"For the record, state your name and current employment status," Reeves says.
"Harlow Kane. Former FBI special agent, Crisis Negotiation Unit. Currently employed as security contractor for Arctic Ridge Mining."
"Walk me through your involvement from the beginning."
I tell him everything. Finding Viktor Petrov drugged in the equipment shed during my patrol. The restraint marks on his wrists. Sheriff Blackwater arriving to investigate. Discovering the trafficking routes through the mining facility. The inside contact manipulating employee records. The assault on the mining camp. Sergei Volkov's arrest. The wire transfers to someone with the initials J.M. Every detail laid out clean and chronological because I know how this works. Any gap in my testimony becomes a weakness they can exploit.
Reeves takes notes. Asks clarifying questions. Pushes on details.
"You were operating without jurisdiction," he says after twenty minutes. "No badge, no authority. Technically, you had no legal right to participate in law enforcement activities."
"I was a civilian assisting local law enforcement in an active investigation."
"You participated in an armed assault on a fortified position."
"Sheriff Blackwater led the assault. I provided tactical support as requested by the ranking law enforcement officer on scene."
"Semantics, Kane."
"Legal distinctions."
The professional mask cracks. He supervised me for four years, watched my career climb, recommended me for Crisis Negotiation. And I walked away from all of it. To him, it looks like failure.
Reeves taps his pen against the file. "Your last case before you resigned. The Chicago standoff."
The air leaves my lungs. "That's in my personnel file."
"Along with the psych eval that recommended mandatory leave." His eyes meet mine. "You never took the leave. Just resigned two weeks later."
"What's your point?"
"I'm trying to understand if your involvement in this case was professional judgment or someone running from their past."
My face burns. "You think I came to Alaska to run away?"
"I think you found a trafficking victim and instead of calling federal assistance, you embedded yourself in a local investigation." He pauses. "That's not professional judgment. That's personal."
"The Chicago standoff wasn't my failure," I say quietly. "I did everything right and my partner died anyway becausesometimes people make choices we can't negotiate them out of. I left because I was tired of carrying other people's choices like they were my responsibility. That's not running. That's survival."
His expression shifts. "Fair enough."
"The captives," I say, changing direction. "Have they all been accounted for?"
His expression shifts. Softens slightly. "Eight women recovered from the mining camp. All receiving medical care and trauma counseling. One additional victim, Anya Kovalenko, escaped and reached Glacier Hollow. She's cooperating with investigators."
I look away. Blink hard against the pressure behind my eyes. Nine women. Nine lives that weren't destroyed because Rhys refused to quit. Because he spent three years chasing a ghost and finally caught it.
"Sergei Volkov is in federal custody," Reeves continues. "He's providing intel in exchange for a reduced sentence. Names, locations, financial records. The network operated across four states. Alaska, Washington, Oregon, California. We've already made fourteen arrests. Expecting at least thirty more by the end of the week."
Thirty arrests. It should feel like victory. Instead, it feels like triage. Stopping the bleeding but not healing the wound.
"And the Marshal?" I ask.
He leans back. His expression turns carefully neutral. "That's classified."
"Classified. Right." I set my coffee down with enough force that it sloshes. My jaw clenches. "Because heaven forbid the person who helped crack this case actually gets answers."
"You're not Bureau anymore, Kane. You don't get access to classified material."
