Franklin County, Virginia | September 8, 1931

There was no moon that night—just trees crowding the backroad and the weight of late summer air thick with tobacco smoke and something darker.

The drop had gone wrong.

She was late returning, clothes torn, a red mark on her cheek, and eyes too shaken for lies. Forrest didn’t speak—just stood, silent and heavy, like the earth itself. He took her wrist, led her to the back porch where no one could see, and let her sit in the old rocking chair.

“Who followed you?” he asked, voice low, calm.

She shook her head, but he saw it in her—fear, real and fresh. Men in suits. Maybe worse.

Gently, he dabbed her cheek with a handkerchief, slower than needed. His fingers lingered—just a moment—but they trembled.

He never trembled.

“You don’t go alone anymore,” he said, quiet but firm. Not for the operation. For her.

In the distance, the rumble of engines warned of men still searching. But something had shifted on that porch.

They were no longer just business.

He rose, draped his coat over her shoulders.

“We leave early,” he said. “You ride with me.”

And that was all he had to say.