"Why?"
"Because I thought you might be worth the risk." He paused. "Why did you stay for so long with Hoyle?"
"Because for over five years, I believed I was protecting people. Aid workers, refugees, and interpreters like Farid." My tone was flat. "They told me the targets were threats—human traffickers, corrupt officials, and enemies of humanitarian operations. I was surgical. Precise. Professional."
I stared out the passenger window. "Then one day, eight months ago, I realized that the biggest threat to those operations was the organization I was working for. Tried to convince Farid to do the same, but he thought I was playing out a death wish. He was almost right."
Matthew was quiet for several miles after that, his hands steady on the wheel while he processed what I'd told him. He operated by different rules than most people I knew. In his world, protecting someone didn't require calculating the return on investment. Helping didn't come with interest rates or expiration dates. Sometimes people just did the right thing because it was right, consequences be damned.
It was the most dangerous philosophy I'd ever encountered, and the most seductive.
The truck ate up miles with mechanical indifference, carrying us away from the life we'd shared for just over a week and toward an uncertain future in the mountains. I watched the landscape change and tried not to think about the surveillance photos that were probably already being analyzed by teams of specialists who made their living tracking people like me.
The truck's GPS died somewhere in the mountain passes—"Signal Lost" flashing on the dashboard. We had to navigate by road signs and memory, adding uncertainty to our arrival time at the rendezvous point.
Still, for the first time since it all began, I wasn't running alone. The man beside me had chosen to share the danger instead of avoiding it. He wanted to stand between me and the forces that wanted me dead.
Running felt less like survival this time and more like protecting the only thing I'd found worth keeping.
Chapter eleven
Matthew
The highway shrank to two lanes as we threaded between Douglas firs. My truck climbed the grade with steady determination toward the Canadian border.
Dorian had been unconscious for twenty minutes, his cheek pressed against glass, fogging it with each exhale. Every time we hit rough pavement or passed an oncoming logging truck, his breathing would hitch.
I kept stealing glances at his profile. He was strikingly handsome in an angular fashion. Sleep stripped away the calculated watchfulness he wore like armor, revealing something almost boyish underneath.
The route was foreign territory—I'd only driven it twice, following Marcus on pilgrimages to what he called "the only honest place left in Washington." The first trip was to witness his purchase, and the second was to inspect his handiwork after six months of weekend construction projects fueled by YouTube tutorials and stubborn McCabe pride.
Both times, I'd wondered what happened with Marcus to compel a man to disappear into the trees every chance he got.Now, the appeal was obvious. They were places where digital tracking died.
The turnoff materialized without warning—a gravel track that barely looked intentional. I downshifted as we abandoned asphalt.
The first pothole jarred Dorian awake.
"Distance?" His voice was thick with sleep, but he sat up straight.
"Close. Three minutes, maybe four." I navigated around a washout that had claimed half the roadway. "Marcus undersold the isolation factor."
The trees parted, revealing a clearing where Marcus's cabin squatted like it had erupted from the forest floor.
It was more modest than I remembered. Built from weathered logs, it had a single story with a covered porch wrapping two sides. Firewood lay stacked along one side in neat rows.
I parked under pine boughs as rain started to fall. Dorian was already reaching for his door. "Perimeter check."
"Secured." I caught his wrist before he could exit. "Marcus rigged this place with motion sensors on the access road and game cameras covering any other land approaches. Anyone following us would trigger alarms before they got within half a mile."
"Copy." He released the handle but remained coiled. "I'll still enter first."
There was no point in arguing. Some negotiations weren't worth the energy, especially when the person making demands possessed more experience with people who killed as part of their operations.
I shouldered our bag while Dorian approached the front door. The key waited under Marcus's designated flowerpot. I unlocked the door and stepped aside.
Dorian vanished inside the cabin while I counted seconds and tried not to think about everything that could blow up around us. Marcus's security measures might prove inadequate against professional hunters. Our escape route could turn into a trap with walls made of pine logs.
"Secure." Dorian's voice emerged from the interior.
