream loads, layering his phone records with email metadata. "You?"
"Warehouse activity matches reported schedules. Multiple deliveries today, all processed through standard channels. No anomalies in vehicle patterns or personnel movement."
These are professional updates, tactical information exchange. Everything is compartmentalized and controlled.
Another query builds, searching for correlation between his communications and Committee operational tempo. The analysis software churns through massive datasets, looking for timing patterns that might indicate intelligence sharing.
My receiver picks up another call. I hear Masters's voice, speaking with someone about shipping manifests and delivery routes. I document the conversation, flag it for further analysis, cross-reference against known Committee supply chains.
Still nothing conclusive. Just fragments that could mean everything or nothing depending on context we don't have yet.
Micah stands, heads toward the kitchen. He refills his own coffee and checks something on his phone. He doesn't crowd my workspace, doesn't hover or micromanage. Just exists in the same operational space with quiet competence.
It's worse than if he were difficult. Worse than if he demanded attention or made this harder than it needs to be. It's the consideration, the thoughtfulness, the way he still moves around me like he knows exactly how much space I need.
It's almost like the years of his absence didn't happen. Like he didn't disappear when I needed him most... almost.
"You're doing it again." The words escape before I can stop them.
He pauses mid-step. "Doing what?"
"Being thoughtful. Remembering things. Making this harder than it needs to be."
"I'm making coffee and monitoring surveillance. That's not thoughtful, that's operational necessity."
"You remembered how I take my coffee. Black, no exceptions." The words come out sharper than intended. "That's not operational necessity. That's you being considerate and I need you to stop."
The receiver continues monitoring his frequency. I watch data streams fill my laptop screen, but all my attention is on Micah standing in the kitchen with his coffee mug and the careful neutrality he's been maintaining since we started this operation.
"I remember a lot of things. I can't exactly turn that off."
"You could try harder."
"I could. But we're going to be working in close quarters for days, maybe weeks. I figured making it as comfortable as possible was the professional choice."
"Professional would be treating me like any other teammate. Not remembering personal details from years ago."
"You're not any other teammate." His voice goes quiet, weighted. "You never were. Pretending otherwise doesn't make it true."
"Then what do you suggest? We acknowledge the history and let it compromise the mission? Talk about feelings while we're supposed to be focused on surveillance?"
"I suggest we do the job without pretending we're strangers.
" He sets his mug down, leans against the counter with controlled stillness.
"We have history. We were good together, professionally and personally, until I had to go dark and everything fell apart.
I can't change that. I can't undo the silence or the absence or the fact that you needed help I couldn't provide. "
The receiver beeps. It's an incoming communication on his frequency. I grab my headphones. My pulse hammers, my hands not quite steady.
Masters's voice comes through clear and businesslike, discussing shipping schedules with someone I don't recognize. I document the call, run voice analysis to identify the other speaker, cross-reference phone numbers against known Committee contacts.
Still nothing conclusive. Just normal logistics coordination that could be completely innocent.
But my analysis software flags something. I find a timing pattern in his communications that correlates with Committee operational decisions over recent months. Not perfect correlation, but close enough to suggest possible intelligence sharing.
Victoria's financial records overlay with his communication patterns and Committee activity timelines.
The data starts building a picture. I see small payments to Masters that align with his calls to specific numbers.
The calls happen days before Committee operations that demonstrated knowledge of Echo Ridge tempo and mission parameters.
It's not proof, not yet, but it's evidence worth pursuing.
"I've got something." I bring the correlation analysis up on the main screen. "Masters's communication patterns align with Committee operational decisions. Timing suggests possible intelligence sharing through routine logistics calls."
Micah comes over to my workstation, studies the data with analytical focus. He doesn't crowd me, maintains careful distance while examining the timelines I've built.
"Financial payments correspond with communication spikes." He points to clusters on the timeline. "Webb's people are paying for intelligence through what looks like legitimate logistics fees."
"Possible. But we need more data to confirm.
" I load his email metadata, start building another query.
"If he's feeding intelligence to the Committee, there should be patterns in his digital communications.
Encrypted messages, suspicious contacts, file transfers that don't align with legitimate business. "