"Eventually, but not from a defensive position. We need resources. Allies. Information about his current operations."
Matthew was quiet. He blinked as he processed it all. "Michael."
"Your brother?"
"He's got connections. Federal contacts and security clearances. His partner, Alex, has access to databases that might help us understand what we're really dealing with." Matthewrubbed his jaw. "He can probably locate safehouses, weapons, and communication equipment."
I considered the implications. Bringing his family into my battle meant expanding the circle of risk, but it also meant expanding our capabilities. "He'd do that? For you?"
"For me, yes. For someone I care about?" Matthew reached out to weave his fingers together with mine. "Absolutely."
He answered with simple certainty. Family loyalty as an operational asset was a foreign concept.
"I think we should talk to Marcus, too. James is another technical whiz, and Marcus has a network of Seattle contacts." I squeezed his hand. "We're riding with him to Ma's."
"We are?"
"Yes, I'll get it set through text messages. That gas station off Highway 20. It's on the way to Ma's house and remote enough for privacy but public enough to discourage direct confrontation." Matthew's thumb traced across my knuckles. "It will be impossible to leave him out. Marcus will have questions."
I considered the plans. "Maybe we should pack up everything and let them think we're abandoning the cabin. If we're lucky, they might not be watching when we join Marcus, and they'll find your truck with us both gone."
Moving to the bedroom, I began gathering our scattered belongings. Two sets of clothes, the burner phone Matthew had insisted I carry, and fake identification documents that would pass casual inspection but not deep scrutiny.
Everything fit into a single canvas bag.
I set it by the door and returned to the living room, where Matthew sat at the small table with his phone and a piece of paper, sketching what looked like a rough map. There was something strange and fragile about planning my survival with someone else. I was used to improvisation, not preparation.
"Marcus can meet us at three," he said without looking up. "James will be with him."
The clock on the mantle read 10:35 AM—four hours to kill.
I moved to the window again, scanning the treeline with methodical precision. Nothing had changed since our last check—no movement or vehicles where they shouldn't be.
My ribs protested the sustained standing, and I had to brace against the windowsill. Almost two weeks of healing wasn't enough to make prolonged vigilance comfortable.
"We should vary our patterns." I stepped back from the glass. "Whoever's watching will be logging our routines."
Matthew creased the paper along sharp lines, tucking it into his jacket pocket. "Any suggestions for killing time without looking predictable?"
I ran through possibilities. Reading would pin us in place, silhouetted against windows. Cooking would create smoke and aromas that could be detected from a distance.
"Cards?" I suggested after spotting a deck on a bookshelf.
For the next two hours, we played poker with matchsticks for stakes, sitting at the table positioned away from direct sightlines but close enough to the window for periodic surveillance checks. Matthew proved surprisingly skilled, while I struggled to maintain the casual facade of someone who'd learned the game in college dorms rather than Eastern European safehouses.
He won three hands out of five, his pile of matchsticks growing while mine dwindled. "You're counting cards," I accused him after he drew an inside straight.
"You're projecting. Bad poker players always assume good ones are cheating." He grinned and collected his winnings. "Besides, you've got tells."
"Such as?"
"You touch your collarbone when you're bluffing. Right here." He reached across the table and tapped the spot just below mythroat. "Unconscious gesture, probably left over from some kind of stress response."
I looked down at my hand, which had indeed drifted toward the mentioned spot. "Operational security breach."
"Only if you're playing poker with people who want to hurt you." Matthew stared directly at me. "Are you? Playing poker with people who want to hurt you?"
"Not anymore. I'm playing poker with someone who's already seen the worst of me and hasn't run."
