Chapter 6 #2
"There," I say, pointing to a cluster of abandoned structures barely visible through the trees. "That's the old logging camp. The equipment shed Tom marked in his notes should be about two hundred yards north of the main building."
I park the truck in a clearing that offers multiple exit routes if we need to leave fast. Old tactical thinking, but it's kept me alive this long. Cara is already out of the vehicle before I kill the engine, camera in hand, moving with purpose toward the structures.
I grab the rifle from behind the seat and follow her. The weight is familiar, comforting. I haven't needed it on a supply run yet, but today feels different. Today we're actively looking for evidence that could get us both killed if the wrong people find out.
The equipment shed sits where Tom's coordinates indicated. The structure is weathered but solid, built to withstand decades of harsh winters. Fresh snow covers the ground, but disturbed patterns show underneath. Recent activity, within the past week based on how the snow has settled.
Cara photographs everything before we get close. Wide shots establishing context, close-ups capturing details. She moves like she's building a legal case, documenting chain of custody even though there's no official investigation to present the evidence to.
I keep watch while she works. Eyes scanning the tree line, ears tuned to any sound that doesn't belong. The forest is quiet except for wind in the branches and the occasional bird call. No engine noise, no voices, no indication we're not alone.
But the hair on the back of my neck prickles anyway.
Cara reaches the shed and tries the door. Locked, but the mechanism is newer than the building. Someone's upgraded the security recently, which tells me whatever is inside matters enough to protect.
"Can you open it?" she asks.
I pull a tension wrench and pick from my pocket. "Give me two minutes."
The lock is a standard deadbolt, nothing fancy. I work the pins carefully, feeling for the binding order, setting them one at a time. The mechanism clicks open after ninety seconds.
Cara enters first, camera ready. I follow with the rifle, covering our six while she documents what we found.
The shed is full of supply crates. Military-grade containers, weatherproofed and sealed.
The markings on the sides match the pattern Zeke described when he briefed me on the trafficking network's logistics.
Coded references, lot numbers that don't correspond to any legitimate shipping manifests, dates that align with known movement of victims through remote areas.
This is a staging point. A place where traffickers stockpile supplies before moving people through the backcountry, using the isolation to hide operations that would be impossible in populated areas.
Cara's hands shake slightly as she photographs each crate. She processes what this means—Tom was right. The network is using Alaska's abandoned infrastructure the way he suspected. And if this site is active, there are probably others scattered through the mountains.
"We need samples," she says. "Something physical the task force can analyze."
My knife makes quick work of one crate. Inside are non-perishable food supplies, medical equipment, camping gear. Nothing illegal on the surface, but the quantities suggest this is meant to support multiple people for extended periods.
Cara photographs the contents, then carefully removes a few items for evidence. MRE packages, a first aid kit, a water purification system. She seals each piece in evidence bags she brought specifically for this purpose, labeling them with location and time stamps.
The wind picks up outside, and I check my watch. Almost noon. The weather system's moving in faster than forecasted.
"We need to go," I say. "Storm's coming early."
Cara looks at the remaining crates, clearly wanting more time to document everything. But she's professional enough to know when to cut losses and preserve what we have.
"Okay. Let's move."
We secure the shed and head back to the truck. The sky has darkened considerably, clouds rolling in from the north heavy with snow. The temperature drops as we load the evidence, and the first flakes start falling before we're back in the vehicle.
I start the engine and turn the heater to maximum. "Emergency shelter is thirty minutes north. We're not going to make it back to my place before it hits."
Cara nods, accepting the situation without complaint. "Then we shelter."
The drive to the forestry cabin tests every skill I learned navigating Afghan mountains in deteriorating conditions.
Visibility drops to maybe twenty feet. Snow falls so thick it's like driving through a white wall.
The road becomes treacherous, ice forming under fresh powder in a combination that makes even four-wheel drive feel inadequate.
I drive by feel and memory, knowing this route well enough to anticipate curves before I can see them. Cara stays quiet, letting me concentrate, one hand braced against the dashboard for stability.
The cabin appears through the storm like a ghost materializing from fog. Single room, timber construction, maintained by the forestry service for situations like this. I pull as close as I can and kill the engine.
"Stay here while I check it out," I say.
The wind hits like a physical force when I open the door. I push through it to the cabin, unlock the door with the master key I keep for emergencies, and clear the interior. Empty, as expected. No signs of recent occupation except the supplies the service keeps stocked.
I wave Cara over. She grabs her bag and the evidence cases, moving fast through the storm. We get inside and I bar the door against the wind.
The cabin is cold but dry. One room with a wood stove, a small kitchen area, and two bunks built into the wall. Shelves hold canned goods, bottled water, emergency blankets. Everything we need to ride out the storm.
I get the fire started while Cara organizes our gear. The kindling catches quickly, flames spreading to larger logs until heat begins to fill the small space. The stove radiates warmth that pushes back the cold seeping through gaps in the walls.
"Not bad," Cara says, looking around. "I've stayed in worse safe houses."
"This is luxury compared to some of the places I slept in Afghanistan." I pull canned soup from the shelf and set it on the stove to heat. "We've got food, water, heat, and shelter. Could be a lot worse."
She settles on one of the bunks, allowing herself to relax now that we're safe. The evidence cases sit beside her, and the tension in her shoulders eases now that we're safe and the mission is complete.
We eat the soup straight from the cans, passing a single spoon back and forth because neither of us bothered to pack utensils. The intimacy of sharing a meal this way, sitting close enough that our knees almost touch, feels more significant than it should.
"Thank you," Cara says eventually. "For believing me. For helping me. For not turning me in when you had every reason to."
"You're not corrupt," I say simply. "Someone with resources and reach framed you to protect a trafficking network. Turning you in would just help the people who killed Tom and destroyed your career."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough." I meet her eyes. "I know you photograph evidence like you're still building a legal case even though there's no official investigation.
I know you treat elderly couples with dementia with genuine kindness instead of impatience.
I know you're willing to risk everything to finish what Tom started, even though no one would blame you for just staying hidden and surviving. "
Something shifts in her expression. Vulnerability I haven't seen before, the defensive walls coming down enough to show the woman underneath all the careful control.
"I'm tired," she admits quietly. "Three years of running, looking over my shoulder, trusting no one.
Building a case I might never get to prosecute because the people I'm hunting have too much power and too much reach.
Some days I wonder if it's worth it. If I should just disappear completely, give up, let someone else fight this battle. "
"But you don't."
"No. Because those three agents who died in Stormwatch deserve justice. Because Tom was murdered for getting too close to the truth. Because if I give up, the Marshal wins and the network keeps operating and more people suffer." Her hands clench. "I can't let that happen."
I understand that stubborn refusal to quit even when quitting would be easier. The need to see things through because walking away feels like betraying everyone depending on you.
"When I lost my flight status," I say slowly, "I spent a bit of time being angry at everyone and everything.
Angry at the Taliban fighter who got lucky with that RPG.
Angry at the surgeons who couldn't fix the nerve damage.
Angry at the system for deciding I was no longer useful.
Angry at myself for not being good enough to overcome it. "
"What changed?"
"Zeke showed up at my door one morning with a proposition.
He needed someone who understood logistics and tactical operations to help investigate trafficking routes through the backcountry.
Said he'd watched me make supply runs and thought I had the skills and the temperament for the work.
" I feed another log into the stove. "He gave me a way to matter again.
A purpose that wasn't about what I lost but what I could still do. "
"And now you're helping a fugitive investigate the same network."
"Now I'm helping someone who deserves better than what she got." I shift closer, the space between us charged with something I've been trying to ignore since she walked into Sadie's café. "You're not alone anymore, Cara. Whatever comes next, we face it together."