Chapter 2
FINN
Three miles pass before either of us speaks.
Cara stares through the windshield at the mountain road unwinding before us, and I can practically hear her brain working through scenarios and contingencies.
She hasn't reached for the door handle, hasn't tried to spin some desperate excuse, hasn't done anything except breathe steadily.
Smart. Panic gets people killed in situations like this.
"So," she says finally, each word measured. "Are you planning to turn me in, or did you just want to see how I'd react?"
"Still deciding." I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady at ten and two. Black ice hides on curves like this, waiting for overconfidence or distraction. "Depends on what you tell me in the next few hours."
"You could have called the authorities the moment you recognized me."
"Could have." I tap the brake for a switchback, feel the truck respond smoothly under my hands. "Didn't."
"Why not?"
Good question. One I've been asking myself since I walked into Sadie's café yesterday afternoon and saw her sitting at the counter.
FBI Agent Cara Brennan, wanted for corruption and betrayal, three stools down like she belonged there.
Recognition slammed through my chest hard enough I almost stumbled.
Every instinct I'd honed through my years of military service screamed that something didn't add up. The news painted her as a traitor who sold out her team for money, but the woman I observed yesterday didn't move like someone comfortable with betrayal. She moved like someone hunting.
"Because I've seen what happens when the system decides you're guilty," I say. "Due process stops mattering. Evidence shows up that shouldn't exist. People who should know better believe whatever story fits the narrative."
Cara's head turns toward me, and I catch the movement in my peripheral vision. "That sounds personal."
"Afghanistan, 2018. My unit pulled civilians out of a compound under fire.
Saved twenty-three people, including eight kids.
" Memory drags me back to chaos and cordite, rotor wash and gunfire.
"A reporter embedded with us wrote it up as unnecessary aggression.
Said we endangered civilians by engaging Taliban fighters who were actively shooting at us.
Made us sound like cowboys looking for a fight instead of pilots trying to keep people alive. "
"What happened?"
"The story got picked up by major outlets.
My CO spent six months defending our actions to investigators who wanted to believe we'd violated ROE.
" I check the mirrors, though there's no traffic up here at this hour.
"We were cleared eventually, but the damage was done.
Command never trusted us the same way after that. "
"So you don't trust journalists."
"Not as a rule, no." I glance at her briefly before returning attention to the road. "But you're not really a journalist, are you?"
"I'm writing a story," she says, which is an answer without being an answer.
"About supply logistics in remote Alaska." Skepticism colors the words. "That's your cover."
"It's research." Her response carries quiet steel. "Everything I told Sadie was true. I do need to understand how goods move through communities like Glacier Hollow. I need to know who controls the routes, who has access, who people trust."
"Because you think someone's using those routes for something illegal."
"Yes."
Single word, no embellishment, no justification. Just confirmation that whatever brought her here runs deeper than clearing her name. I appreciate the directness even as it complicates everything.
"Trafficking," I say. Not a question.
"How did you—" She stops herself, recalibrates. "You've noticed something."
"Hard not to, once you know what to look for." My hands tighten on the wheel briefly before I force them to relax. "Packages that don't match manifests. Delivery requests to locations that don't exist on any map. Money moving through town that doesn't connect to legitimate business."
"You didn't report it."
"To who? Federal agencies that might be involved?
" I navigate around a frost heave that would destroy suspension on a lighter vehicle.
"Local law can handle local problems, but if this runs deeper, if there's federal protection involved, I need to know what we're dealing with before I make noise.
So I started paying attention instead. Documenting patterns. Waiting to see how deep it goes."
Cara studies me with intensity that probably terrified suspects during interrogations. "You believe me. About being framed."
"I believe you didn't betray your team for money." I keep my tone flat, factual. "Whether you're here for justice or revenge is still an open question."
"Does it matter?"
"Might." I slow for another curve, feel the truck hug the road exactly how it should. "Justice follows rules. Revenge tends to get messy."
"And which would you choose?"
I don’t tell her about the night my bird went down outside Kandahar.
A flash of memory surfaces without permission.
Rotors screaming, alarms blaring, ground rushing up to meet us.
My crew chief's voice shouting coordinates while I fought controls that no longer responded.
The impact that shattered my wrist and sent nerve damage crawling up my arm.
Watching my flight surgeon shake his head three months later when tests showed the damage was permanent.
Losing the only thing I'd ever been truly good at because some Taliban fighter got lucky with an RPG.
"Depends on the day," I admit.
We drive without speaking for another stretch of road, but the tension has changed. Less hostile, more cautious. Two people who've been burned by systems they trusted, trying to figure out if the person sitting three feet away is another threat or someone who might understand.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I glance at the screen: Sadie checking if we made it out of town without incident. I'll reply when we reach the homestead.
"Sadie vouched for me," Cara says. "Gave me your contact information. That's not something she'd do for just anyone."
"No, it's not." I spare her a glance. "Sadie's good at reading people. If she thinks you're genuine about your research, that carries weight in Glacier Hollow."
"I lied to her."
"You told her you're researching supply chains in remote communities, which apparently is true." I gesture at the endless forest flanking the road. "Just not for the reasons she thinks."
"That's still deception."
"Welcome to operating in the gray areas." Bitterness seeps into my words before I can stop it. "You'll find a lot of us started living there when the black and white options stopped making sense."
Cara absorbs that, and I let the topic drop. Mountains rise around us, snow-capped peaks cutting into a sky that threatens more weather. Clouds gather on the northern horizon, dark and heavy with precipitation. We might catch the edge of that system on the way back.
I clear the subject from my head and focus on the road.
"The homestead we're visiting belongs to Raymond and Judith Kowalski.
Been up here forty years. Raymond's got arthritis that makes travel difficult, and Judith has early-stage dementia.
Their daughter lives in Anchorage but can't get up here often. "
"So you bring them supplies."
"Once a month, sometimes more if they need medication or if bad weather's coming. Groceries, prescriptions, mail, propane tanks, whatever keeps them comfortable."
"That's not standard delivery service."
"No," I agree. "But they're good people who need help. That's reason enough."
Something crosses Cara's face. Surprise, maybe, or recognition of something she didn't expect to find.
"Does that happen often?" she asks. "Making extra runs for people who need help?"
"Often enough." I slow for a section where the road narrows, rock face on one side and drop-off on the other. "There are maybe two hundred people scattered through this region. Everybody needs something eventually. The community survives because we take care of each other."
"Even fugitive FBI agents?"
"Jury's still out on that one." I deliver the line deadpan, then let my mouth quirk slightly.
The words land, and I can feel her reassessing me. Recalculating what kind of threat I represent and whether honesty serves her better than deception at this point.
"The operation that went wrong," she says eventually. "Stormwatch. We had solid intelligence. I verified every piece of it personally. Triple-checked sources, confirmed dates, coordinated with assets across three agencies."
"But someone warned them anyway."
"Someone with access to operational details." Everything about her goes controlled, locked down. "Someone who knew exactly when and where we'd strike. The warehouse was completely clean when we hit it. Not just empty. Scrubbed. Like it had never been used for trafficking at all."
"Inside job." I state it as fact, not question.
"Professional one," she confirms. "IA investigated everyone involved. Started finding evidence that pointed to me. Bank deposits I didn't make, emails I didn't send, phone records placing me in locations I'd never visited."
"Someone with resources and access."
"Very much so." The bitterness returns. "Someone protecting the trafficking network we tried to shut down."
"And you think that someone operates through Alaska."
"I think it's the same network Tom Rearden was investigating before he died." She pauses, gauges my reaction to the name. "You knew him?"
"I met him a while back. He came through asking questions about supply routes and federal presence in remote communities." Tom sitting in Sadie's café much like Cara did yesterday, asking careful questions while taking mental notes. "Seemed competent. Thorough."
"He was both." Cara's tone softens fractionally. "He was also getting close to something that got him killed."