Chapter 10 #2
Micah brings up surveillance footage showing his vehicle movements, correlates them with communication patterns. I layer signals intelligence over financial records, looking for connections that prove intelligence sharing beyond reasonable doubt.
I notice the way we think in parallel, anticipate each other's analytical leaps, build cases with methodical precision. My anger is still there, sharp and protective, but it's harder to maintain when we're falling into patterns that feel like muscle memory.
"There." Micah highlights a section of surveillance footage. "Masters left the warehouse at 1400 hours on this date. He drove to a coffee shop in Kalispell, sat alone for a while, then drove back."
I load communication records for that timeframe.
"No phone calls during that window. But his phone pinged a cell tower near the coffee shop.
" I run the location data through mapping software.
"That coffee shop has public WiFi. He could have used it to send encrypted messages without creating traceable phone records. "
I'm querying his location history before Micah can ask.
"Regular pattern—every couple of weeks, always to the same coffee shop, always during business hours when he should be at the warehouse.
" I'm cross-referencing the dates with Committee operational tempo.
"Every instance corresponds with Committee activity that demonstrated knowledge of Echo Ridge movements. "
We have the pattern. We just need to catch him in the act.
The empty mug sits beside my laptop, a reminder of the thoughtfulness I told him to stop showing.
"Stop being so goddamn thoughtful. It makes hating you harder."
He doesn't respond immediately. When he does, his voice carries something that might be regret or resignation. "I'm not trying to make you hate me less. I'm just trying to do the job without making things worse."
"You remembered my coffee order. You're making this cabin livable instead of just functional.
You're being considerate and kind and all the things that made me fall for you in the first place.
" The words come out raw and unfiltered.
"I need you to be cold and distant so I can stay angry.
Anger is easier than remembering what we were before everything went to hell. "
"I can't be cold and distant with you," he says, voice steady but weighted. "I tried that already. It doesn't work. You're too important, even when you hate me."
My receiver beeps. The tone is urgent, indicating priority traffic.
I grab my headphones. Masters's voice comes through, but this time he's not discussing logistics. His tone is tense, careful, speaking in vague references that suggest coded communication.
"Someone just sent him an encrypted message. Not through his regular channels. This is different."
Micah moves to his surveillance cameras. "A vehicle just pulled up to the warehouse. Not on today's delivery schedule."
I run the encrypted message through decryption protocols while monitoring his response. The encryption is sophisticated, military-grade, nothing a legitimate logistics contractor should be using.
"Message content is shielded." My fingers fly over the keyboard. "But the routing suggests Committee origin. They're communicating with Masters directly."
"He's coming out of the warehouse." Micah zooms the camera. "He's meeting the vehicle driver outside. They're not going inside, keeping the conversation away from security cameras."
Masters sends a response through the same encrypted channel. It's a short message, acknowledgment of receipt. Then silence.
"They know. The Committee knows we're investigating. That encrypted message was a warning or a query about security. His response confirms he's been contacted."
"Counter-surveillance." Micah pulls up contingency protocols on his tablet. "They're checking their intelligence sources, making sure the network is still secure."
"Which means they might know Victoria's network is compromised. They might know we're hunting for the leak." I save all the data, encrypt it with protocols only Echo Ridge can access. "We need to report this to Kane."
But Masters is in his vehicle pulling away from the warehouse before I can reach for my secure phone. It's heading north, toward Kalispell. Toward that coffee shop where he sends encrypted messages every couple of weeks.
The Committee running counter-surveillance means they're aware someone is investigating. They're checking their sources, verifying security, possibly preparing to shut down compromised channels.
We're running out of time to catch them in the act.
And sitting in this cabin with Micah, building cases like we used to, falling into rhythms that feel dangerously familiar despite years of silence and betrayal, is getting harder to compartmentalize by the hour.
The encrypted message on my screen blinks. His vehicle disappears around a curve in the valley road.
"He's moving." Micah's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We need to decide. Follow him or maintain position and monitor communications."
It's a tactical decision, an operational priority—the kind of call we used to make together when cases demanded split-second choices and trust was absolute.
I look at Micah across the cabin. His expression is controlled, waiting for my assessment. He's trusting my judgment like he used to trust me with everything before he disappeared and silence replaced the partnership we'd built.
"We follow him. If the Committee's running counter-surveillance, Masters might be meeting his handler. We get visual confirmation, we prove the connection."
Micah gathers his equipment. "I'll drive. You monitor communications."
We move with practiced efficiency, packing gear and coordinating protocols. Old patterns, muscle memory, the partnership we built surfacing despite everything that's happened between us.
I grab my laptop and receiver. Micah's at the door.
The Committee knows someone's investigating. Masters is moving toward what might be a face-to-face meeting with his handler.
And I'm following Micah into tactical situations that require the kind of trust I swore I'd never give him again.