Mason took Ellie with him toward the annex entrance. Cole cut left for the motor pool. Reyes and I headed for the outer road that dropped toward the port. Gravel popped under our boots. Cold wind came off the water so hard it burned the back of my throat.
Nora was alive.
That truth hit second.
The first truth was worse: whoever had been hunting her knew where to meet.
By the time Cole brought the utility truck around, Reyes had already found tracks in the mud beside the service gate. One heavy pickup. Fresh. We jumped in before the engine finished catching. Cole drove like he was trying to break the road open. Mason stayed behind with Ellie and a medic from the support side we trusted just enough to use without talking. Everyone else on base would hear about this later. Or not at all.
The bait warehouse sat near the far end of the port, behind stacked crab pots and rusted containers that smelled like fish, diesel, and old rope. When we pulled up, I saw the truck immediately.
Faded green Ford. Engine off. Driver’s door cracked open.
No movement.
Reyes came around the passenger side and put a hand out across my chest.
“Too clean,” he said.
He was right. No voices. No rushed footsteps. No panicked scramble. Just gulls and the slap of water against pilings.
Then I heard breathing.
Shallow. Ragged.
I moved to the rear quarter panel and found her crouched on the far side of the truck, half-hidden between the wheel well and a stack of pallets. Nora Vale looked smaller than I remembered, which didn’t seem possible. She had a knit cap pulled low, a gray jacket soaked dark at the side, and one hand pressed hard against her ribs. Her face had gone almost colorless, but her eyes were still the same. Sharp. Mean when they needed to be.
Still counting exits.
“You took your time,” she said.
That was Nora. Eight years erased and the first thing out of her mouth was an insult because softness would’ve broken her.
I dropped to one knee. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not the problem.”
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