"I'm coming," I say before Rhys can argue.
He looks at me. Really looks. Sees the determination in my face. The refusal to back down.
"Okay," he says finally.
We check our gear. Extra ammunition. Thermal imaging scope. GPS coordinates for the mining cabin. Snowmobile keys from one of the captured guards.
The machine roars to life. Rhys takes the controls. I climb on behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. The night vision goggles turn the world into shades of green and gray.
"Five miles," Rhys says. "Rough terrain. If he's armed?—"
"Then we deal with it," I finish. "He killed your wife. He's not getting away."
The snowmobile launches forward. We leave the camp behind. Leave Zeke and the team to process the scene and care for the rescued women. Leave safety and backup and everything smart tactical doctrine says we should do.
Because this isn't about tactics anymore. This is about justice. About closure. About a man who's hunted Emma's killer for three years finally getting his chance.
The forest swallows us. Trees flash past in green-lit blur. Snow kicks up in our wake. Somewhere ahead, Sergei Volkov is getting ready to run. But he doesn't know we're coming. Doesn't know that Emma's husband and the woman who loves him are bearing down through the darkness like the wrath of God.
He will soon enough.
The mining cabin appears on GPS. Three miles. Two. One.
Rhys slows the snowmobile. We approach the final half mile on foot. Silent. Weapons ready. Using the trees for cover as we advance.
The cabin sits in a small clearing. Lights burn inside. A snowmobile is parked out front. Fresh tracks in the snow lead to the door.
He's here.
Rhys and I exchange a glance. We've done this before. No words needed.
We move into position. Covering angles. Watching windows. Waiting for the right moment.
Through a window I catch movement. A man paces inside, restless. Older. Hard-faced. Scar across his jaw exactly like the photo Chris showed us.
Sergei Volkov. Emma's killer.
Rhys sees him too. His finger tightens on the trigger. Every muscle coiled to strike.
"Wait," I whisper. "We take him alive. Make him talk. Make him give up the network."
"He murdered my wife."
"I know. And he'll pay for it. But the right way. Your way. Justice, remember?"
Rhys breathes hard. Fighting every instinct. Every bit of rage he's carried for three years.
Then he nods. Once. "Justice."
We move toward the cabin. Sergei Volkov waits inside. The man who cut Emma's brake line and sent her truck over the edge three years ago.
Rhys's breathing is controlled beside me. Steady. But I can feel the coiled violence in him, barely restrained. Three years of grief and rage focused on the man behind that window.
My hand finds his arm. A brief squeeze. We're in this together.
He nods once. We move forward, weapons ready, into whatever comes next.
11
