Chapter 14
FINN
Pain is a language I learned to speak fluently in Afghanistan.
The sharp bite of bullet impact. The deep ache of shrapnel embedded in muscle.
The slow burn of nerve damage that never quite heals.
Anchorage Medical Center smells like antiseptic and floor polish, and the hospital bed is too narrow under my back, but none of that changes the fact that my shoulder is screaming a dialect I know too well.
The surgeon who worked on me is younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with steady hands and the kind of calm competence that comes from putting people back together on a regular basis.
Dr. Patel, according to the name embroidered on his scrubs.
He stands at my bedside reviewing the imaging results on a tablet, his expression professional as he prepares to deliver news I won't like.
"Bullet went clean through," he says, not looking up from the screen. "Missed the major vessels, which is the only reason you're not in intensive care right now. But the trajectory went through tissue that was already compromised from your previous injury."
Previous injury. That's what he calls the helicopter crash that ended my career and left my shoulder full of metal fragments that show up on every X-ray like a constellation of failure.
"More rehab?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Extensive rehab. The muscle damage is significant, and you've aggravated existing nerve damage." Patel finally looks up, meeting my eyes. "You got lucky, Mr. Ashworth. Two inches lower and we'd be having a very different conversation about vascular reconstruction."
Lucky. Six months of applications, medical reviews, assessments, all leading to a single paragraph that said I could fly again under limited conditions. Light aircraft only. VFR conditions. No passengers until I demonstrated consistent performance over six months.
It wasn't much. It was everything.
I'd told Cara about it during those hours at the cabin, before Montrose attacked. She understood what it meant - the sky I'd lost, the piece of myself I'd been trying to reclaim.
"When can I leave?" I ask.
"Eager to go?" Patel sets down the tablet. "You just got out of surgery six hours ago."
"I don't do hospitals well."
"Nobody does hospitals well. That's why we try to get people out as quickly as possible.
" He checks the IV line running into my arm.
"Another twenty-four hours minimum for observation.
If there's no sign of infection or complications, we'll discharge you with strict instructions for wound care and physical therapy. "
Twenty-four hours. An eternity of fluorescent lights and monitoring equipment and nurses checking vitals every few hours.
But better than the alternative. I think about Cara climbing through that cabin window, flanking around while Montrose fired at me through the walls.
The moment when our eyes met across the snow and I saw her calculate the shot.
Clean. Professional. The kind of marksmanship that comes from years at Quantico and field operations where hesitation means death. She saved my life. I need to see her.
"Is Cara still here?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
Patel's expression softens slightly. "The woman who came in with you? She's in the waiting room. Has been since we took you into surgery. Nursing staff tried to get her to go home and rest, but she refused to leave."
Of course she did. Stubborn doesn't begin to cover what Cara Brennan is when she decides something matters.
"Can she come back?"
"Family only during recovery," Patel says automatically, then pauses. "But given the circumstances and the fact that she apparently saved your life, I think we can make an exception. Let me check with the charge nurse."
He leaves, and I'm alone with the beep of monitors and the low hum of medical equipment keeping track of every function my body performs. The pain medication they gave me takes the edge off but doesn't eliminate the deep ache radiating from my shoulder down my arm.
I can move my fingers, which is something.
Can't lift my arm more than a few inches without sharp protest, which is expected.
The waiver I'd spent six months pursuing might not matter anymore. The shoulder that already limited my options has taken another hit. Maybe enough to tip the scales from possible to impossible.
The door opens. Cara slips inside, moving quietly despite obvious exhaustion. Her clothes are still stained with my blood. Dark circles shadow her eyes. She looks like she's been through a war, which I suppose she has.
"Hey," she says softly, crossing to my bedside.
"Hey yourself." I reach for her hand with my good arm. "They told you to go home, didn't they?"
"Several times." She sits in the chair someone pulled up next to the bed, her fingers threading through mine. "I told them I was staying."
"You need rest."
"So do you." She leans forward, studying my face with the same intensity she probably applied to analyzing evidence. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable. They've got me on the good stuff." I squeeze her hand gently. "You saved my life."
"Just returning the favor. We need to stop making this a pattern."
"Agreed." I watch her face, looking for signs of how she's processing everything that happened. The confrontation with Montrose. The kill shot. The helicopter ride where she thought I might die. "Have you slept?"
"No. Harlow's been calling every hour with updates. The files you helped me transmit are doing exactly what we hoped. Arrests across three states so far. Eight officials in custody, including two who've been on the watch list for years."
"That's good news."
"Yeah." She doesn't sound happy about it. "Task force needs me for formal debriefing. They need me to walk them through three years of investigation and testify before oversight committees."
Congressional oversight committees. That means Washington. That means she'll be pulled back to testify, maybe for weeks. And once she's cleared, once the Bureau reinstates her, she'll have options again. Better assignments than remote Alaska.
"When do you leave?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"That's the thing." Cara shifts in her chair, not quite meeting my eyes. "Harlow offered me something else. A position on her task force. Permanent spot, based in Whitewater Junction."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. "Alaska?"
"They need someone on the ground here. Someone who knows the terrain and the players.
Someone who can coordinate with local law enforcement and run operations across the state.
" She finally looks at me. "It's a good opportunity.
Career advancement, chance to make a real difference in dismantling these networks. "
"Sounds perfect for you."
"Maybe." She stands, restless energy making her pace the small space between bed and window. "I've spent three years running. Three years focused on one thing. Taking down Montrose. Clearing my name. Getting justice for Tom and the agents who died in Stormwatch."
"Mission accomplished."
"Yeah." She stops at the window, staring out at the Anchorage skyline. "Except somewhere in the middle of all that running, I forgot what it feels like to have a reason to stay somewhere. To want something besides revenge and vindication."
I wait, giving her space to work through whatever she's wrestling with. The monitors beep steadily. Voices carry faintly from the hallway. The hospital continues its routine around us.
"What do you want, Cara?"
She turns back to face me, and the vulnerability in her expression makes my chest tight. "I want to stay. I want to see where this goes. I want to wake up next to you and argue about coffee and figure out what ordinary life looks like with someone who sees all of me and wants me anyway."
She crosses back to the bed and sits on the edge, careful not to jostle my shoulder. I reach up with my good arm and pull her down until her forehead rests against mine.
"Stay," I tell her. "Take the position. Stay in Alaska. Stay with me."
"What about your waiver? You got cleared to fly again. You could leave. Go somewhere with better opportunities. Better airports. Better weather."
"The surgeon thinks this shoulder injury complicates things.
Might make it harder to get full clearance.
" I pause, letting the reality settle between us.
"But I lost the sky when that helicopter went down.
Spent years grieving what I couldn't get back.
Spent six months filling out paperwork and jumping through hoops for a waiver that might not even matter now.
" I brush a strand of hair from her face.
"But watching you choose Alaska, choose me, I realize that sometimes losing one thing makes room for something better. "
She blinks hard against tears. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, and we're in a hospital room that smells like industrial cleaner."
"I'll work on my timing."
"Don't you dare." She kisses me, careful and thorough, like she's sealing a promise.
The door opens and Harlow Kane appears, Rhys Blackwater right behind her. They both stop short at finding us in what is definitely not a professional position.
"Sorry to interrupt," Harlow says, though she doesn't sound particularly sorry. "But we need Agent Brennan's statement. Full debrief on everything that happened at the cabin."
Cara straightens but doesn't move away from me. "When?"
"Now would be good. We've got federal prosecutors building cases. Your testimony is critical." Harlow's expression softens slightly. "But if you need more time—"
"No, it's fine." Cara stands, squaring her shoulders in a way that signals the shift from woman to federal agent. "Let's get this over with."
"We can use the conference room on this floor," Rhys offers. "Ashworth, how's the shoulder?"
"Still attached."