Chapter 10 Julia
Julia
Iwoke to the sound of voices and the low hum of computers. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then the scent of coffee and damp pine brought it back—the cabin, Hawk’s team, Delta Five.
A blanket had been thrown over me sometime in the night. It smelled faintly like cedar and Hawk. His jacket, I realized. Of course.
I pushed it aside and sat up on the couch. The living room looked nothing like it had last night. What used to be a quiet space full of my memories of Hawk’s dad's cabin—old fishing trophies, faded curtains—was now an operations hub.
Cables ran across the floor. Laptops, comms gear, and a full tactical map pinned to the wall. The air crackled with quiet urgency.
Aaron Cole stood by the table, sleeves rolled up, pointing at red-marked satellite images. Miles Thorn was on a laptop, headset on, while Jace Dalton leaned against the doorframe, sipping coffee like this was just another day in paradise.
And Hawk—he was standing near the window, eyes scanning the woods like he expected them to move. When he turned and saw me awake, his shoulders eased just a little.
“Morning, Detective,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
“Define okay,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Last thing I remember was you arguing with Boone about radio frequencies.”
“Boone lost,” he said, deadpan.
Boone, from across the room, grunted. “Debatable.”
Aaron looked up, that calm, measured tone that screamed command. “Detective Marlow, glad you’re up. We’ve been reviewing logs from the Sheriff department’s internal server. Something came through just after midnight—encrypted, short burst transmission routed through a proxy in D.C.”
I frowned. “From the Sheriff department?”
He nodded, tapping a keyboard. “Origin tag matches the network. The destination was a burner address tied to an offshore account. Whoever’s leaking information just pinged their contact again.”
My stomach dropped. “You have an ID?”
Miles swiveled his laptop around. A list of names filled the screen—every authorized user at the sheriff’s department. One of them was highlighted in red.
Deputy Frank Marlow.
I stared at it. “That’s—he’s my cousin.”
The room went silent. Even Hawk didn’t move.
Aaron’s voice softened. “We ran it twice to be sure. The signature matches his credentials.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Frank’s an idiot, but he’s not corrupt. He’s barely computer literate.”
“That might be why someone used his credentials,” Hawk said gently. “They could’ve cloned his login, or someone inside used his access key.”
I met his eyes, grateful for the lifeline. “You think he’s being framed?”
“I think we can’t rule it out yet,” he said.
Aaron leaned on the table. “We’ll verify. But until we do, assume anyone with access could be compromised. We’ll need your help identifying his movements, friends, and anyone who’s been near his workstation.”
I nodded numbly, still reeling. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”
Miley looked up. “We also picked up chatter on a closed frequency used by cartel logistics teams. They know someone from D.C. is here. They called Delta Five ‘the ghosts from Washington.’”
Hawk smirked. “Nice to be famous.”
“Or hunted,” Jace said quietly.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. “So what now?”
Aaron’s eyes met mine. “Now we bait the leak. Whoever’s feeding them information won’t be able to resist the right temptation.”
“And what would that be?”
He smiled faintly. “False intel. We plant a story about a raid on a storage site that doesn’t exist. Whoever passes it along will expose themselves.”
I nodded. “And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” he said, “you stay alive, Detective.”
Later that morning, Hawk found me on the porch, leaning against the railing with a mug of coffee that had gone cold ten minutes ago. The forest stretched out below us, wet and silver in the mist.
He stepped beside me, hands in his pockets. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve been better.” I tried to smile. “You?”
He tilted his head. “You ever known me to be honest when someone asks that?”
“Fair point.”
We stood there in silence for a while, listening to the wind through the pines. I could feel him watching me, the way he always had—like I was something he didn’t quite know how to protect without breaking.
Finally, I said it. “If it is Frank… I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Then let’s make sure it’s not,” he said simply.
I turned toward him. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“Always trying to carry everything for everyone else.”
He smiled faintly. “Because somebody has to.”
I shook my head, looking away before the emotion cracked through my voice. “You can’t fix everyone, Hawk.”
“No,” he said softly, “but I can try to keep you breathing while we figure out who’s trying to kill you. You should tell your parents they need to go on vacation. Dad’s going to visit his sister in Miami.”
He stepped closer then, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. Not a touch for comfort—more like a promise. Quiet, steady, impossible to ignore.
When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“We’ll find them, Julia. Whoever they are. And when we do, they’ll wish they’d stayed in hell.”
The wind shifted, carrying the sound of engines from the valley below—vehicles moving fast on the old highway.
The quiet was over.
And the hunt had just begun.