Chapter 6 #3
"Then we prepare for siege." Zeke marks the compound on the map. "Finn and Eli run perimeter security. Cara coordinates communications. Helena maintains medical readiness for casualties. Rhys stages backup response. I'll run coordination with law enforcement and federal contacts we can trust."
"What about Traci?" Helena asks. Voice steady, professional, cutting through tactical discussion with medical authority. "We need her testimony to identify the Marshal. But extracting that information without retraumatizing her requires careful approach."
The way she shifts the conversation—firm but not aggressive, confident without taking over—makes it harder to focus on Briggs's assessment. It's the wrong time for this awareness. I force my attention back to the tactical map.
Cara leans forward. "I've worked with trafficking survivors. The key is giving them control. Let Traci decide when she's ready to share. Don't push. Don't pressure. Just create a safe space where she can talk if she wants to."
"She's not talking," I say. "Only writing."
"Then she writes it out. On her timeline. When she feels safe enough." Cara's voice softens. "Trauma survivors need to reclaim agency. Forcing them to relive experiences before they're ready just reinforces the loss of control they experienced during trafficking."
Helena nods. "I can work with her. Medical sessions give us consistent contact without pushing for testimony. If she wants to share, she will. If she's not ready, we wait."
"How long can we wait?" Rhys asks. "The network's actively hunting her. Every day we delay is another day they're planning an operation."
"We wait as long as it takes," I say flatly. "Traci's not a tactical asset. She's a kid who survived hell. We protect her first. Build the case second."
Silence settles over the table. Everyone processing that priority.
Zeke breaks it. "Alright. We establish defensive posture tonight. Watch rotations start immediately. Perimeter sensors stay active. Everyone sleeps armed and ready to move. Traci stays in the secure wing with Helena nearby for medical support. Eli and Finn maintain primary security."
"Understood," Finn says.
"One more thing." Zeke's expression hardens. "If they breach this compound, we're not calling federal backup. We handle it ourselves. No official channels. No reports that can leak to the network. This stays off the books."
"Agreed," I say.
Everyone nods. We're committed now. Off-grid operation with no official support if it goes sideways.
The meeting breaks up. Zeke and Rhys head out to coordinate with their respective departments. Finn moves to check perimeter sensors. Cara disappears into the communications room.
Helena starts toward the infirmary but pauses. Looks at me. Something in her expression I can't quite read.
"Later," she says quietly. "After Traci's settled. Can we talk?"
"Yeah."
She leaves without explaining what she wants to discuss. I watch her go, watch the way she moves through the compound like she's already mapped every defensive position.
Former military spouse, maybe. Or grew up around operators. She's too comfortable with tactical language and defensive protocols to be pure civilian.
Add it to the list of things I don't know about Dr. Helena Sage.
I head outside with Finn. We run perimeter checks together, verify sensor placement, identify defensive positions if we need to hold the compound.
Muscle memory from Delta Force kicks in—assess terrain, establish kill zones, prepare fallback positions.
The skillset I tried to bury for four years surfaces like it never left.
It's comfortable. Too comfortable.
"You're slipping back into operative mode," Finn observes. It's not criticism. Just recognition.
"Hard not to when threats are actively hunting my niece."
"I get it. After Cara came here running from federal agents, I went full tactical for months. Every vehicle on the road was a potential threat. Every stranger in town was surveillance. Took me a while to dial it back."
"How'd you manage it?"
"Cara." Simple answer. "She reminded me that survival isn't the same as living. That staying in operator mode permanently just means the network wins in a different way."
I process that. Look back at the compound where Helena's probably helping Traci settle into her evening routine. Staying alert herself while also trying to maintain some semblance of normal life.
"Don't know if I can do both," I say.
"You won't know until you try." Finn checks the last sensor. Green light. "Come on. Cara's making dinner. We eat like humans, not operatives. At least for tonight."
Inside, the compound has transformed. Cara's in the kitchen cooking something that smells like actual food rather than field rations. Helena's setting the table, moving with easy competence. Traci is out of her room, drawn by the smell or maybe just by the sense that something normal is happening.
Finn was right. We need this reminder that we're people, not just tactical assets preparing for the next engagement.
Dinner happens around the large table. Conversation flows naturally—Cara asking Helena about her medical practice, Finn sharing stories about supply runs to remote homesteads, everyone carefully avoiding direct discussion of trafficking networks and professional contractors hunting us.
Traci sits quietly, eating more than usual. Watching the adults interact with something that might be cautious interest. Learning that meals can be safe. That conversation doesn't always lead to danger.
Helena catches my eye across the table. Holds it longer than tactical coordination requires. Her lips curve—not quite a smile, more like recognition of what's building between us whether we acknowledge it or not.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I break eye contact first, focus on my plate, try to ignore how my body responded to five seconds of direct attention from her.
After dinner, people disperse to their assigned tasks. Finn takes first perimeter watch. Cara monitors communications. Helena helps Traci with her evening routine, voice low and reassuring through Traci's closed door.
I head outside to run one more security check before full dark. Scan the forest, verify sensors, map potential approach vectors out of habit.
Light spills from the infirmary window. Helena moving inside, organizing something. The glow catches her profile—strong features, capable hands. Watching her work sends a spike of want through me that has nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the woman herself.
I tear my gaze away. Force myself back to the perimeter. To threats I can identify and eliminate.
But the awareness lingers like her scent did this afternoon. Helena wanting to talk later. Whatever conversation she's planning required privacy and evening quiet.
Part of me knows that conversation is going to crack open things I've kept locked down for four years.
It's dangerous. The kind of risk that has nothing to do with bullets and everything to do with letting someone see the damage underneath the tactical facade.
Operational discipline says maintain distance. Keep relationships professional. Don't let personal complications compromise tactical effectiveness.
Four years of isolation says I've already failed at that.
I finish the perimeter check and head inside. Traci's door is closed, light visible underneath. She's probably reading or writing in her notebook, processing everything that happened today.
My quarters feel smaller than they did earlier. The walls are pressing in, reminding me I'm not isolated anymore. That people are nearby expecting me to function as part of a team rather than alone in the wilderness.
I strip down to base layer. Check weapons out of habit. Verify ammunition placement. Run through defensive scenarios until mental discipline overrides the hypervigilance.
But underneath the tactical thinking, awareness hums. When Traci is settled I'm supposed to sit across from Helena and pretend the pull between us isn't real.
Footsteps in the hallway. Helena's voice, low and professional, talking to Traci through her closed door. "Sleep well. I'm right down the hall if you need anything."
Traci's response—the soft sound of paper sliding under her door.
Helena picks it up. Quiet laugh that tightens my gut. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Traci."
More footsteps. Helena heading back toward the infirmary. Pausing outside my door.
I open it before she can knock.
She's standing there in comfortable clothes, hair down around her shoulders, looking less like a doctor and more like a woman who's exhausted from managing everyone's trauma. Seeing her like this—unguarded, real, tired—hits harder than watching her operate with professional armor in place.
"You said we could talk," she says. "Still good for that?"
I should say no. Should maintain distance. Should remember that getting close to people creates vulnerabilities I can't afford.
But standing here looking at her, I realize the vulnerability already exists. Has existed since the federal meeting when our eyes met and held.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Main room. Give me a few minutes?"
"I'll be there."
She heads down the hall. I watch until she disappears into the infirmary.
Then I close the door and pull on a clean shirt.
Because letting Helena in means exposing damage I've kept buried for four years. Means admitting that isolation didn't fix me, just postponed dealing with the wreckage. Means risking connection with someone who makes me want things I stopped believing I deserved.
But I'm already compromised. I have been since the moment she looked at me and saw past the tactical exterior to the man underneath.
The conversation waiting in the main room isn't about whether to let her in.
I'm already letting her in, already cracked open.
Now I just have to survive what happens next.