Page 3 of No Words
MOLLY
Three hours of winding mountain roads later, Cole’s headlights cut through pine trees.
What emerges isn’t a cabin at all, but a modern fortress of dark wood and sharp edges.
The safe house is a sleek contradiction of steel beams and weathered oak.
Not unlike Cole himself, sharp edges, solid core, and a past I can’t quite read but feel every time his eyes lingers too long.
The property screams of expensive paranoia rather than rustic retreat. The windows reflect the headlights of Cole’s SUV before he kills the engine and plunges us into darkness.
“Home sweet home,” Cole mutters, his voice tight. “At least until I figure out our next move.”
I stare at the outline of the structure, barely visible in the moonlight filtering through the pine trees. My mind flashes back to the alley downtown. Cole’s body pressed against mine, shielding me from view. A move so instinctive it made me wonder how many times he’d done it before, and for whom.
The warmth bleeding through his shirt was grounding, even if I’d never admit that to him.
The unexpected heat that had flooded through me when his lips accidentally brushed my ear as he whispered instructions.
The way my breath had caught when his hand gripped my hip, steadying me as headlights swept past our hiding place.
I push the memory away, unsettled by my body’s reaction in the midst of mortal danger.
“Where exactly are we?” I ask, focusing on the present.
“The less you know, the better.” Cole opens his door, cold mountain air rushing in. “Stay put until I sweep the place.”
He disappears into the darkness with fluid movements that speak of training far beyond standard FBI requirements.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering despite the warmth of the SUV.
Four hours ago, I was preparing evidence for the Borsellini trial.
Now I’m sitting in the middle of nowhere with a man who seems more comfortable operating in shadows than daylight.
When Cole finally returns, his expression is unreadable. “It’s secure. Let’s get inside before the temperature drops further.”
The cabin smells of pine and citrus and something else, gun oil, maybe.
Cole moves through the lodge with familiarity, activating a sophisticated lighting system that bathes the open-concept interior in warm, ambient light.
The floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall would offer stunning mountain views in daylight but now reflect only our silhouettes against the darkness beyond.
A dramatic stone fireplace with a floating hearth anchors the great room, flanked by built-in bookshelves.
The furniture is minimalist but luxurious, a deep sectional in buttery leather, a sleek dining table of polished wood, and sliding doors of frosted glass leading to what I assume are bedrooms. The kitchen gleams with black oak and walnut, completing the impression of a high-end retreat.
The lighting accentuates the hard planes of Cole’s face.
In the alleyway, I noticed his height, easily 6’6 as he towered over my 5’4 frame and broad shoulders, but here, even in the vast space of the cabin, his physical presence is overwhelming.
Dark hair and forest green eyes, watchful, assessing, missing nothing.
A small scar on his left eyebrow, another visible at the edge of his collar.
There’s nothing soft about Cole Bennett.
Every inch of him speaks of discipline, control, and barely leashed power.
The sort of man built for violence but choosing restraint. Until he doesn’t.
“You’ve been here before,” I remark. It’s not a question.
Cole nods, dropping a duffel bag onto the table.
“It’s off-grid. No cell service, no internet, no utility records.
Officially, it doesn’t exist, which means neither do we.
Killian acquired it from a paranoid tech millionaire who wanted an untraceable retreat.
The man built it with everything we need: security systems, escape routes, complete isolation.
When he died, the property transferred through shell corporations to our network.
” He begins unpacking the bag, protein bars, bottled water, ammunition.
“So we’re completely alone.” The reality of our situation hits me as I take in the cabin’s isolation. “Just us against the world.”
Cole’s methodical unpacking never falters. “This cabin is one of many we have. People who operate in shadows deeper than the FBI ever acknowledges can use the safe-houses we have when needed.” He glances up, his expression unreadable. “People I’ve known for a long time.”
I trace my fingers along the wooden countertop as I walk over to the living area, trying to process what he’s not saying. “How long have you been planning something like this? These contingencies don’t just happen overnight.”
“Long enough to know the Borsellini’s have people everywhere.” His voice darkens, taking on an edge I haven’t heard before. “Their network runs deeper than anyone at the FBI wants to admit. Judges, cops, federal agents, even directors of agencies. The corruption isn’t isolated; it’s systemic.”
My mind immediately starts building connections. If corruption reaches that high, it explains the case delays, the missing evidence, the witnesses who suddenly became uncooperative.
“I know because I was part of it once. Not willingly, but complicit through silence. I watched excellent agents get transferred or fired for asking the wrong questions. I saw cases buried because they implicated the wrong people.” My hands clench involuntarily.
“It took losing someone I cared about to make me realize the system wasn’t broken - it was working exactly as designed. ”
“You sound like a conspiracy theorist,” I say, though my certainty wavers.
After what happened tonight, nothing seems impossible.
But even as I dismiss his words, I’m cataloguing the evidence.
His knowledge of FBI protocols, the timing of his arrival, the specific details about Borsellini’s methods.
The pieces fit too well to be a coincidence.
The prosecutor in me wants to demand evidence, build a case, follow proper channels. But that prosecutor’s methods nearly got me killed tonight. Maybe the world was always this corrupt, and I was just too na?ve to see it from inside my courtroom bubble.
“It’s not a theory when you’ve seen it firsthand.
” Cole pulls out a handgun, checking it over systematically.
“Alessio Borsellini has killed three witnesses in the past month, not including what you saw tonight. Plus one federal marshal and a prosecutor’s family when she wouldn’t drop charges.
Each one was under protection. He found them anyway. ”
My stomach drops. “How do you know that?”
“Because I have sources the FBI doesn’t.” Cole steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body in the cold cabin. “People who owe me favors. People who know things the FBI doesn’t, or won’t acknowledge.”
“And these people, they’re what? Criminals? Informants?” I back up until my spine collides with the cabin wall. “Who exactly am I trusting with my life right now, Agent Bennett?”
Something flashes in his eyes. “Not Agent. Just Cole.” He plants one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning in. “And you’re not trusting the FBI with your life. You’re trusting me.”
His proximity makes it hard to breathe. Heat builds between us, dangerous and electric. My skin prickles with awareness I shouldn’t feel.
“Why?” I force myself to meet his gaze. “Why go to these lengths to protect me? What makes this case so important?”
“Because the Borsellini’s don’t just control drug trafficking and extortion rings. They control people; cops, judges, federal agents.” His tone dips lower. “They’ve been corrupting the system for generations. Your case could finally bring them down, but only if you live to testify.”
“And you think I can trust you because...?”
“Because I’m the only one who took you off their grid.” His voice drops lower, more personal. “Because right now, in this cabin, you’re a ghost.”
I try to steady my breathing, to focus on clearing my head and not the way his proximity affects me. “So what’s the plan? How long do we stay here?”
“Until I can establish secure transport to a more permanent location.” Cole finally steps back, giving me room to breathe. “Could be days. Could be weeks.”
“Weeks?” The word comes out more like a strangled shriek. “I can’t just disappear for weeks. I have a life, responsibilities?—“
“You have nothing if you’re dead.” His bluntness stuns me into silence. “Alessio doesn’t stop. He doesn’t negotiate. He eliminates problems, and right now, you’re his biggest problem.”
I push past him, needing space, needing air. The cabin feeling instantly too small. “This is insane. I need to call my supervisor, explain the situation?—”
Cole’s hand catches my wrist, his grip strong yet gentle. “The moment you contact anyone, you give away this location. You compromise us both.”
The touch of his hand sends an unexpected jolt through my system. I should pull away. I should be outraged at his force. But I find myself frozen, acutely aware of the calluses on his palm, the strength in his fingers.
“Let go of me.” My voice comes out huskier than intended.
He doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer, and the atmosphere in the cabin shifts. “You need to understand something, Molly. Out here, there are no rules except survival. Nothing except staying alive. Everything you knew, everything you relied on, it’s gone. Right now, there’s only this cabin, and us.”
The way he says ‘us’ sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “I’m a prosecutor who builds cases and follows procedures. I don’t... hide in cabins with rogue agents.”