Sirens wail in the distance. Backup, finally. Wells and the ambulance coming back, probably with reinforcements from Glacier Hollow.
I pull out my radio. "This is Sheriff Blackwater. Shots fired at my location. Two suspects down, one in custody, one fled north into the wilderness. Send tracking units."
Dispatch confirms, her voice tight with stress. The sirens get louder.
The wounded trafficker looks up at me, blood seeping between his fingers where he's clutching his shoulder.
"You dead man," he says. "Boss find out. You dead."
"Your boss is about to have bigger problems than one small-town sheriff. Federal authorities are going to tear your operation apart."
"You don't understand. This bigger than you think. Bigger than Alaska. You kick hornet nest."
Maybe I did. Maybe this is the beginning of something that will consume the next year of my life, pull me deeper into a world of trafficking and corruption and violence.
Or maybe this is the first step toward understanding what really happened to Emma.
The first step toward justice.
Wells appears through the trees, rifle ready, two state troopers behind him. They secure the scene, tend to the wounded, call in forensics.
I stand in that clearing with blood on my hands and cold wind cutting through my shirt. My hands shake when I try to holster my weapon. Adrenaline crash hitting hard and fast.
Emma's ring is still in my pocket. Still there after three years. After all this time searching for answers in closed files and dead-end reports and official lies.
The wounded trafficker said his boss will find out. Said this is bigger than Alaska.
Maybe it is. Maybe I just walked into something that'll consume whatever's left of my life.
But for the first time since I found Emma's body at that wreck, I have a lead. A real one. Not speculation or gut feelings or conspiracy theories that make Deputy Wells look at me with pity.
A trafficking network. Routes through our territory. Evidence that someone's been moving people through these mountains.
And if they killed Emma to protect their operation, then I'm going to burn it all down.
Starting tonight.
2
HARLOW
Arctic Ridge Mining Site
Twenty Miles North of Whitewater Junction
The cold bites through my thermal layers at 2 a.m., sharp enough to make my teeth ache.
I adjust my patrol route, boots crunching over gravel as I circle the equipment yard for the third time tonight. Floodlights cast harsh shadows across idle machinery. Excavators hunched like sleeping dinosaurs. Conveyor systems silent and still. Nothing moves except wind pushing snow across frozen ground.
Thirteen months of this. Thirteen months of twelve-hour shifts patrolling a mining operation in the middle of nowhere Alaska. Checking locks. Monitoring perimeters. Making sure nobody steals copper wire or diesel fuel or whatever else desperate people think they can sell.
It's perfect.
No hostages. No negotiations. No one depending on me to talk them down from ledges or promise them safety I can't guarantee. Just me, the night, and enough silence to drown out the sound of Baker's last breath rattling in his throat.
The wind picks up, cutting through the gap between my collar and my neck. I pull my scarf higher and key my radio.
"Control, this is Harlow. Sector three clear. Moving to equipment shed."
