Page 32 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter twenty-one

Matthew

T he shift in my thinking surprised me. A week ago, security sweeps had felt like delaying tactics—desperate measures to postpone inevitable discovery. Now they had a different meaning.

I wasn't only checking for ways the enemy might get in. I was evaluating how quickly we could get out when the time came to move.

After meeting Farid, we returned to the safehouse, but I knew we would move soon.

Michael's voice cut through the thin walls. I knew that tone—cop voice.

"Confirmed location?" Michael's tone sharpened further. "How recent is the surveillance data?"

I mouthed the name Danny Ho to Dorian.

"Understood. What's the timeline?" Michael's question confirmed that the Bureau was planning to move.

I positioned myself in the doorway between rooms, close enough to observe without obviously eavesdropping. Michael stood with his back to me, phone pressed against his ear, while his free hand drummed against a table.

"Copy that. I'll brief the team."

The call terminated with a decisive snap. Michael turned, his jaw set.

"The FBI's closing the net." Michael spoke authoritatively. "Ho says they've triangulated Hoyle. Location confirmed in the Cascades."

The moment was arriving. Over two weeks of running and hiding were crystallizing into actionable coordinates. Hoyle's abstract threat had acquired GPS coordinates and satellite confirmation.

Dorian appeared at my side. Behind him, Marcus emerged from whatever corner he'd been occupying, followed by James clutching his ever-present laptop.

We crowded into the small room with Michael. We were no longer prey waiting for predators to find us.

Marcus stroked his chin. "How solid is the intelligence?"

Michael briefed us in a calm voice. "Satellite surveillance confirmed vehicular movement patterns consistent with Hoyle's modus operandi.

Three black SUVs were accessing a private compound through restricted forest service roads.

Electronic intercepts correlate with communication signatures Danny's been tracking for months. "

Michael continued. "This doesn't mean it's over, but we get to push now."

Two weeks. Had it really only been two weeks since Dorian came to my door bleeding? Felt like months.

I watched his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, and how his eyes tracked movement while he listened. Still hypervigilant. Still ready to run. But there was something else now. Something that looked almost like... hope?

Damn. When had I ever seen hope on his face?

I raised an eyebrow. "What's our role?"

Michael smiled softly. "We ensure that when the dust settles, the right people are left standing."

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the display. "Alex." He moved toward the safehouse's rear exit, device already pressed to his ear. "Tell me you've got good news."

Alex's voice carried through the phone's speaker with unusual clarity—animated, rapid-fire syllables that suggested multiple crisis points requiring simultaneous coordination. His energy was unmistakable.

"—information channels established across nine major outlets—" Alex's words dissolved into static interference before clarifying again. "—source protection protocols active through Justice Department liaisons—"

Marcus stepped up beside me. Behind him, James abandoned his laptop to listen.

"—release timing synchronized with federal strike operations—" More static consumed Alex's transmission. "—international contacts briefed on backup scenarios across three allied services—"

The conversation terminated abruptly. Michael turned, saw us all in listening postures, and smirked.

"Alex says formal leaks of the intelligence on Hoyle are locked and loaded. Media organizations, internal Bureau networks, plus diplomatic contacts spanning three allied intelligence services. The moment we engage the compound, he triggers the information cascade."

Dorian whispered, "No more plausible deniability."

The strategy was elegantly brutal. Hoyle's network depended on operating in the shadows. Alex intended to incinerate their reputation instantly.

"Simultaneous information warfare," Marcus observed. "Comprehensive."

Michael corrected him. "It's not merely another part of our weapons arsenal. It's an insurance policy. If our assault operation fails, the evidence will still matter."

Dorian spoke quietly. "Media exposure means permanent visibility."

"Questions?" Michael surveyed our compact group.

We were all silent. Everyone understood our transformation—from covert maneuvering to frontal assault. Whatever transpired in the Cascades would determine how posterity remembered our choices.

Dorian reached out for my hand. "Time to see if the truth is actually stronger than bullets."

Michael checked his watch. "Gear up. We leave in thirty minutes."

Marcus's SUV swallowed five male bodies with all the grace of a vehicle designed for suburban grocery runs.

I wedged myself between the passenger door and Dorian, knees pressed against the seat back, while James contorted his lanky frame into the cargo area behind us.

Michael claimed the front passenger seat, maps and communication equipment spread across his lap like a mobile command center.

Everyone carried hardware—sidearms, spare magazines, trauma kits. I smiled when I saw Marcus's collection of emergency preparedness manuals wedged into the door pocket.

As we climbed in elevation, leaving the city, each mile carried us further into the wilderness, deeper than Marcus's isolated cabin. It was territory where cell coverage died and satellite surveillance grew sporadic—perfect isolation for someone who trafficked in secrets and violence.

Michael turned in his seat to address us. "Your roles require clarification. We are not primary assault personnel."

The comment hit me like a bucket of cold water. After two weeks of running and hiding, as well as seeing the impact of years of psychological warfare on Dorian, I'd begun to look forward to the opportunity to fight back. Support roles meant watching while other people took the lead.

It made tactical sense—fewer variables, fewer risks—but logic didn't blunt the sting. We'd spent two weeks fighting to stay alive, and now that it was time to fight back, we were ordered to stay behind the glass.

"Too recognizable," Michael explained before anyone could object.

"Too emotionally invested. Ho's strike teams will handle the direct engagement with compound security.

Our assignment involves perimeter control, evacuation coordination for survivors, and contingency response if federal assets get compromised. "

James attempted to stretch in the cargo area, joints crackling audibly. "So, we're the adult supervision."

His assessment stung. We'd become the concerned family members hovering at the periphery while specialists managed the dangerous work.

not

Dorian added his understanding. "We're plan B when plan A goes to hell."

Then, after a pause, he leaned forward slightly. "If plan A goes quiet, we need a timeline for escalation. Who's our direct contact for that authority?"

Michael gave him a long look, measuring, then nodding. "Agent Navarro, embedded with Ho's team. She knows our faces and our roles. If she goes dark, you fall back to me. Chain of command holds."

Dorian sat back, the gears clearly turning. "And if we see something they don't?"

"Then you document. Transmit. Do not initiate. Clear?"

"Crystal," Dorian said, his voice steady.

Marcus navigated another switchback. "Rules of engagement?"

"We maintain overwatch positions. Document everything. Provide medical intervention if casualties develop." Michael's briefing stripped the emotion from what could be a bloody operation. "Our primary objective remains survival to provide testimony afterward."

The SUV climbed through curves carved into steep terrain, the engine working harder as our altitude increased. My ears popped with the pressure changes.

Alex's voice crackled from Michael's phone again. "Federal approach vectors confirmed. Three teams are converging from separate compass points. Estimated time to initial contact—eighty-three minutes."

Less than an hour and a half. Dorian reached for my hand in the space between our bodies, fingers weaving together. The contact anchored me to reality, stopping my spiral through hypothetical catastrophes. His palm was steady, no tremors.

"Communications check." Marcus distributed earpieces.

Static crackled through the devices as James configured encrypted channels.

Voices emerged from the electronic noise—federal coordinators confirmed positioning, and surveillance teams reported visual contact with compound perimeter defenses.

The swirl of new information made the entire operation real.

Static hissed through the SUV's radio speakers as Michael hunted for clear frequencies, bypassing weather reports and talk radio. Digital interference filled the cramped cabin until Beyoncé's voice exploded into the mountain silence—"Crazy in Love" in all its horn-driven glory.

I turned my head to see James grinning from the cargo area, head bobbing to the aggressive rhythm. In the rearview mirror, Marcus allowed himself a microscopic smile while navigating another hairpin curve.

Dorian turned toward his window, watching Douglas fir blur past. The horns hit first—sharp, swaggering, undeniable. He froze and let out a tiny exhale. Not quite a laugh.

Initially, I thought he was ignoring the song. Then, I heard it—his voice, low and quiet.

“ Got me lookin’ so crazy right now …”

His tone was scratchy, barely audible, like he was singing through a memory. His next line was a little louder. He tapped his fingers against his thigh. Something in him was waking up.

He turned toward me, and he smiled.

Not a polite twitch of the lips. Not a smirk. A complete, unguarded, impossibly gorgeous smile.