Chapter 4 #2
"Then we make sure they don't get the opportunity." I tap the map where the cabin sits. "Perimeter alerts already set up. Clear fields of fire from the cabin's windows. Anyone comes at us, I'll know before they get close."
I've been running defensive scenarios since we arrived. Fallback positions. Extraction routes. How to hold the cabin if it comes to that. They want Traci, they'll have to go through me to get her.
"What about the clinic visits?" Helena asks. "Traci needs consistent medical monitoring. I can't do that remotely."
"We keep the routine," I say. "Breaking it tells Traci something's wrong. She's barely starting to trust the stability. Change it now and we lose ground. We can vary timing and routes, but she needs the consistency."
"Agreed," Briggs says. "Maintain normal patterns but increase security around them. Vary timing slightly, change routes, add counter-surveillance measures."
The meeting runs another thirty minutes. Protocols established, communication channels confirmed, contingency plans outlined. By the time we wrap, everyone knows their role. Everyone except the network operative canvassing town like he owns the place.
Helena catches me before I leave. "How's she doing? Really?"
"Eating more. Still won't talk. Writes when she needs to communicate." I pause. "She asked if we're safe at the cabin. First direct question she's asked me."
"What did you tell her?"
"Truth. For now we're safe. But she needs to stay alert."
Helena's quiet for a moment. "She's making progress, Eli. Slow progress, but it's there. The fact that she's asking questions means she's starting to engage with her environment instead of just surviving it."
"How long until she's actually okay?"
"Define okay." Helena's tone is gentle but honest. "Will she ever be who she was before the trafficking? No. That person doesn't exist anymore. But can she build a new version of herself that's functional and whole? Yes. With time and support and safety. All of which you're providing."
Functional and whole still means damaged. Still means nightmares and triggers and a lifetime of watching shadows. Still means the girl she was before this is dead, and what's left is someone I barely recognize wearing her face.
I head down the hall to the back office. Knock once. "Traci. It's Eli."
The lock clicks. Rebecca opens the door. Traci's at a small desk with books spread out, backpack still on her lap.
"How'd it go?" Rebecca asks.
"Federal coordination in place. Network's actively looking for her."
"She safe at the cabin?"
"For now. But we stay alert."
Rebecca gathers her things. "Call if you need me. I'm staying in town for the next week doing follow-up work. Flexible schedule."
After she leaves, Traci closes her book. Looks at me. Pulls out her notebook.
Is it bad?
Direct question deserves direct answer.
"Network's looking. But law enforcement's coordinating protection. You're safe."
She writes again. For how long?
"As long as it takes."
She absorbs this. Doesn't write anything else. Just stands, shoulders her backpack, follows me out to the truck.
The drive back to the cabin, I run the same counter-surveillance. Different route, check mirrors, watch for tails. Traci sits quiet, watching the buildings give way to forest again.
The next couple days follow the established pattern.
Morning perimeter checks, breakfast she picks at, drive to Helena's clinic for medical check-ins, drive home, Traci disappearing into reading or window-watching.
Routine building structure around the threat we're not discussing but both know exists.
At the next clinic visit, Helena reports Traci's physical healing is progressing well. Bruising almost gone, defensive wounds fully closed, no signs of infection. Psychologically, she's exactly where Helena expects—hypervigilant but engaging more with her environment.
"She wrote me three full sentences yesterday," Helena says while Traci's in the bathroom. "Asked about the healing timeline for nerve damage. That's problem-solving for future planning. It's a good sign."
"She asked me if we're safe. Then asked how long."
"What did you tell her?"
"Truth. As long as it takes."
Helena nods approval. "Honesty builds trust faster than reassurance. She's been lied to enough. Even hard truths are better than comfortable lies."
The next morning I'm pulling on cold-weather gear in darkness. Traci's still asleep. Perimeter check before she wakes has become routine, but today something feels different. Can't name it. Just that instinct that kept me alive in places where mistakes got people killed.
Outside, frost coats everything. Pine needles glitter silver in moonlight. My breath clouds white, dissipates. Cold seeps through insulated layers—temperature dropped overnight. Maybe ten degrees. Ground's frozen solid, crunches under boots with each step.
I start at the north approach. Sight lines clear to the tree line, good distance of open ground. Anyone coming from this direction, I'd see them before they got close.
East perimeter. I scan the forest for movement. Darkness and stillness. Nothing moving.
South approach, toward the main road. Fresh tire tracks in the frost-covered dirt. Wide wheelbase. Truck or SUV. Could be Zeke's patrol—they run past regularly. But the tracks don't follow the patrol pattern. They pull off close to the cabin, then loop back.
Someone stopped. Looked. Left.
I crouch down, study the impressions. Tread pattern's all-terrain. Different from the tracks I've seen from Zeke's patrols over the past few days. I pull out my phone, snap photos, send them to Zeke with timestamp.
West side brings me back around. Densest forest coverage here. Hardest approach vector but also best concealment for anyone trying to get close unseen.
But past the tree line, there's a broken branch. Fresh break—sap still sticky, wood pale where it snapped. Wildlife most likely. Moose break branches at this height. Or someone on foot. Can't tell from this alone.
I photograph it. Mark the GPS coordinates. Don't touch anything else.
Back at the cabin, I log everything. Tire tracks. Branch. Timing. Maybe nothing. Maybe reconnaissance.
Either way, someone's been close enough to the cabin that I'm adding trip wire alerts on the access road. And next time I do perimeter, I'm going armed with more than just a sidearm.
Inside, Traci emerges to the smell of brewing coffee. Oversized sweatshirt, breakfast routine, another day. She finishes her entire breakfast. Doesn't leave anything on the plate. When I comment on it, she just shrugs like it's not significant.
It is. Means her body's finally convinced her brain that she's not going to starve. Progress.
At the clinic, Helena runs the usual examination. Vitals stable, healing progressing, psychological state about right for someone a few weeks past hell. When she asks about nightmares, Traci writes in her notebook.
Sometimes. But I wake up and remember where I am.
"That's excellent," Helena says. "Means your brain is learning the difference between what happened and where you are now."
Traci writes again. When do I have to testify?
Helena glances at me. I nod slightly. She can handle this.
"I don't know the timeline," Helena says carefully. "The investigation is ongoing. But you don't have to do anything before you're ready. And when the time comes, you'll have support."
What if I can't remember everything?
"Then you remember what you can. Trauma affects memory. Nobody expects perfect recall."
Traci absorbs this and writes one more line. Thank you for not lying to me.
"I won't. Ever." Helena's voice carries conviction. "Even when the truth is hard, you deserve to hear it."
After the exam, Helena asks me to wait. Traci heads to the waiting room without concern. The routine's familiar enough now that separation doesn't trigger immediate anxiety.
Helena closes the exam room door. Her expression shifts from medical professional to something harder.
"We need to talk," she says.
"About Traci?"
"About the man who's been asking around town.
" She crosses to her computer, pulls up video footage.
"Sadie Callahan owns the café down the street.
She's got security cameras outside. Zeke got the footage from her after she called him.
The same man who came to my clinic was there asking about Traci. "
She turns the screen. Grainy footage shows business casual approaching Sadie outside the café entrance. Can't hear audio but the body language tells the story. He's fishing for information. Sadie's shutting him down hard.
I lean closer, studying the footage. Not the content of the conversation—that's obvious. The man himself.
Posture's controlled. Shoulders back, weight balanced. Moves like someone with training. Former military maybe. Or law enforcement. Keeps his hands visible, non-threatening, but there's discipline in the stance. Briefcase in left hand. Right hand free. Tactical habit.
He gestures while talking to Sadie. Smooth movements. No fidgeting. No nervous tells. Professional.
"Run it back," I say.
Helena rewinds. I watch his approach. I count his steps, measure the distance he maintains from Sadie—just outside arm's reach. Close enough to seem friendly. Far enough to react if needed.
"Freeze it there."
She stops the footage mid-gesture. His face comes clear. Older. Forties at least. Clean-shaven. Hair cut short, military style. Eyes scanning even while he's focused on Sadie. Checking surroundings. Threat assessment running parallel to conversation.
"This isn't some low-level enforcer. Moves like former military or federal. Someone with real training."
"She called Zeke immediately," Helena says. "Zeke's been checking with other business owners—same man's been hitting multiple places. Asking if anyone's seen a teenage girl matching Traci's description."
"What story is he using?"