"We don't know yet. But the mining operation is bigger than we thought. It's not just a front, it's a major hub. They're moving people through there from multiple states, then distributing them to camps like the one we're hitting tomorrow."
"Multi-state operation." My mind races through implications. "That requires serious infrastructure. Money. Connections."
"And federal corruption," Zeke says grimly. "Chris is running down leads, but whoever's protecting this network has reach. High-level reach."
Rhys's jaw tightens. "The people who killed Emma."
"Probably. Which is why we need to take this camp clean. Get the captives out, secure evidence, and start rolling up the network from the bottom. Someone will talk eventually."
We finish coordinating details. Equipment lists. Communication protocols. Extraction routes. By the time we disconnect, the sun is fully up and the cabin feels too small for the tension building between us.
"Less than twenty-four hours," I say.
"Tonight, we end this." Rhys moves to the bedroom, starts pulling clean clothes from the closet. "We should get ready to move."
I'm about to follow him when the satellite phone chirps. Incoming data. I check the screen and ice floods my veins.
"Rhys."
He's beside me in two strides. "What is it?"
"Motion sensor alert from the cabin perimeter. Multiple contacts. Heading this direction."
His expression goes cold. "How far?"
"Half mile out. Maybe ten minutes."
"They found us." He's already moving, grabbing weapons, checking ammunition. "Get dressed. We need to be ready when they arrive."
I sprint to where my clothes are folded on the couch. Pull on my jeans, my own shirt over his flannel because layers matter in a firefight. My Glock is where I left it last night. I check the magazine. Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber.
Not enough if they're sending a kill team.
Rhys emerges from the bedroom in full tactical mode. Vest over his shirt. Extra magazines in pouches. Rifle in hand. He tosses me a tactical vest.
"Put this on. It's rated for rifle rounds."
I strap into it. The weight is familiar. Comforting. I've worn vests like this dozens of times during FBI operations. Never thought I'd need one in a remote Alaska cabin.
"Defensive positions?" I ask.
"Two options. Stay here and fortify, or move into the tree line and ambush them before they reach the cabin." He moves to the window, checks the approach. "Staying here makes us sitting targets. Going out gives us maneuverability."
"But we don't know how many they're sending."
"Could be four to eight operators." He calculates quickly. "We're outnumbered either way."
"Then we use terrain to even the odds." I move to the map on the wall. "Where's the best ambush point?"
He traces the access road with his finger. "Here. About a quarter mile out. The road narrows through a stand of spruce. Forces them into a kill box. If we position on either side, we can catch them in crossfire."
"That works if they come straight up the road. But if they're smart, they'll park below and approach on foot through the trees."
"Then we need eyes on both approaches." He grabs the satellite phone, keys in a code. "I've got motion sensors on the perimeter. Not many, but enough to give us warning."
The screen shows a basic security grid. Red dots mark sensors. Most are dark. Three show green.
"They're coming through the east sensor now," Rhys says. "On foot. Which means they parked and they're moving tactically."
