The world goes red at the edges. My vision narrows to a pinpoint focused on his chest. On the spot where his heart beats. Where one round ends everything.
"You ordered her murder."
"I followed orders. The Marshal wanted it done, I made it happen." He says it like he's discussing the weather. "She was a problem. Problems get eliminated. This is business."
My hands shake. The rifle trembles. Every muscle in my body locks tight. Three years of hunting. Three years of knowingEmma was murdered and being unable to prove it. And here's the man responsible, treating her death like a transaction.
"Rhys." Harlow's voice comes from the back door. Calm. Steady. The only thing keeping me from crossing the line that once crossed can’t be undone. "Don't do this."
"He killed her." The words barely come out. My throat has closed. "He gave the order."
"Yes," Sergei says. "I gave the order. Black truck. Mountain road. Winter conditions. Easy to make it look like accident." He leans forward despite the pain. "And you could do nothing about it. Three years, Sheriff. Three years you investigated and found nothing. Because we are very good at what we do."
I chamber another round. The sound echoes in the cabin. Loud as a gunshot. My finger trembles against the trigger. One more pound of pressure. That's all it takes. Every nerve in my body screams for it. For him to pay for Emma's murder. For the three years he's walked free while I've drowned in grief.
My aim doesn't waver. Steady on his chest. Center mass. One shot and this ends.
"Do it," Sergei whispers. "Become what you are. Killer. Murderer. No different than me."
But I can't look away from Sergei. Can't lower the rifle. The image of Emma trapped in her car, dying on a mountain road because this bastard made a phone call, burns behind my eyes.
"She was nobody to you," I say. "Just another problem."
"She was investigating the operation. Treating workers from the camps. Asking too many questions." Sergei coughs. His breathing comes harder now. "She took photographs of injuries. Made notes. Your wife was building a case, Sheriff. The Marshal said she had to be stopped before she gave everything to you."
"Shut up."
"She was smart. Made copies of everything. Hid them." He gestures weakly toward the filing cabinets. "We found them. Took two years. But we found them."
The rifle barrel drifts up. Centers on his head. Execution shot. The kind that doesn't leave questions.
"Where are they?"
"Filing cabinet. Second drawer." His smile returns despite the pain. "Everything your wife died protecting. Every photograph. Every document. All of it right there."
Harlow moves into my peripheral vision. Doesn't touch me. Doesn't try to disarm me. Just stands there. Present. Solid. Real.
"He wants you to do it," she says quietly. "Can't you see? He wants you to pull that trigger. Wants you to become what he is. Because then he wins."
"He already won. He killed Emma."
"No. He killed her body. But you're killing her memory if you do this." Harlow takes a small step closer. "The Emma you told me about—the nurse who wanted to help people—she wouldn't want this. She'd want justice. Real justice. The kind that stands up in court. The kind that exposes the whole network."
Sergei laughs. Wet and weak. "Listen to your woman, Sheriff. Be good dog. Heel."
His gaze shifts between us as he sinks to his knees, still smiling despite the wound. His face is pale now. Sweating despite the cold. Shock setting in. "I am already dead man. Network does not tolerate failure. But you, Sheriff. You have to live with what you choose tonight."
My shoulders burn from holding the rifle aimed. My hands ache. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cold. I've been standing here for maybe two minutes but it feels like hours. Like the entire three years since Emma died compressed into this single moment of choice.
Kill him and end it. Quick. Final. The way he should have ended three years ago before Emma ever crossed his path.
Or arrest him. Do it right. Build the case. Expose the network. Make Emma's death mean something beyond my revenge.
The rifle wavers. Just a fraction. But enough that Sergei notices.
"You are weak," he says. "Your wife died because you are weak. You could not protect her. Could not stop us. Could not find evidence." He coughs. Spits onto the floor. "Even now, with me on my knees, you are too weak to do what must be done."
The rage crystallizes. Becomes something cold and hard in my chest. Not the burning heat from before. This is different. Colder. More dangerous.
