Page 62 of Crosscurrent

He shrugged, still typing. “So is your allowance.”

Piper opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then she picked up her sandwich with visible resentment. “Fine. Stunt my personal growth.”

While Piper ate under Reagan’s watchful supervision, the room settled into travel logistics.

Wade already had most of the breakdown prepared. Owen, David, and Sophie would travel commercial as legitimate academic and press attendees with conference registrations and minimal operational footprint. Wade would play bodyguard, in case Neptune decided to strike early.

That left Gabe, Cara, Reagan, Tom and Skye.

A charter out of a small field near Hillsboro would get them north faster and with fewer records. Wade had a pilot contact — former SEAL, currently doing highly questionable aviation favors for people. Wade trusted him.

“What do we call him?” Gabe asked.

Wade considered this for exactly one beat. “Nomad.”

Nobody asked follow-up questions.

Reagan had been building the Norwegian firearms paperwork on the far monitor for nearly an hour. She looked up now and focused directly on Owen. “I’ll need your sizes,” she said.

Owen blinked. “For what?”

“Svalbard in late May. Around zero Celsius. Wind chill off the Barents Sea.” She glanced once at his shoes and visibly reconsidered his survival odds. “You brought a carry-on from Southern California.”

A pause followed while Owen mentally reevaluated every packing choice he’d ever made. “I have a layering system,” he said carefully.

Skye studied his suspiciously wrinkle-free button-down shirt, worn poly-pro jacket, and battered shoes with deep concern. “Is that rayon?” She shuddered. “Do you have any idea how many chemicals you’re wearing?” She focused on Reagan. “Owen is clearly overdue for an upgrade. Not to mention a detox.”

Owen turned toward her immediately. “I have a system⁠—”

She shuddered. “A rayon system. The fashion-industrial complex is far more dangerous––”

“The moisture-wicking properties of quality poly-pro are genuinely—” Owen interrupted her, his voice rising in clear panic.

Cara caught Reagan’s eye across the table.

Reagan smiled. “On it.”

Skye, meanwhile, had no equipment problem whatsoever. She’d arrived at the bakery with a fully prepared go-bag before she trusted any of them enough to stay. Cold-weather layers. Backup documents. Cash in three currencies. Emergency medical supplies. Svalbard was farther north than she’d originally anticipated running, but only by degree, not principle.

Owen’s presentation was already loaded onto his laptop. Fourteen months of work formatted, rehearsed, and ready.

He was still, Cara noted, deeply unsettled about the clothing situation.

By the time full darkness settled outside the bakery windows, the Svalbard map still glowed from the center monitor and nobody had moved to close it.

Longyearbyen. Seventy-eight degrees north latitude.

According to Tom’s research, in late May the sun barely set there — only a few hours of pale maritime dusk before morning returned again. Cara tried to picture herself standing that far north and found the idea strangely difficult. She’d grown up in Brooklyn. She’d run to the Oregon coast when she needed somewhere to disappear. Her personal geography of the world had edges, and Svalbard existed considerably beyond them.

She had never been this far north of anything in her life.

The room had gone quieter now, the specific quiet of people who had made a hard decision and were finally letting it settle into place. They didn’t need to leave for Portland until Monday morning. Tomorrow could still be for sleep.

Cara reached for her coffee and thought about Dom’s phone somewhere east of Haven Cove, waiting.

She turned the mug slowly in her hands and looked at the ice.

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