I lower the rifle. Just slightly. Enough to meet Sergei's eyes without the scope in the way.
"You're right," I say. "I am weak. Weak enough to let you live. Weak enough to believe in a system that'll probably let you walk. Weak enough to choose justice over the satisfaction of watching you die."
I move closer. Keep the rifle trained on center mass. Gun smoke hangs acrid in the cold air. My eyes water from it. "Who is the Marshal? Give me a name."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It matters."
He shrugs. Grimaces at the pain it causes. His breathing comes faster now. Shallower. "Federal marshal. That is all I know. Very powerful man. Very connected. Makes problems disappear."
The Marshal. I file it away. Another target. Another thread to pull. The title fits what I've suspected for months—someone in federal law enforcement running interference. Making evidence disappear. Witnesses vanish.
"Why Emma? Why not just threaten her?"
"She would not be threatened. The Marshal tried. She kept investigating." He coughs. Presses harder against his thigh. "She was going to expose everything. The camps. The trafficking network. The federal protection. Your wife was going to bring it all down. So the Marshal ordered her eliminated."
The confirmation hits like a fist to the gut. Everything I suspected. Everything I've known in my bones since that night. But hearing it stated so matter-of-factly—Emma's murder was just business—my vision tunnels. The edges go dark. The rifle weighs nothing. One twitch. That's all it would take.
Sergei keeps talking. Doesn't know how close to death he is. "She was smart, your wife. Made copies. Hid evidence in places we did not think to look. Took us two years to find it all." He coughs again. Spits again. "Or so we thought."
"The documents in the cabinet. What are they?"
"Everything. Patient files. Shipping manifests. Photographs of injuries that do not match mining accidents." He gestures toward the filing cabinets with his chin. His movements are getting sluggish. Weaker. "Your wife's investigation. Complete. Everything she died protecting."
The documents. Right there. Thirty feet away. Everything Emma considered worth dying for. My hands shake. The rifle trembles. I want to check. Want to see what she gathered. What she died for. But I don't take my eyes off Sergei. Don't give him any opening.
"Harlow," I say. My voice sounds strange. Distant. "Check the cabinet."
She moves past me. Her shoulder brushes mine. The brief contact grounds me. Pulls me back from the edge. She opens the second drawer. Her breath catches.
"Rhys. You need to see this."
"Tell me."
"Patient files. Shipping manifests. Photographs of injuries." She pulls out folders. The paper rustles loud in the quiet. "And a file with your name on it." Her voice shakes. "They've been tracking you since Emma died. Every move you made. Every person you interviewed. They knew everything."
The surveillance explains so much. Why my investigation kept hitting walls. Why witnesses disappeared. Why evidence vanished. They were always watching. Every funeral I attended. Every lead I chased. Every night I spent alone drowning in grief and whiskey.
"Anything about the Marshal?"
"Financial records. Wire transfers to someone with the initials J.M. And communications referencing federal protection." She flips through pages. "Encrypted phone records. Meeting locations. This is everything we need."
J.M. Not much, but it's more than I had an hour ago.
Sergei laughs again. The sound is weaker now. Wet. His skin has gone gray. Waxy. "You think this changes anything? You think arresting me stops the network? Alaska is one hub of many. International operation. We move hundreds of people every year. You are sheriff of small jurisdiction. You cannot touch what we have built."
"Maybe not. But I can dismantle it piece by piece. Starting with you."
"Then do it." His gaze locks on mine. No fear. Cold acceptance. "Shoot me. Execute me. Become the killer you pretend you are not. Or arrest me and watch me walk free when the Marshal makes my charges disappear."
My finger trembles against the trigger. The choice between justice and vengeance eating at me since I found Emma dying in her car. Her blood on the seat. Her last breath whispering the truth I couldn't prove.
That night floods back. The way she looked at me hanging from the seatbelt. The blood on her lips when she whispered that it wasn't an accident. The way her hand went slack in mine while she was still trapped in the wreckage. And somewhere, Sergei got confirmation his order was complete. Emma eliminated. Problem solved.
The ring digs into my hip through my pocket. The weight of it. The promise it represents. The life we could have had. The house. The ordinary happiness that got stolen on a mountain road because Emma asked the wrong questions.
And Harlow standing behind me. The woman who pulled me out of darkness without even trying. Who showed me I could fight for a future instead of dying in the past.
