The wind picks up, pushing snow across the frozen ground. It hisses against metal siding. The only sound.
I scan the tree line. North perimeter first, like Harlow said. Nothing moves. But the fence line is too far to see clearly from here. I move toward the equipment yard, staying close to the buildings for cover.
Tire tracks near the equipment shed catch my eye. Deep treads in the frost. Leading straight from the north perimeter.
I crouch beside them. Same tread pattern as the ones we found at the access points this morning. Same vehicle.
Which means whoever's running the trafficking operation through this facility was here. Recently. While we were out checking those access points, someone drove right through the compound.
4
HARLOW
The security monitor shows four figures moving along the north fence line. Even spacing between them. Military precision in every step. They're not trying to hide.
They want us to see them coming.
"Rhys?" My voice comes out tense despite my attempt to stay calm. "I've got movement on the security cameras. North fence line. Multiple figures."
His footsteps pound across the frozen ground outside. Radio crackles. "I see tire tracks. Fresh. Same pattern as the access points."
Whoever's coming was already here. Watching us. Waiting.
The other camera feeds show nothing. East and west perimeters are clear. South too. They're funneling us—classic containment pattern. Force the targets to retreat into a confined space, then lock them down.
My sidearm clears the holster. Glock 19. Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. Not enough if this goes sideways, but better than nothing. The weight settles in my palm—familiar, reassuring. How many times did I hold this weapon duringnegotiations? Standing behind SWAT teams while I talked desperate people down from ledges, literal and metaphorical.
Sometimes talking wasn't enough.
The door opens. Rhys fills the frame, shoulders blocking most of the light. Snow dusts his jacket, and his hand rests on his weapon. Sharp eyes sweep the room, assessing.
"Wells is fifteen minutes out," he says. "We need to hold this position until backup arrives."
"They'll be inside the compound in five minutes."
"Then we slow them down." He moves to the window, checks the angle. "Do these doors lock?"
"From the inside. Deadbolts. But they won't hold against a sustained assault."
"We don't need them to hold. We just need time." He turns, meets my eyes directly. "You've done this before."
His tone makes it clear he's not asking.
"The FBI trains everyone for active threat response." My voice stays steady. "But yes."
He nods once, accepts that, doesn't push for details I'm not ready to give.
The monitor shows the figures closer now. The lead man moves with practiced efficiency—large frame, tactical gear, rifle held in ready position. Behind him, three more with the same trained precision.
They're ex-military. Maybe current. Definitely not local talent.
My chest tightens. This isn't some trafficking crew scraping by on desperation and cheap labor. They're organized. Well-funded. The kind of operation that has resources to clean up witnesses and make problems disappear.
Viktor Petrov was a problem. Now we're problems too.
"They're not here to talk," I say.
"No, they're not."
