Chapter 1
FBI analyst Sarah Winters had systems for dealing with life's disappointments. Bad coffee from the Bureau's ancient machine? Add extra sugar. Subway delays? Download another true crime podcast. Dead ends in financial investigations? Order Thai food and dig deeper.
But as she stared at her boss's text message, she couldn't think of a single way to make this better.
Call me. NOW.
Nothing good ever came from late-night summonses. She minimized the seventeen spreadsheets covering her screen—each one a thread in the financial web she'd been untangling for the past month—and reached for her phone.
Her uninspired studio apartment shrank around her as she dialed.
The surface of the dining table that doubled as her desk was buried beneath layers of empty coffee cups, takeout containers, and printouts covered in yellow highlighter.
Herbert, her optimistically named spider plant, drooped from his perch on the windowsill, looking as exhausted as she felt.
"Winters." Her supervisor's voice cut through before the first ring finished. "About time."
"Sir, I was just—"
"Pack your bags. You've been selected for the new Inter-Agency Field Readiness Initiative. Transport will pick you up tomorrow at 0600."
Sarah blinked. Surely, she'd misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Field training. Montana. You leave in the morning. Zero-six-hundred pickup."
"But I'm an analyst." The words tumbled out, pitched higher than she'd intended. "I don’t do…outdoors." Or chases. Or scaling fences, or whatever other horrible things “Field training,” probably involved.
"Orders from high up." His tone suggested this wasn't up for debate. "All analysts need field experience now. Some stupidity about building better relationships between desk jockeys and field agents."
Sarah shot a glance at her laptop. A financial transaction from Panama to Cyprus blinked at her like a beacon. After a month of unauthorized digging—carefully hidden behind her official assignments—she was finally close to something.
The biological passport case that the CIA and FBI had declared dead wasn't. Money was still moving. And she was the only one who seemed to care.
"Sir, my caseload—"
"Will be here when you get back. That CEO’s tax records aren't going anywhere."
If only he knew.
The conglomerate head’s tax records were the perfect cover for her clandestine investigation. Boring enough that no one questioned why she stayed late every night, complex enough to justify the hours of database access.
"How long?" she managed.
"Five days. Consider it a working vacation."
Vacation. Right. "And this is... required?"
"Unless you want to explain to the Deputy Director why you're too special for the same training everyone else has to do."
Sarah closed her eyes. "No, sir."
"Good. Check your email for details. And Winters? Try to have fun. I hear Montana's beautiful this time of year."
The line went dead.
Sarah set down her phone with trembling fingers. Montana. Wilderness. The great outdoors where things had teeth and claws and unreliable Wi-Fi. She touched the small silver cross at her throat, a habit born from years of seeking comfort in moments of uncertainty.
"Okay, Lord," she whispered to the empty apartment. "I'm listening. Though I'm not sure what You're thinking here."
She stood and padded to her bedroom, where her Bible lay on the nightstand next to a tower of financial crimes textbooks. The leather cover was soft beneath her fingers, worn from years of daily reading. Your word is a lamp unto my feet, she recited silently, and a light unto my path.
"Even if that path leads to Montana, apparently." She managed a weak smile. "You know me and nature don't exactly get along. Remember church camp? I got poison ivy just looking at the woods."
But there was no denying the gentle tug in her spirit. The same quiet insistence that had guided her through every major decision in her life. If God wanted her communing with pine trees and whatever else lurked in the Montana wilderness, there had to be a reason.
Her laptop chimed. The email from her supervisor contained a packing list that made her stomach drop. Hiking boots. Weather-appropriate outerwear. Bear spray.
"Bears?" Sarah sank onto her bed. "There are actual bears?"
She opened a new browser tab and typed: What to pack for Montana wilderness survival.
The search results did nothing to calm her nerves. Apparently, Montana in late March could mean anything from spring flowers to surprise blizzards. The wildlife included mountain lions, wolves, and something called a wolverine that looked like it had anger management issues.
Another chime. This time, a flight confirmation. Joint Base Andrews, 0800 departure. Military transport.
Sarah frowned. Why not a commercial flight? The unease that had been simmering in her chest bubbled higher. Everything about this felt wrong. The timing, just when she was close to a breakthrough. The location, completely isolated. The transportation, unnecessarily complex.
She glanced back at her laptop, where the Panama-Cyprus transaction still blinked. Stillwater Defense Solutions. The name had appeared three times in the past week, always connected to accounts that shouldn't exist, moving money that couldn't be traced.
Unless you knew where to look. Unless you understood the patterns.
Five days. She could survive a hundred and twenty hours of whatever field training horror awaited her. Then she'd come back and finish what she'd started. The biological passport scheme that everyone wanted to stay buried would finally see daylight.
She grimaced and shut down her laptop before trudging across the room to pull her ancient suitcase out from under the bed. Three laptops went in first, carefully wrapped in extra sweaters. Phone chargers, portable batteries, and her backup hard drive followed.
She held up the cute scarlet jacket she’d bought for the DC winter and laughed despite herself. "Yes, perfect for wilderness training."
By the time she'd finished, it was past midnight. The single pair of boots she owned—fashionable ankle boots from Nordstrom Rack—sat on top like an afterthought.
But what about bear spray? Even if it wasn’t midnight on a Sunday, did anybody in the DC area even sell such a thing? No problem. She’d stop at a store once they touched down. They probably sold it at every corner minimart. She could do this.
She knelt beside her bed, hands clasped. "Lord, I don't know what You're doing here. Please watch over me. Give me wisdom and discernment. And maybe lodging that involves indoor plumbing and reliable internet."
She paused, then added, "And if there's danger waiting for me—real danger, please send help. Send someone who knows what they're doing. Because we both know that's not me."
The prayer settled her nerves enough to attempt sleep. But as she lay in the darkness, listening to the familiar sounds of DC traffic, she couldn't shake the feeling that tomorrow would change everything.
Her phone screen lit up one last time. A news alert about military funding, Senator Blackwood's name in the headline. The same senator whose campaign had received donations from three different Stillwater shell companies. A fact she’d only uncovered two days ago.
As sleep finally claimed her, one thought echoed through her mind: What if someone knows what I found?