"Who comes back?"
"Don't know. Never see faces. They take us. Move us. Like cargo." His eyes roll back. The grip on my sleeve loosens.
"Viktor, stay with me. Who did this to you?"
But he's out. Unconscious or too drugged to respond. I ease him down flat, make sure his airway is clear, and stand.
My hands are shaking.
I haven't felt this particular combination of adrenaline and dread since Chicago. Since I stood in a warehouse watching Baker bleed out while I tried to stop arterial spray with my bare hands.
Trafficking. This has all the signs. Restraint marks. Drugs to keep victims compliant. A worker who probably isn't on any official records. And somewhere nearby, people who move human beings like cargo and come back to retrieve their product.
The radio crackles. "Harlow, sheriff's department is twenty minutes out. Paramedics are forty. Can you stay with the victim?"
"Affirmative. I'm not going anywhere."
I move to the shed entrance, position myself where I can watch both Viktor and the approach to the building. Draw my weapon again. If whoever drugged him comes back in the next twenty minutes, they're going to have a very bad night.
The wind howls. Snow swirls in eddies across the yard. Nothing moves except shadows cast by floodlights.
I should feel afraid. Alone in a remote location with a trafficking victim and unknown assailants potentially nearby. But instead I feel focused. Clear.
The FBI trained me for situations like this. Trained me to read crime scenes, assess threats, protect victims. All the skills I've been wasting on perimeter patrols and equipment checks because I was too broken to trust myself with anything more important.
But muscle memory doesn't forget. Training doesn't fade. And standing in this shed with a drugged worker and restraint mark evidence, I'm not a failed negotiator anymore.
I'm an investigator.
The minutes crawl. I monitor Viktor's breathing, check his pulse twice more. Still stable. Still unconscious. Whatever they gave him, it's strong.
Headlights finally appear in the distance. Sheriff's department cruiser. I watch it approach, park near the shed.
A deputy steps out. Solid and seasoned. The kind who’s seen enough to stay steady and not spook.
"Ma'am, I'm Deputy Wells. Dispatch said you found an assault victim?"
"In here."
Wells enters the shed, sees Viktor, and immediately radios for an ETA on the paramedics. He starts taking notes while I give him a quick rundown of what I found, what Viktor said before losing consciousness.
"Restraint marks and trafficking allegations are serious," Wells says, writing in his notebook. "Sheriff's going to want to see this personally."
"Sheriff?"
"Blackwater. He's at another scene right now, but he'll be here as soon as he can. He's going to want to interview you."
I nod. The ambulance arrives twenty minutes later. Paramedics rush in with a stretcher, start assessment and treatment. They're loading Viktor when the second set of headlights appears.
Not a cruiser this time. A truck. Old but well-maintained. It pulls up beside the ambulance and kills the engine.
The man who steps out is not what I expected.
Tall. Six-four, maybe six-five. Broad shoulders filling out a sheriff's department jacket. But it's not the uniform that catches my attention.
It's everything else.
Beard reaches halfway down his chest. Dark hair touches his shoulders, tangled and unkempt. He looks like he walked out of the wilderness and forgot to stop at a barber on the way to civilization. Rough. Weathered. More mountain man than law enforcement.
