RHYS
The cabin squats thirty yards ahead, lights burning in windows that should be dark. Sergei Volkov paces inside, visible through the glass. The man who killed Emma. I've spent three years hunting her killer without a name, without a face. Now I have both. Right there.
Close enough to kill.
Harlow's hand tightens on my arm. A silent reminder of the promise I made. Justice, not revenge. The words taste bitter now that I'm finally staring at the man who murdered my wife.
"We go in quiet," I whisper. "Secure him first, then search the place."
"What if he runs?"
"He won't get far."
We move closer. Snow muffles our footsteps. My breath comes out in white puffs that hang in the frozen air. The temperature has dropped to maybe twenty degrees. Every inhale burns my lungs. Through the window, Sergei grabs files from a desk, stuffs them into a pack. He's preparing to run. Knows the camp assault is coming and will mean his operation is endangered. Has a backup plan. An escape route. Maybe even a contact waiting to extract him.
Not tonight.
I signal Harlow. She moves to cover the back exit while I approach the front. Standard breach procedure. My heart hammers against my ribs. Every step brings me closer to the moment I've been building toward since Emma died.
The front door isn't locked. Overconfident or rushed. Either way, it's his mistake.
I ease it open. Rifle up. Scanning. The main room is cluttered with gear. Radio equipment. Maps spread across a table. Filing cabinets against one wall. Wood smoke and stale cigarettes taint the air. Sergei stands frozen mid-step, escape pack in hand.
His eyes meet mine. Recognition flashes across his face. Then calculation.
"Sheriff Blackwater," he says. His English is good. Barely accented. "I wondered when you would come."
"On the ground. Hands behind your head."
He doesn't move. Stands there holding the pack. Measuring distances. Exits. Chances. The radio on the table crackles with static. Outside, wind howls through the trees.
"I could run," he says. "You would shoot me. Quick death. Better than prison, yes?"
"I'd aim for your legs. You'd live. Just wouldn't walk right again."
That gets a thin smile. "You are not here to arrest me. You are here for revenge."
"I'm here for both. On the ground. Now."
He drops the pack. But instead of complying, he pulls a pistol from his waistband. Fast. Practiced. The muzzle swings toward me.
I fire first. The rifle kicks hard against my shoulder. The report deafens in the enclosed space. The round catches his thigh. Spins him sideways into the desk. The pistol clatters across the floor, slides under a filing cabinet. He staggers, grabsthe desk edge with both hands. Dark stain spreads across his pants. He doesn't go down though. Braces himself and laughs. Actually laughs.
"See? You want me alive. To suffer." He clutches his leg. Blood wells between his fingers. "Your wife suffered too. Three years ago on that mountain road."
Heat floods my chest. My finger tightens on the trigger.
"Tell me what happened."
Sergei's eyes widen slightly. Then that smile returns. Colder now. Calculating. "You want confession? You want me to say I gave the order?"
"Tell me." The words come out flat. Dead. I need to know. Need to hear it from his mouth.
"Black truck forced her off the road. Driver did exactly as I instructed." He shrugs. "Mountain roads dangerous in winter. So many accidents. Brake lines fail."
"Who drove the truck?"
"Dead now. Network does not leave loose ends." Sergei shifts his weight. Testing the wound. Seeing if he can move. "The Marshal called me after. Said it was done. Clean. Ruled accidental within two weeks." His smile widens. "Your own investigation found nothing because there was nothing to find. Perfect execution."
