Chapter 15
Gabe
Switzerland runs on schedules. You miss your window, and that’s the hand you’ve been dealt.
The last cogwheel train is long gone by the time we finish mapping routes and cross-checking service windows.
Evie doesn’t like it, but Quinn confirmed the address she flagged wouldn’t be accessible in the dark.
Snow changes everything. So does altitude.
Evie doesn’t argue. Her silence and steadfast focus on maps told me more than anything she could’ve said.
Back at the hotel, we settle into doing what we should’ve done from the start—preparing. The suite feels cozier than it did this morning. Or maybe it’s just that I’m more aware of her now. The way she moves. The space she takes up. The space between us.
She claims the desk, spreading papers and notes with the quiet precision of someone who’s learned how to work inside chaos and maintain calm. I take the armchair by the window, phone in hand, monitoring updates from the team and watching the lake turn black.
We don’t talk much.
But the silence isn’t empty.
It hums. Tight and coiled. Like both of us are holding something just beneath the surface, and neither of us is ready to be the one who lets it show.
At some point she kicks off her shoes and curls her legs beneath her on the chair. Bare feet. Small, pale ankles disappearing into dark denim. I look away. Force my attention back to my phone.
Later—I don’t know how much time has passed—I realize I’ve been tracking the way her fingers move when she thinks. The slight movements are rapid and sure. The same way she moves through arguments, through fear, through every obstacle she refuses to let stop her.
I make myself stop watching.
There’s no denying the attraction. Noticing and acting are different things—I’ve spent years understanding that distinction. But I’ve never had to apply it to Evie. Which is exactly why discipline matters more here, not less.
We turn in early—not because we’re tired, but because tomorrow demands it.
When I check the locks and lights, I pass through the open bedroom doors on my way to the bathroom, and stop when I see she’s already asleep.
Her breath is slow, barely perceptible. Her body twists beneath the sheets, angled slightly toward the door—like she wants to be aware of what’s out there, of what, or whom, might enter the room.
I stand there longer than I should, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her hand rests palm-up on the pillow. At peace in a way she never is awake.
Beside her, on the bedside table, is a phone, a tablet, and a pen. The tools of her trade. The items she might need during the night.
After going to the bathroom, I exit and pull the bedroom doors closed.
I sit on the edge of the sofa longer than I should, given that I need to sleep, listening to the city settle and sensing her presence in the adjacent room.
I remind myself that whatever we find tomorrow—whatever waits in the mountains—my priority is her safety. Not how she looked curled in that chair. Not how it felt to sit across from her in the near-dark, close enough to reach for her and disciplined enough not to.
My priority is keeping her alive.
The rest doesn’t matter.
If anything is meant to happen between us, it’ll happen when the timing is right.
My team sees Evie’s case as proof of corruption at the highest levels. They want to root it out, expose it, clean the system. I do too—but my priority isn’t institutional. It’s personal. Evie’s too stubborn to care that she’s walking into a high-risk situation. She won’t pull back. Won’t stop.
That knowledge gnaws at me. When I finally lie down, sleep is evasive.
Morning comes hard and cold.
The cogwheel train station is quieter than Geneva proper, the crowd thinned by altitude and purpose. Fewer tourists. More locals. Everyone dressed with respect for the weather.
Evie stands beside me on the platform, coat zipped to her chin, gloved hands tucked into her pockets, breath visible in the cold.
The bruises from the wreck are mostly faded now, her skin bright from the cold rather than yesterday’s pallor.
If she slept badly, she’s better at hiding it this morning than she was on the plane.
I catch myself noticing the line of her chin, the curve of her lips, the way the cold brings color to her cheeks, and force my attention back to the train schedule board.
She’s vibrant—fully present in the moment, focus sharpened by proximity to answers. There’s no hesitation. No uncertainty.
The train pulls in with a metallic groan, steam fogging the air.
As we board, I sense the impending shift—not just in terrain, but in stakes. Geneva was the wash cycle—clean surfaces, dead ends, a system built to erase rather than reveal.
Where we’re going next is quieter.
Higher.
And much harder to leave once you arrive.
An ideal location to hold someone captive.
If extraction is needed, it’ll be a one-man show. I’ll need to evaluate feasibility. Locate a safe space for Evie. Likely fight her to keep her there.
Evie takes the window seat. I sit across from her, knees braced against the narrow space between us. Close enough that if she shifted forward, our legs would touch.
I study the train car instead of the woman across from me. I note exits. Passengers. Contingencies.
Anything but her.
Outside, the city begins to slide away—glass and steel giving way to rocks, trees, and snow.
Evie’s hopeful we’ll find Lina, healthy and safe. She wants to ensure she isn’t there against her will. That the trauma the FBI rescued her from hasn’t simply changed shape.
I’m on board with all of that. But I’m on edge because we’re headed somewhere no one was meant to look.
And we’re about to arrive.
The cogwheel train climbs like it’s resisting us.
Steel teeth bite into the track, the car tilting as the forest closes in. Pines crowd the windows, branches heavy with snow, the lake shrinking below us until Geneva looks like something remembered rather than real.
Evie sits across from me, arms folded tight against her.
She’s watching the landscape with the same intensity she brings to cross-examination—like if she studies it hard enough, it’ll confess.
I’ve watched her work before—slipped into courtrooms and kept to the back.
Never told her. She didn’t need the distraction and I didn’t need her to know.
She’s an impressive litigator. I never left disappointed.
Hours pass.
Cell service drops, as expected. Quinn warned us.
When we disembark, the cold hits first—sharp, dry, altitude-bred. The platform is empty except for a single attendant in a heavy coat and a woman with a clipboard who looks briefly at us, then away.
I clock the crowd out of habit. No one on the train would have hurt us, but now I’m wondering who’s here.
We walk, boots crunching over compacted snow, breath fogging. There’s no sound beyond wind moving through trees. Traffic sounds are noticeably absent. The urban center is long gone.
A lone vehicle idles near the edge of the platform—a local driver, exactly where he said he’d be. Given there are no other cars waiting in a cab line, there’s no confusion he’s here for us.
We exchange greetings in French. He has the address, as we provided it when we made the reservation yesterday.
The road down from the station is narrow, half-cleared, winding along a ridge that drops away fast enough to kill you if you slip.
Evie scans the scene.
“This would be impossible on foot in bad weather,” she says under her breath.
“Yep.” What I don’t add is that that might be the point.
The facility appears without warning—low, angular buildings tucked into the hillside, stone and glass meant to disappear into the mountain. A small plaque near the drive indicates we’ve arrived—it’s the only signage. Satellite imagery would miss the sign.
This feels like the kind of place that doesn’t want to be seen, but I remind myself that shelters are built to aid, not to harm.
The front entrance is locked, accessible via access badge or code. A camera tracks our approach, silent but obvious.
All reasonable, but in a remote location such as this, arguably excessive.
Evie presses the call button and speaks in careful, stilted French. She introduces herself, using the NGO name Quinn flagged. French isn’t a language I’ve studied, but I intuit enough to understand when she asks to speak to someone in administration regarding a transferred client.
There’s a pause. Long enough for deliberation.
A voice responds through the speaker—female, tone neutral and clipped. Her French is fast. Evie keeps up at first, then glances at me, frustration in those eyes.
“She wants to know our appointment time,” Evie murmurs in English.
“We don’t have one.”
Evie exhales and switches back, explaining in what’s likely fumbled French. Repeating names. Dates. Using the translations she prepared ahead of time.
I catch the key words. Protection. Transfer.
Silence falls. Evie stares straight at the speaker.
I’m unsure what’s happened—why the silence, why the stillness.
The door unlocks with a muted click.
I breathe out the air I withheld.
She did it.
Inside, it’s warm to the point of discomfort, leading us to both unzip our coats and remove scarves and gloves.
The interior is clean. Hospital-level clean. White walls, pale wood, minimal decoration. The smell of antiseptic layered over an herbal scent.
A light-haired woman meets us in the entryway—late forties, professional posture, eyes sharp but guarded. She speaks French, the words slower than the woman on the speaker, maybe because she sees Evie using her phone for translations.
Evie speaks, steady but clearly working for it.
I let Evie lead. But I take in everything—the way the woman positions herself slightly between us and the interior hall, the lack of visible patients, the absence of sound.
“This is a medical facility,” the woman says, in English now.
Heavily accented, but precise. I’m not sure why she switched, but I appreciate it.
“And a refuge. We protect privacy.”