They disappear into the trees, Wells supporting Oksana as she stumbles over roots and rocks. I wait until the sound of their footsteps fades completely before moving back to the camp.
The map is still on the boulder. I study it closer now, committing routes to memory. Some lead to the old mining sites. Others follow logging roads that haven't seen traffic in decades. One route is marked with a star near the coast. A pickup point, maybe. Or a distribution hub.
Voices filter through the trees. Male. Casual. Speaking English with faint Eastern European accents. They're not worried. Not expecting trouble. Why would they be? This is remote Alaska. Law enforcement is spread thin. The odds of someone stumbling onto their operation are minimal.
Except someone did. And that someone is a third-generation sheriff who has nothing left to lose except the badge on his chest and the promise he made to his wife's memory.
I find cover behind a fallen spruce twenty yards from the camp. Good sightlines. Multiple exit routes. Defensible position if this goes bad. Emma's ring in my pocket feels heavier than usual. A reminder. A promise.
Justice. Finally.
Three men emerge from the trees. Jeans, work boots, heavy jackets. Two carry assault rifles. The third has a pistol in a hip holster. Professional gear. Professional bearing. These aren't amateurs.
They stop at the edge of the camp. One of them, tall with a shaved head, looks around. Frowns.
"Where is girl?" His English is broken but clear enough.
The second man, shorter and stockier, checks the tree where Oksana was tied. Finds nothing but the severed zip ties. His cursing needs no translation.
"Someone take her." The third man pulls his pistol. "Maybe she escape. Maybe police."
"No police," Shaved Head says. "Police come, they bring whole department. This is one person. Maybe hunter. Maybe lost tourist."
"Then we find. Kill. Continue operation."
They fan out, searching the clearing with the efficiency of trained soldiers. Looking for tracks. For signs of which direction Oksana went. They'll find Wells's boot prints eventually. Will follow them back to the road. Will realize law enforcement is involved.
I step out from cover, weapon raised.
"Sheriff Blackwater. Put your weapons on the ground. Now."
All three freeze. Hands tighten on their weapons, but nobody moves. Not yet. They're calculating. Measuring odds. Three of them, one of me. Two rifles and a pistol against my single sidearm.
But they don't know about the grief turned to purpose. About a man who has nothing left to fear because the worst thing that could happen already did.
"I said put them down." My voice is steady. No shake. No hesitation. "You have three seconds. One."
Shaved Head shifts his weight.
"Two."
The short one's finger moves toward his trigger.
"Three."
They move. Both rifles coming up, barrels tracking toward me. Professional speed. Professional precision.
The Glock kicks twice in my hand. Shaved Head drops. The short one gets his rifle halfway up before my third shot punches through his shoulder. He staggers, weapon clattering to the frozen ground.
The third man runs. Smart choice. He crashes through the underbrush, heading deeper into the forest, away from the road and any possible backup.
I let him go. For now. Two down is good enough. The wounded one is trying to reach his fallen rifle with his good hand. I kick it away, and keep my weapon trained on his chest.
"English?" I ask.
He spits blood. "Go to hell."
"Maybe. But you're going to a hospital first, then a federal holding cell. And you're going to tell me everything I want to know about your operation."
