Ahead, the rally point. The assault. Eight women waiting to be saved.
And Rhys beside me, his hand warm in mine.
Less than twenty-four hours until we find out if we're as good together in the fight as we are in everything else.
9
RHYS
The old forestry station emerges from the trees like a ghost from another era. Two stories of weathered logs and cracked windows, surrounded by rusted equipment and overgrown clearings. Abandoned for decades but still standing. Still solid enough for what we need.
The drive took two hours through back roads and logging trails. Harlow spent most of it on the satellite phone, coordinating with Zeke, updating federal contacts, ensuring the assault team had everything they needed. Professional. Focused. The FBI agent fully present.
But every few minutes her hand would find mine on the console. A brief touch. A reminder that underneath the tactical planning, we're still us. Still two people who spent last night discovering each other in the firelight.
I park behind three other vehicles already staged in the tree line. Zeke's SUV. Nate's truck. A tactical van with state police markings. The team is here.
"Ready?" Harlow asks.
"As I'll ever be."
We grab our gear and head inside. The main room has been converted into a command center. Maps spread acrossa makeshift table. Laptops powered by portable generators. Communication equipment set up in the corner. And people. More than I expected.
Zeke stands at the head of the table, looking every inch the former SEAL team leader. Nate Barrett beside him, arms crossed, scanning tactical photos. Caleb Knox near the window, quiet and watchful. And a man I don't recognize, late thirties, military bearing, talking on a satellite phone.
Zeke looks up when we enter. His expression shifts from focused to concerned when he sees the tactical vest I'm still wearing, the rifle slung across my back.
"You both okay?" he asks.
"Graze on Harlow's arm. Nothing serious." I set my gear down. "But they found us, Zeke. Which means someone in the network knew exactly where I was."
"Or they've been watching you for years, waiting for the right moment." A man disconnects his call and approaches. He extends a hand. "Sheriff Blackwater, Ms. Kane, I’m Chris Calder. Good to finally meet you. Heard a lot about your investigation into your wife's death."
I shake his hand, assess him in the same heartbeat. Steady grip. Direct eye contact. The kind of federal agent who actually gives a damn rather than just checking boxes.
"What have you heard?" I ask.
"That you've been fighting an uphill battle against a corrupt system for three years. That you've gathered more evidence than most task forces manage in a decade. And that you're probably right about everything." He gestures to the table. "We need to talk. All of you. Something came through an hour ago that you need to see."
Harlow moves to stand beside me. Her presence steadies me. Men tried to kill us. This became real in a way it hasn't been before.
Chris pulls up photos on a laptop. "Two days ago, we raided a storage facility outside Palmer. It was registered to a shell company with ties to the trafficking network. Inside, we found filing cabinets full of documentation. Financial records. Shipping manifests. Personnel files. And this."
He clicks to a new image. It's a photo of Emma. My Emma. Standing in what looks like a hospital supply closet, holding a camera phone, photographing documents spread across a cart.
My throat closes. Three years and I still can't breathe when I see her face.
"There were seventeen photos total," Chris continues. "All taken by Emma Blackwater approximately one month before her death. She documented everything. Patient intake forms with fake names. Medical records showing injuries consistent with forced labor.
My chest tightens. "She never said anything to me. I had no idea she was investigating."
"According to her notes, she was gathering evidence first. Wanted to make sure she had enough proof before involving you." Chris's voice softens. "She knew you'd want to act immediately. She was protecting you by keeping you out of it until she had a complete case."
That sounds like Emma. Always thinking ahead. Always trying to protect me, even when I should have been protecting her.
"And this," Chris continues, clicking to another photo.
He clicks again. A photo of a man I don't recognize. Older, maybe fifty, with hard eyes and a scar across his jaw. He's standing in a hospital hallway, talking to someone off-camera.
