But his eyes are sharp. Assessing. Missing nothing as he approaches the shed.
"Deputy Wells."
His voice is deep. Rough like gravel.
"Sheriff. This is Harlow Kane, site security. She found the victim."
Those sharp eyes turn on me. They take me in with the same assessment I'm giving him.
"Ms. Kane."
"Sheriff."
"Walk me through what you found."
I do. Keep it factual. Time of discovery, physical evidence, statements from the victim. Blackwater listens without interrupting, his gaze never leaving my face.
When I mention the restraint marks, his jaw tightens under the beard. Recognition.
"You have a law enforcement background," he says. Not a question.
"FBI. Crisis Negotiation Unit. Fifteen years."
"And you're working private security at a mining site."
There's no judgment in his tone. Just curiosity. But the question underneath is clear: why would someone with your credentials take a job like this?
"Career change," I say.
He doesn't push. Instead, he moves to where Viktor is being loaded into the ambulance, examines the restraint marks himself. I watch him work. Methodical. Thorough. He asks the paramedics questions about Viktor's condition, takes photos of the injuries with his phone.
Competent. Nothing like the wild-man appearance would suggest.
When he returns, Deputy Wells has wandered off to check the perimeter. It's just us in the harsh glare of the floodlights.
"This isn't the first trafficking case this week," Blackwater says quietly.
My pulse kicks up. "You have others?"
"Found a camp yesterday. Three men running victims through the wilderness. Routes that connect to mining roads in this area." He pulls out his phone, shows me a topographical map marked with red ink. "Your site is on one of the routes."
I study the map. The mining operation sits at a junction point where three different wilderness trails converge. Perfect location for moving people who don't want to be found. Hidden. Remote. With legitimate cover as an industrial site.
"Someone's using this place," I say. "The company might not know, but someone has access. Someone who can move workers in and out without triggering alarms."
"That's my assessment."
Our eyes meet. Hold. Two people who understand the same language, see the same patterns.
And underneath that recognition, awareness.
The unkempt appearance should be off-putting. The wild beard and tangled hair should scream unstable. But the controlled precision of his movements, the intelligence in his eyes—the contrast is compelling.
My neck flushes warm despite the cold.
This is a crime scene. A trafficking investigation. But my body doesn't care about appropriate timing.
I force my attention back to the map. "You'll want to search the mine site. If they're moving people through here, there might be evidence. Holding areas. Supply caches."
