Chapter 10
HELENA
The smell of coffee is drifting through the compound. I can’t seem to get my body to stop remembering his hands, the bruising pressure of his mouth, the focused violence he turned into something that made me shake apart beneath him.
Dangerous thoughts when we're preparing for an assault.
I push them aside—not down, aside—and get up. Shower away the scent of him. Dress in clothes that don't carry the memory of how efficiently he stripped them off. Pull myself together into doctor mode because yesterday Traci gave us a name, and today I need to help her give us everything else.
Simon Graves. U.S. Marshal. The Marshal.
Yesterday was the breakthrough. Today we build the case.
The compound is already moving when I emerge.
Finn's outside adjusting sensors. Cara's hunched over her laptops in the communications room, cross-referencing everything Traci told us yesterday against federal databases.
Eli's checking weapons inventory with methodical precision that suggests he slept even less than I did.
His gaze finds mine across the main room.
Holds for just a beat. Nothing in his expression suggests last night happened except the faint heat in his eyes and the way his attention drops to my mouth before he forces it back to the rifle in his hands.
The same hands that knew exactly where to touch me, how much pressure, when to push harder.
It's professional distance. What we both agreed on.
That doesn't stop the pull low in my stomach watching those hands work.
I head to the infirmary. Traci's awake, sitting up in bed with her notebook. She looks up when I enter, studies my face with that careful assessment she brings to every interaction. Looking for signs of danger, signs of safety, trying to read whether the people around her can be trusted.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice gentle. Non-threatening. "How are you feeling?"
Her pen moves quickly across the page. She holds up the notebook.
Okay. Still tired but okay.
"Good." I pull a chair closer to the bed, settle into it.
"Yesterday you gave us the name Simon Graves.
That was huge. That gave Cara the information she needed to identify who we're fighting.
" I lean forward slightly. "Today, I need you to help me build on that.
Give us more details about what you saw, what you heard.
Specific information that'll make the case against him impossible to ignore. "
She hesitates. Her pen hovers over the paper.
"I know it's hard," I continue. "But you're safe here. And the more we know about Graves, about the compound, about what you witnessed—the stronger the case becomes. The harder it is for him to make this disappear."
A longer pause. She nods, starts writing.
What do you need to know?
"Everything. Start with the first time you saw him. The man they called Simon. You said you were in a storage room?"
She nods, writes quickly.
They put me there during deliveries. There were cracks in the floor. I could see down into the office below.
"Tell me about what you saw. We have pictures, but we need to know your description matches. Build me a picture of him."
Her pen moves across the page. Faster now, more confident.
Older man. Maybe fifties or sixties. Gray hair cut short. Military build—broad shoulders, straight posture. Tall. Over six feet maybe. He moved like someone used to giving orders.
"Could you see his face?"
Some of it. The angle wasn't great but I could see part of his profile when he turned.
"What about how he moved? Carried himself?"
Traci writes quickly.
Military posture. Shoulders back, spine straight even when he was angry. Controlled movements—nothing wasted. The guards moved differently around him. Stiffer. Like they were afraid.
"Good. That's useful." I lean forward. "What about his voice? Could you hear him clearly enough to recognize characteristics?"
She nods, writes more.
Deep voice. Authoritative. Used to command. When he got angry his voice went quiet instead of loud. That's when the guards looked most scared.
I feel the pieces starting to come together. Not one identifying detail, but a pattern. Build, posture, voice, behavior. The kind of composite that builds credibility through accumulation rather than convenience.
"What was he doing when you saw him? What was happening?"
More writing.
He was angry about something. Talking to someone—maybe a guard. I couldn't hear every word but I heard enough. Something about being careful. About exposure. About someone named Haywood making mistakes.
"You heard the name Haywood clearly?"
She nods emphatically.
Yes. He said it more than once. And he kept talking about how they needed to be more careful now. How things were getting too visible.
"What else did you hear? Even fragments are useful."
Traci thinks, staring at the notebook. Her pen starts moving again.
He talked about his position. About having access to systems. About making sure other agencies couldn't see what they were doing. I couldn't hear every word but I understood—he was using his job to hide everything.
Every detail adds weight. Not perfect testimony—trauma victims never have perfect recall—but consistent observations. Graves discussing problems with others. Graves worried about exposure. Graves using his federal position to shield the operation.
Pattern evidence. The kind that builds through accumulation.
"This is incredible, Traci." I lean forward. "I need you to write down everything you remember. Every time you saw him, every fragment of conversation you overheard, every detail about how he looked and moved and sounded. Even things that seem small. Can you do that?"
She nods and starts writing. Page after page filling with observations.
Physical descriptions—height, build, posture.
Voice characteristics—deep, authoritative, controlled.
Behavioral patterns—how the guards reacted to him, the deference they showed.
Fragments of overheard conversations about Haywood, about exposure, about using federal access to protect the network.
I let her work, watching the information accumulate.
Not perfect recall—trauma fragments memory—but consistent patterns.
Multiple observations across different occasions building a composite picture.
All of it documented in her careful handwriting.
All of it the kind of testimony that gains credibility through accumulated detail rather than convenient precision.
When she finally stops writing, her hand is cramping and the notebook is filled with pages of detailed observations.
"You did great," I tell her. "This gives Cara what she needs to build a solid case. Multiple observations, consistent patterns, verifiable details."
I head to the communications room. Cara's still at her laptops, screens showing database searches and federal personnel files. She looks up when I enter.
Movement outside catches my peripheral vision. Eli crossing the compound, rifle slung across his back, moving with that predatory efficiency that makes every step look lethal. My pulse kicks before my brain catches up—awareness sliding through me like static.
I need to focus.
"Traci just gave me detailed observations that'll help confirm Graves," I say, forcing my attention back to Cara.
"Physical description—height, build, military bearing.
Voice characteristics—deep, authoritative, goes quiet when angry.
Behavioral patterns with subordinates. Plus fragments of conversations about Haywood, about federal exposure, about using his position to shield the operation. "
Cara's expression sharpens. "That's good. Pattern evidence is harder to dismiss than single details."
"She saw him multiple times through the floorboards. Heard enough to build a composite."
Cara's already pulling up more files. Federal databases, public records, news coverage of Simon Graves. She finds video footage first—some kind of federal press conference from a year or so back.
"Watch this," she says, angling the screen toward me.
The video shows U.S. Marshal Simon Graves speaking to reporters. Tall, broad-shouldered, military bearing. Gray hair cut short. And when he speaks, the voice is exactly what Traci described—deep, authoritative, measured.
"That matches," I say.
"Everything matches." Cara cycles through more footage.
A ceremony where Graves accepts a commendation.
Congressional testimony about trafficking networks—the irony of which isn't lost on either of us.
Each clip shows the same physical characteristics, the same posture, the same rigid authority Traci documented.
"Height, build, bearing, voice. And look at how the other marshals react to him in this footage.
The same deference pattern she described. "
"That's verification."
"That's everything we need." Cara starts organizing files, preparing documentation.
"Her testimony puts someone matching Graves' exact physical description and behavioral patterns at the trafficking compound.
Someone the guards showed clear deference to.
Someone discussing Haywood and federal exposure.
Combined with what we already know about Graves' position and access—this builds a prosecutable case. "
"What's next?"
"I need to get Traci's formal statement documented properly. Video recording, written testimony, proper timestamps and legal formatting. I've got the setup in here—can she handle that today?"
"She can handle it. She's tougher than she looks."
"Good. Give me an hour to set up in here and prepare the legal documentation."
I head back to the infirmary. Traci's resting, the notebook still clutched in her hands. She looks up when I enter. Exhaustion shows in her face—emotional exhaustion from reliving trauma, physical exhaustion from the effort it takes to write page after page of detailed observations.