Chapter 9
ELI
Iwake to an empty bed and the smell of coffee drifting through the compound.
Helena's gone. Probably back in the work mode, compartmentalizing what happened between us like the professional she is. Smart. Practical. What the situation requires.
That doesn't stop the part of me that wants to track her down, back her against a wall, and remind her why she was in my bed last night.
I push the thought down—not aside, down—where it sits like heat in my gut.
I get up. Get dressed. Pull on tactical gear out of habit even though the immediate threat has passed.
The contractors won't be back this soon, not after last night's failure.
They'll regroup, reassess, plan something bigger.
Which means we're on a clock, and I'm wasting time thinking about Helena's mouth.
I head toward the kitchen. Voices carry from the infirmary. Helena's low murmur, then Traci's response—her pencil scratching against paper. I can't make out Helena’s words but the tone is gentle. Coaxing rather than interrogating. The approach Traci needs.
Finn's at the coffee maker when I walk in, favoring his wounded shoulder but moving normally otherwise. He pours a cup, slides it across the counter toward me without comment.
"How bad is it?" I ask.
"Graze. Helena checked it. I'll live." He takes a drink from his own cup. "Cara's running background checks on everyone connected to the network. Cross-referencing against law enforcement databases."
"She find anything?"
"Not yet. But she's got that look. The one that says she's onto something."
I take the coffee. Black, strong, what I need. The taste cuts through the fog of too little sleep and too much adrenaline still cycling through my system from last night's fight.
Last night's fight, and what came after.
"Where is she?" I ask.
"Communications room. Been in and out of there for hours." Finn leans against the counter, studying me with an assessment that comes from reading people in high-stakes situations. "Everything okay?"
"Fine."
"Helena?"
"Ask her yourself."
Something shifts in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Understanding. He doesn't push. Just nods and goes back to his coffee. Finn's good at this. He knows when to observe, when to ask, when to leave things alone.
I head toward the communications room, but voices stop me outside the infirmary. Helena and Traci. The door's cracked open enough to hear, and I should give them privacy for this.
I should.
I don't.
Tactical instinct overrides courtesy. I need to know what Traci saw, what she heard. I need to understand the threat before it comes back with reinforcements.
"I know this is hard," Helena says, and her voice carries that calm professional tone that works on patients in exam rooms. "But anything you remember could help us stop them from coming back. From hurting anyone else the way they hurt you."
Silence. Then the sound of pen on paper. Traci's notebook.
"You're safe here," Helena continues. "Your uncle made sure of that. But safe doesn't last if we can't identify who's running the network. We need names, Traci. Descriptions. Anything that helps us understand who we're fighting."
More writing. Longer this time.
I lean against the doorframe, listening. Helena's good at this. Better than I'd be. She knows how to coax information without pushing, how to make Traci feel safe enough to share details that terrify her.
"Okay," Helena says, reading whatever Traci wrote. "A compound. Mountain location, remote. Guards rotating on schedules. You counted how many?"
The scritch of pen on paper.
"Many guards at any given time. More during deliveries." Helena's voice stays calm, clinical. Doctor mode rather than horror at what she's hearing. "And the man in charge. The one who ran the operation. Did you see him?"
A pause. Then writing.
"Older. Gray hair. Spoke with authority. The guards deferred to him." Helena reads it back, making sure she has it right. "Did anyone use his name? Call him anything specific?"
A longer pause. I can picture Traci hesitating, pen hovering over the paper. Afraid of what sharing this information might cost her. Afraid of making herself more of a target by becoming a witness who can identify the people who held her.
Finally, writing. Fast, urgent.
Helena's breath catches. Just slightly, but I hear it. A small sound, barely audible, but it tells me everything I need to know about what she just read.
"Simon," she says. "You heard them call him Simon."
More writing.
"Simon Graves." Helena's voice goes hard. Different from the gentle coaxing tone. This is the voice of someone who spent time married to an operative, who understands what sort of man would run a trafficking compound. "You're sure? That's the exact name?"
An affirmative sound. Traci must have nodded.
"Okay. That's good, Traci. That's exactly what we needed." Helena's tone shifts back to gentle reassurance, but I can hear the steel underneath. "You did the right thing telling me. Now we can start building a case that actually sticks."
I'm already moving toward the communications room. Cara needs this information immediately. Simon Graves. A name, finally. Something concrete to investigate.
Cara looks up when I walk in. She's surrounded by laptops, screens showing database searches and encrypted communications channels. Her expression sharpens when she sees my face.
"What happened?"
"Traci gave Helena a name. Simon Graves. Ring any bells?"
Her fingers are already flying across the keyboard before I finish the question. Multiple windows open, database searches launching simultaneously. Law enforcement databases, federal personnel records, background checks running in parallel.
"Simon Graves," she mutters, scanning results as they populate. "U.S. Marshal, Alaska district. Based out of Anchorage. Decorated record, multiple commendations for fugitive apprehension." She pulls up personnel files, assignment histories. "And he worked the Stormwatch operation."
My gut tightens. "Same operation where you got framed."
"Same operation where I got framed," Cara confirms, her voice going flat.
Controlled fury underneath. "He was part of the inter-agency task force.
Had access to everything. Intelligence reports, surveillance data, witness statements.
He knew about my investigation into the trafficking connection.
Knew I was getting close to identifying the protection network. "
The pieces click together with cold precision. "He helped set you up."
"More than that. He orchestrated it." She pulls up more files, comparing timelines.
"The frame happened weeks after I submitted my preliminary report on the trafficking network.
Weeks after I identified patterns that suggested law enforcement protection.
Graves saw that report. He knew I was onto something. "
I study the photos of Simon Graves populating her screens. Distinguished-looking man in his fifties, silver hair, confident posture. A face that inspires trust in courtrooms and congressional hearings. The sort of man who could hide a trafficking empire behind a badge and federal authority.
"So the man everyone calls the Marshal isn't just some criminal mastermind," I say. "He's a federal officer using his position to protect the network."
"Using his position to run the network." Cara leans back in her chair, pieces fitting together.
"Think about it. U.S. Marshals handle witness protection, fugitive transport, federal prisoner transfers.
Graves would have known about every high-value target moving through the system.
Known which ones had money, connections, leverage.
Known exactly how to make them disappear into a trafficking network instead of protective custody. "
The scope of it settles over me like ice water. Not just corruption. Systematic exploitation of federal authority for criminal enterprise.
"How many victims?" I ask.
"No way to know without accessing his operation directly. Could be dozens. Could be hundreds." Cara's jaw tightens. "Every witness who went missing, every protected person who vanished, every federal prisoner who never made it to their destination. All of it could lead back to Graves."
Helena appears in the doorway. She's pulled herself together into doctor mode.
Professional, composed, dark hair pulled back from her face in a way that makes me want to undo it.
Nothing in her expression suggests what happened between us last night except maybe the faint shadow under her eyes from too little sleep.
And the way her gaze finds mine and holds for just a beat too long.
"Traci's resting," she says, and her voice gives nothing away. Pure professional reporting. "She gave us everything she could remember about the compound, the routines, the people she saw." Her gaze shifts to the screens. "I take it that’s Simon Graves."
"U.S. Marshal," Cara says. "Decorated veteran. Impeccable record. And almost certainly the Marshal we've been hunting."
Helena absorbs that without visible reaction. Just nods once. "So we're not fighting a criminal organization. We're fighting a federal officer with the full weight of law enforcement resources behind him."
"Which means we can't go through normal channels," I say. "Can't report this to local authorities, can't trust federal agencies. Graves has too many connections, too much influence."
"We build an airtight case first," Cara says. "Then we go over his head. Justice Department, FBI headquarters, maybe even congressional oversight. But we need evidence that's absolutely bulletproof before we move."
"Evidence from a seventeen-year-old trafficking victim who can't speak," Helena points out. "Who'll be torn apart on any witness stand by defense attorneys arguing she's traumatized and unreliable."