"They'll come for us again," I say.
"I know."
"We need to find Viktor and we need to identify their inside contact at the company."
"Agreed. Let's get somewhere secure. Regroup. Figure out our next move."
The trafficking network just showed us they'll kill to protect their operation. They have resources. Training. Inside access to law enforcement systems.
But they don't know what I know. Years with the FBI. Early years working trafficking cases before Chicago. All the nights of security patrols, studying the facility and learning its vulnerabilities.
And now I have Rhys—a sheriff who just proved he'll fight beside me instead of trying to protect me from the fight.
The propane smell still clings to my jacket. My hands are finally steady. Behind us, smoke rises from the compound in a dark column against the winter sky.
They came for us once.
Next time, we'll be ready.
5
RHYS
The station feels too quiet after what we just survived. Wells is on the phone with state police, his voice a low murmur from the front desk.
I don't care about the quiet. I care about the files spread across my desk. The ones that might finally explain what happened to Emma.
Harlow sits across from me, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. She's been like this since we got here. Focused. Driven. No sign of shock or hesitation despite what we just survived.
Former FBI. Crisis negotiator. Undercover work in Chicago that went sideways.
She's been through hell. That much is clear.
"Got something," she says.
I look up from the report I've been reading. The accident report from Emma's death. Same one I've read a hundred times before. Looking for details I might have missed. Connections I failed to see.
"What?"
"Security footage from the mining site. I pulled the admin access logs for this morning." She turns the laptop so I cansee. "One person accessed the system remotely at eight-fifteen a.m. Right when we were checking the north perimeter access points."
"Who?"
"Jason Merrick. Assistant site manager."
The name doesn't ring immediate bells. But I know the type. Middle management. Access to systems and schedules. Trusted enough that nobody questions his presence.
Perfect position for someone feeding information to traffickers.
"Background?"
Harlow's fingers fly. She's pulling up files before I finish asking. "Hired eight months ago. Previous employment at a mining operation in Montana that shut down under suspicious circumstances. No criminal record." She pulls up another screen. "But his phone records show multiple calls to the same unregistered number over the past six months. Always after hours. Always from locations away from the facility."
"Can you trace it?"
"It's a prepaid phone. No owner information registered. But the number's been used to contact other mining operations in Alaska. Same pattern—assistant managers, shift supervisors, people with access but not enough oversight." She looks at me. "This isn't some local operation. It's connected to something bigger. International reach. The kind of network that kills to stay hidden."
My phone buzzes. Text from Doc Sage in Glacier Hollow. Three words:
