Chapter 7
The stolen Ford struggled up the mountain road, engine coughing. Griff checked the mirrors again—a habit that wouldn't die even though they'd been clear for twenty minutes.
Sarah sat rigid in the passenger seat. Every pothole made her flinch. Every shadow made her eyes dart. She was holding herself together through pure will, but he could see the cracks forming. The thousand-yard stare. The rigid shoulders and trembling hands.
He'd seen it too many times. Soldiers after their first real contact. The moment when training met reality and reality won. Sarah Winters might be FBI, but she wasn’t even an actual agent. Now she'd been hunted through a mine shaft by professionals who skinned people for practice.
The adrenaline crash would hit soon. When it did, she'd need somewhere safe to fall apart.
His sat phone sat heavy in his jacket pocket. One call. That's all it would take. Ronan would have a safehouse ready within hours, probably send a full extraction team. Deke would mobilize everyone. Maya would start running tactical analysis. They'd drop everything and come running.
Exactly the problem.
Griff pulled off at a scenic overlook, needing a moment to think. Sarah tensed as they stopped.
"Are we—"
"Checking our six." He scanned the valley below, but his mind was elsewhere. His team was out there, probably worried sick. Six months of silence. They deserved better.
But deserving better and staying alive rarely aligned.
"You have a phone." Sarah's voice cut through his thoughts. "I saw it. Back at the mine."
He turned to find her watching him with those sharp investigator eyes, even through the exhaustion.
"Satellite phone," she continued. "Military encrypted, from the look of it. Why haven't you called for backup?"
"It's complicated."
"We're being hunted by Chechens and whoever hired them. How is calling your team complicated?"
Griff studied the dark landscape, weighing how much to tell her. "Knight Tactical is the best in the business. Ronan could have a team here in six hours. Full loadout, safe extraction, everything we need."
"But?"
"Right now, Stillwater thinks I'm a lone wolf chasing ghosts. The second my team surfaces, that changes. Suddenly Knight Tactical is a threat that needs eliminating."
"Your team can handle themselves."
"In a straight fight? Sure. But Stillwater doesn't fight straight." He thought of Tank, all his precautions that hadn't mattered in the end. "Ronan just got married. Axel's engaged. Deke's practically there. They have people to protect now. People Stillwater wouldn't hesitate to leverage."
Sarah was quiet for a moment, processing. "So you're choosing to work alone rather than risk them."
"I'm choosing to keep them alive." The words came out harsher than intended. "I can get you through tonight. Find somewhere safe. Tomorrow, I'll send you to them—they can protect you better than—"
"No."
He blinked. "No?"
"I'm not running to your team while you go on some suicide mission." Her jaw set with surprising stubbornness. "This is my investigation. My evidence. My fight too."
"This isn't your—"
"The moment I got sent into the middle of nowhere to get murdered, it became my fight." She shifted, wincing as her injured ankle moved. "Besides, if your team is being watched, wouldn't me showing up alone paint a target on them anyway?"
She had a point. Griff started the truck again, pulling back onto the road. They needed shelter, and soon. Sarah was running on fumes and attitude.
"We need somewhere to regroup," he said. "Somewhere off anyone's radar."
Sarah stared out the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass. "Off the radar... no paper trail..." She straightened suddenly. "Wait. Pull over."
"What?"
"Pull over. I need to think."
He found another turnout, this one hidden by trees, and waited.
"Two years ago," she said slowly, "I investigated a tech CEO named Pietro Garofalo. Tax fraud case. He claimed business deductions for what he called a 'remote office facility' here in Montana."
"And?"
Her eyes snapped open. "It wasn't an office. It was a luxury survival bunker. Complete doomsday prepper setup, but with a wine cellar and art collection. He tried to write off the entire thing as a business expense."
"Where is it?"
"That's the thing—I studied every inch of it for the trial. Floor plans, security systems, utility reports. I know that place better than my own apartment." She frowned, concentrating. "Northeast of here, maybe forty miles? There was a hidden access road off a Forest Service route..."
"You've never actually been there?"
"Never needed to. The paper trail was enough to convict him." A hint of professional pride crept into her voice. "He's serving five to seven in federal prison. The property's tied up in asset forfeiture—the government technically owns it but hasn't figured out what to do with it yet."
Griff weighed the options. Following directions from someone who'd only seen satellite photos, to a place that might not even be accessible. But it was better than driving aimlessly until they ran out of gas or got spotted.
"Can you find it?"
"I memorized those maps for eight months of trial prep." She managed a weak smile. "I can find it."