Chapter 5 #2
In my room, I grab my camera, pack the laptop, and drives into my messenger bag along with Tom's photographs and the notes I've compiled over three years.
Everything that could prove my innocence or get me killed fits into one canvas bag.
Ten pounds of files. Three dead agents and one murdered investigator reduced to digital evidence.
Finn's cabin sits two miles outside town, accessible by a narrow road that winds through dense forest. The truck handles the terrain easily, four-wheel drive engaging automatically when the incline steepens.
No other vehicles pass us. No lights visible except the glow from Finn's headlights cutting through falling snow.
"Built it myself," Finn says, nodding toward the structure that appears through the trees. "Took one summer and most of my savings, but it's solid."
The cabin is exactly what I'd expect from him.
Functional, well-maintained, built to withstand Alaska winters without unnecessary decoration.
One story, timber construction, a covered porch that wraps around two sides.
Smoke rises from the chimney, which means he left a fire burning before he came to get me.
Inside, the space is warm and surprisingly comfortable.
Main living area with a wood stove radiating heat, kitchen barely big enough for one person, a door that presumably leads to the bedroom.
Everything is clean and organized with military precision.
No clutter, no wasted space, just exactly what's needed and nothing more.
"Coffee?" Finn asks, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Please."
While he works, I start unpacking my laptop and drives. My hands shake slightly as I arrange everything, and I force them to steady. This is it. The moment where I show another person the entirety of what I've been building alone for three years.
Finn sets two mugs on the table and settles into the chair next to mine. "Show me."
I open the first file. Tom Rearden's official reports, sanitized and approved for Bureau review.
"These are what the DOJ pulled today. Nothing in them explains why he died, but look at the pattern.
" I walk him through the gaps, the cases that went nowhere, the leads that dried up.
"Every time Tom got close to something, the investigation stalled. "
"Obstruction," Finn says, leaning forward.
"Systematic." The next file opens on screen. "This is what his widow sent me. From the safety deposit box she didn't know existed."
Finn studies the photographs Tom left behind. Coded references to locations in Alaska, supply routes through remote areas, financial transactions that don't match legitimate business. His expression hardens as he processes what he's seeing.
"These coordinates," he says, pointing to a series of notations in Tom's handwriting. "I know these locations. I've delivered to some of them."
Cold floods through me. "You've been to sites Tom was investigating?"
"Tom was investigating. I was just delivering.
" He pulls out his phone, opens a notes app.
"Three months ago, I got a request for a supply drop at coordinates that didn't match any registered homestead or business.
Payment was triple the normal rate, cash on delivery.
I took it because the money was good and the client claimed they were setting up a research station. "
"What did you deliver?"
"Non-perishable food, medical supplies, camping equipment. Nothing illegal on the surface." His fingers drum against the table. "But when I got there, the 'research station' was just an old mining equipment shed. Empty. I left the supplies outside as instructed and never saw anyone."
"Did you go back?"
"Twice more. Same pattern. Cash payment, supplies left at an abandoned location, no contact with anyone." He meets my gaze. "I started documenting it after the second run. Taking photos, noting the condition of the sites, tracking whether the supplies I left were actually picked up."
My pulse kicks. "You have photos?"
"Of everything," he says, nodding and pulling up images on his phone. "The tire tracks don't match my vehicle. There are fresh footprints in the snow. Evidence someone was using these locations regularly but staying out of sight."
I compare his photos to Tom's notes, and the pattern clicks into place. "These are transfer points. They're moving people through the backcountry using abandoned infrastructure. They pay locals like you to make legitimate-looking supply runs as cover for their operations."
"Using me." Anger edges his voice. "Using my routes and my reputation to hide trafficking."
"It's brilliant, actually. A known local making regular deliveries doesn't raise suspicion.
Anyone watching just sees normal supply runs to remote areas.
" My files fill the screen, showing the connections.
"Tom figured it out. Look at his timeline.
He was tracking these locations for months before he died. "
We work through the evidence together, connecting Tom's investigation to the patterns Finn has observed. The coordination is too precise to be coincidence. Someone with detailed knowledge of Alaska's backcountry is running this operation, using legitimate infrastructure as cover.
"The task force monitoring my intel has been tracking the same federal official you've been hearing about," I say, pulling up my timeline. "The Marshal. J.M."
Finn's expression hardens. "So you've connected him to this too."
"He's the one who killed Tom. The one who framed me for Stormwatch." The name still tastes bitter. "High enough in the DOJ to manipulate evidence and shut down investigations."
"But you don't know his actual identity."
"Not yet. Tom never wrote it down. Either he didn't know or it was too dangerous to document until he had proof that couldn't be buried.
" The timeline shows connections between deaths and investigations.
"But if we can connect these Alaska locations to the trafficking network, if we can prove federal involvement, the task force might be able to identify him. "
Finn stands and walks to a cabinet, pulling out his own map of the region. He spreads it across the table, marked with notes in his precise handwriting. Delivery routes, abandoned infrastructure, locations where he's noticed suspicious activity.
"Tomorrow's site," he says, tapping a spot that matches Tom's coordinates. "Old logging road that dead-ends near an equipment shed. I've seen fresh tire tracks there three times in the past two months."
"Can we reach it?"
"If the weather holds. Rough terrain, four-wheel drive minimum, and we'll need to leave before dawn to have enough daylight." He traces the route. "Six hours round trip, maybe more if we hit heavy snow."
"What are we looking for?"
"Evidence of regular use. Supply caches. Anything proving they're moving people through this route." He pulls out a camera from a drawer. "We document everything. Photos with timestamps and GPS coordinates."
"Without revealing I'm the source."
"We can get it to Zeke and he can claim the intel came through his network.
One more piece of evidence from a confidential informant won't raise questions.
" Finn's gaze holds mine. "But if we find what you think we'll find, this gets dangerous fast. The people running this operation have already killed to protect it. "
"I know." My voice is steadier than I feel. "Tom knew too. He didn’t stop investigating."
"And it got him killed."
"Which is why I'm not doing this alone anymore." I close the laptop. "We watch each other's backs. We're careful."
Finn nods slowly. "Six AM departure. Dress in layers. Pack emergency supplies in case we get stranded. And Cara?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "If anything feels wrong tomorrow, we abort immediately."
"Agreed."
We spend another hour going over maps and planning routes. Finn knows this terrain intimately, can describe every switchback and potential hazard. His tactical mind works through contingencies, backup plans, emergency protocols.
When we finally pack up the files, exhaustion crashes over me. Not just from the long day, but from the relief of sharing this burden with someone who understands what's at stake.
"Almost eleven," Finn says, glancing at the clock. "You need sleep. Tomorrow's going to be long."
"I should get back to the lodge."
"Roads are worse now than when we got here." He nods toward the bedroom door. "You'll stay. I'll take the couch."
"Finn, I can't take your bed."
"You can and you will. Tomorrow requires actual rest." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Besides, you're trusting me with everything else. Might as well trust me to be a gentleman about sleeping arrangements."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Thank you."
"Get some sleep. I'll wake you at five thirty."
The bedroom is small but comfortable. The bed is neatly made with military corners, a glass of water already on the nightstand along with an extra blanket.
I set my alarm for five thirty and lie down fully clothed, too exhausted to care about propriety. Through the closed door, I hear Finn moving around, banking the fire and settling onto the couch.
For the first time in three years, I'm not alone in this fight. Tomorrow we find more of the evidence Tom died protecting. Tomorrow we start building the case that will expose the Marshal.
When the alarm sounds at five thirty, I'm already awake.