Page 36 of Buried Past

Then, I saw it. A name buried in the scrolling text, easy to miss unless you were watching for it:Portland fire victim identified as Martin Kellner, 34, of Vancouver.

Martin Kellner wasn't his real name. I'd known him as Erik—the courier who'd shared his instant coffee and complained about the smell of cigarettes in every safehouse from Bucharest to Belgrade.

He asked about the gap between our stated mission and the intelligence we were actually gathering.

Erik had started developing a conscience, and now he was dead. They killed him in a warehouse fire that bore all the hallmarks of professional assassination.

They're wiping the board.

The news ticker scrolled past with other updates: "Aid convoy attacked in Syria, three workers killed... Tech executive found dead in apparent suicide... Defense contractor CEO dies in hiking accident..."

I grabbed the remote, cycling back through the stories. I talked back to the screen. "Syria convoy, wrong region for ISIS activity. Too surgical for random bandits."

I switched to the tech story. "DataFlow's CEO. Three weeks after his company detected a systematic data harvest targeting refugee processing centers."

It wasn't random violence or coincidental bad luck. Hoyle's network was conducting systematic elimination of former assetswho posed security risks. Among them were people like Erik, who'd started asking inconvenient questions. People like me.

Hoyle couldn't afford to let us live and disappear into the anonymous masses. We knew too much about bank routing numbers, asset placement, and the intricate web of legitimate organizations corrupted from within. Some of us kept the receipts.

So, he was cleaning house. One safehouse fire at a time. One convenient accident after another. In my case, a traffic pileup. Tidying up loose ends before they could unravel the larger operation.

Each story had the potential to be another puzzle piece clicking into place. Different cities and different methods, but they all targeted the kind of people who might once have worked for organizations that weren't quite what they seemed.

As I turned off the television, I heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Heavy, measured, familiar. It was the sound of Matthew's boots.

He was early. His schedule said he wouldn't be home for another three hours, key already rattling in the lock.

The door opened, and Matthew stepped inside carrying white paper bags that smelled like pad Thai and lemongrass. His uniform was rumpled, with dark stains across the front that could have been coffee or someone else's blood. He looked tired but solid.

Our eyes met across the living room, and I watched his expression shift as he processed what he saw. It was probably my posture. I was sitting forward on the couch like I was preparing to bolt.

"We need to run," I said. "Tonight."

Matthew didn't flinch. I'd never known someone so calm when faced with looming catastrophe. "I need to call in. This is lunch break, and I need to let them know I won't be back today." Hedidn't ask questions or demand explanations. He set the takeout bags on the kitchen counter with deliberate care.

"How long do we have?"

"They've been watching since this morning. Maybe longer. The Portland safehouse burned last night. One of my former contacts was inside."

Matthew absorbed the information without adding any comments. He walked to his bedroom, and I heard drawers opening. He emerged a minute later carrying a black canvas bag.

"Marcus has a cabin." He punched in the number for work and continued speaking while it rang. "North of Bellingham, maybe forty minutes from the Canadian border. He won't ask questions if I tell him we're borrowing it."

Canadian border.Close enough to run if things went sideways and remote enough to buy us time to plan something more permanent.

Matthew was already moving while he left a message for Kayla. He pulled a metal lockbox from his bedroom closet. Inside, I glimpsed a passport, a birth certificate, and what looked like several thousand dollars in mixed bills. Emergency funds that suggested he'd learned to prepare for worst-case scenarios long before meeting me.

His trauma kit went into the bag next, the same compact medical supplies he'd used to keep me alive. Bandages, antibiotics, and surgical thread. Tools for fixing people when hospitals weren't an option.

I held out a hand. "Phone."

He passed me his device without argument. I powered it down and removed the battery, dropping both pieces into separate pockets. Digital breadcrumbs were the fastest way to get tracked, and even burner phones could be compromised if you carried them long enough.

"Yours, too," he said.

I'd already destroyed mine three cities ago, but I appreciated that he thought like someone who understood operational security. We were operating at a level of trust that usually took months to develop.

"Ready?" Matthew stood in the doorway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, car keys already in his hand. He'd changed into civilian clothes—dark jeans, boots that would handle rough terrain, and a jacket with enough pockets for necessities.

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