The helicopter almost caught him.
Jack saw it before it saw him.
He was navigating a narrow logging trail carved through dense tree cover, tires crunching slowly over rock and dead leaves, when the distant thrum of rotor blades returned.
He froze.
The engine idled.
Sunlight flickered through branches above.
The helicopter moved across the tree line about half a mile east — not directly overhead, but close enough that a shift in angle could expose him.
He killed the engine.
Everything went silent.
Sarah sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands resting loosely in her lap.
No restraints now.
He trusted proximity.
Trusted fear.
He reached across and pushed her head down gently but firmly.
"Stay low."
She obeyed.
The rotor sound grew louder.
The helicopter dipped slightly, scanning thermal through the canopy.
Jack's pulse hammered in his ears.
The trail curved toward a ravine — thick coverage, denser foliage.
If he could reach it—
But movement would draw attention.
He waited.
The helicopter shifted west.
Paused.
Then angled north.
The sound began to fade.
Jack exhaled slowly.
"They're tightening," he muttered.
Sarah didn't respond.
He restarted the engine — quieter now — and eased forward toward the ravine.
Another mile.
Then another.
Finally—
The trees opened to reveal it.
A second cabin.
Smaller than the first lake house.
But solid.
Secluded.
Hidden by natural ridge elevation.
Still within the Branson area.
Still within the radius.
He had purchased it through another shell LLC eighteen months ago.
This one had no dock.
No visible water access.
Just woods.
And silence.
He parked behind the structure where aerial visibility would be minimal.
"Out," he said.
Sarah stepped down from the vehicle.
The air smelled like pine and damp earth.
Normal.
Deceptively normal.
He unlocked the cabin door.
Inside—
Basic furnishings.
A bed.
A small wood stove.
Supplies already stocked.
This wasn't improvisation.
This was a contingency.
Back at command, the helicopter pilot spoke sharply into the headset.
"I had a heat flicker on logging grid 12-B."
Brian leaned forward.
"Vehicle?"
"Couldn't confirm. Lost it under the canopy."
"Coordinates?"
They marked it on the digital map.
The FBI agent zoomed in.
Logging trails.
Ridge lines.
Private parcels.
One parcel stood out.
"Ownership?" Brian asked.
"Another shell. Linked to Davis through a holding company."
Brian's pulse surged.
"How far from the original lake cabin?"
"Seven miles."
Silence filled the vehicle.
"He's orbiting back," Brian said quietly.
"He feels safest near familiar terrain," the Chief replied.
Brian nodded slowly.
"We don't rush this."
"No."
"No second helicopter crash."
"No mistaken breach."
"No civilian injuries."
They had learned from C-14.
This time—
Precision.
Back at her parents' home in Carbondale, Molly sat alone in the spare bedroom with curtains drawn.
Her phone had been taken temporarily by federal agents.
Landlines monitored.
No social media.
No outside communication.
For her safety.
Her parents had been warned not to leave the house except for essential errands.
A patrol unit idled down the street.
Her mother had cried for hours the night before.
Her father hadn't spoken much at all.
Now the house felt hollow.
Isolated.
Her chest ached with helplessness.
A knock came softly at her bedroom door.
"Brian's on the secure line," her father said quietly.
She stood immediately.
In the living room, a federal agent handed her a monitored phone.
"Molly," Brian's voice came through steady and calm.
"Did you find her?" she asked instantly.
"We're very close."
Her throat tightened.
"How close?"
"He's back near Branson. Within a tight perimeter."
She closed her eyes.
"She's alive?"
"Yes."
He didn't hesitate.
"We have reason to believe she's alive."
She swallowed.
"I can't even call my mom's sister," she whispered. "I can't talk to anyone."
"I know."
"They told my parents not to leave."
"For now, yes."
Her voice trembled.
"This is my fault."
"No," Brian said firmly. "None of this is your fault."
She didn't answer.
"We're not making another mistake," he continued. "This time we move carefully."
"Please don't let him move her again."
His silence lasted half a second too long.
"We're working to prevent that."
Back in Branson, surveillance units moved quietly into position near the suspected second cabin.
No sirens.
No flashing lights.
Unmarked vehicles are parked miles away.
Foot teams move through the forest slowly.
"Thermal confirmation pending," the FBI tech whispered.
Brian stood with binoculars from a concealed ridge line overlooking the cabin clearing.
Through the trees, he could barely see the roofline.
Smoke rose faintly from the chimney.
Heat signature inside.
Two sources.
His heart pounded.
"That's them," he said quietly.
"No movement outside," tactical confirmed.
Brian lowered the binoculars.
"We wait."
Inside the cabin, Jack felt something shift.
Not sound.
Not sight.
Instinct.
He stepped to the window and adjusted the curtain slightly.
Nothing obvious.
Just trees.
Stillness.
But stillness felt wrong.
"They're close," he said quietly.
Sarah's stomach tightened.
"How do you know?"
"I can feel pressure."
He turned toward her.
"You're staying inside."
"I don't go anywhere."
His jaw flexed.
"Not without me."
She didn't argue.
Not this time.
Outside, Brian spoke into the comms.
"Perimeter secure?"
"North and west covered."
"South trail blocked."
"No visual on additional escape route."
Brian stared at the cabin.
Seven miles from the lake.
Full circle.
"He came home," the Chief muttered.
"No," Brian said quietly.
"He's retreating."
Because retreat meant fear.
And fear meant cracks.
The FBI agent looked at him.
"When do we move?"
Brian's jaw tightened.
"When we're certain."
Because this time—
Failure wasn't an option.
Inside the cabin, Jack stood near the door.
He listened again.
Silence.
But paranoia was louder now.
He walked toward Sarah slowly.
"If something happens," he said, "you stay with me."
She looked up at him.
"I don't have anywhere else to go."
He studied her face.
Searching for resistance.
Finding none.
And that—
Made him comfortable.
Outside, tactical units tightened the ring by ten more yards.
No lights.
No noise.
Just breathe and leave under boots.
Brian exhaled slowly.
"We're right on top of him."
The Chief nodded.
"Let's not lose him."
Because this was it.
The second cabin.
The narrowed radius.
The nearly spotted vehicle.
The end of orbit.
And if they did this right—
Sarah would come home.
If they did it wrong—
Jack would vanish again.
And this time—
He might not stay close.