Mack closed the door and stood there a beat too long, hand on the frame, staring at nothing in particular. His arm ached; his chest ached in a different way.
Get it together, Callan.
“I’ll drive,” CB offered.
“The hell you will.” He walked around to the driver's side, got in, and waited for CB before he pulled out of the parking lot.
The stretch to the courthouse was quiet. Alyssa had her sketchbook open in her lap, but she wasn't drawing. She was looking at the sketches she'd already done—the faces from the study. Blake. Vega. Guerrero. The enforcer. Her fingers hovered over Blake's portrait, not touching the page, just resting in the air above it as if she could feel the graphite lines like braille.
He didn't interrupt. Whatever she was doing—steeling herself, saying goodbye, making peace—it was hers.
His mind was on the courthouse. Room 114, ground floor, east wing. He ran through the variables—entry points, exit routes, sight lines from outside windows. Claire had said the wing was empty. That was good. The marshal at the east entrance was standard. CB in the corridor was his addition. He’d have him sweep the room before Alyssa set foot inside.
Alyssa closed the sketchbook and sat with her hands flat on the cover. Her jaw was set. Her shoulders were straight. She looked, he thought, like someone walking into battle—not the kind with guns and explosions, but the quieter version where the weapon was the truth and the casualty was everything you'd believed about someone you loved.
She was going to sit in a room with federal agents and confirm Blake’s presence at a cartel meeting. Hand over the phone call transcript. Destroy whatever was left of her relationship with Blake and, by extension, her family.
And she was going to do it because it was right. Because Jenna was dead. Because Mack was bleeding. Because she was done choosing the comfortable lie over the difficult truth.
Bravest person I've ever known. The thought arrived without permission, fully formed. He didn't argue with it.
The pale brick courthouse came into view. Claire's sedan was parked near the east entrance. A US Marshal in plainclothes leaned against the wall, pretending to check his phone.
Mack pulled into a spot with a clear exit line and killed the engine.
“Give us a minute,” he said to CB.
The man climbed out, and Alyssa glanced over at him.
Mack searched for the right words. Not the big ones, not the ones pressing against the back of his teeth that he didn't have the right to say yet.
But something. Something that acknowledged the last two hours—the scar story, the shooting, her stumbled word in the drugstore lot, the Flathead Lake memory she'd given him to hold.
"What you told me on the drive," he said, “about the climbing accident." He paused. "That took more guts than anything I did in four years of combat."
Her eyes glistened, but she didn't cry. She pressed her lips together and nodded.
“When this is over," he continued, "we're going to talk about everything. The things we said. The things we haven't said." He held her gaze. "All of it."
She nodded again. A promise accepted. “You’re damn right we are.”
He got out and went around to her side to open the door. She stepped out into the cold, her breath making small clouds in the air, the sketchbook pressed against her chest.
Claire met them at the east entrance. She took one look at Mack's arm—the bloodstain visible through his jacket, the stiff way he held it—and her expression tightened. "You need that properly cleaned before we start."
“Not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. You're getting treatment." Her tone left no room for negotiation. She glanced at Alyssa. "Ms. Bennett. I'm sorry about the circumstances, but we appreciate your cooperation."
"Alyssa," she corrected. "And I'm here to cooperate. Let's get started."
Claire looked at Mack. He saw the question in her eyes—Is she solid?—and answered with a small nod.
Inside, the courthouse was hushed. Their footsteps echoed on marble floors. Claire led the two of them and CB through a security checkpoint. They went down a corridor to the east wing, where the hallway was empty, and the doors were closed.
CB did a sweep and gave Mack a nod upon exiting the room. It was clean.
The judge's chambers were wood-paneled, with a heavy desk pushed to one side, and chairs arranged around a conference table. A recording device sat in the center. Two people waited—a woman in her forties with DEA credentials clipped to her belt, and a younger man in FBI field attire.