I notice the pattern then.
Three shots through the windshield. Not random spray, not panic fire. Tight grouping, center mass, right where a driver's head and chest would be if they'd gotten into the car and sat down. Professional precision.
This was an assassination attempt.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Sela Mitchell. I work here. Just finished my shift."
"Anyone have reason to want you dead, Ms. Mitchell?"
She hesitates. Just a fraction of a second, but I catch it—the pause that means she's deciding how much to tell me, how much to trust a cop she just met while someone's trying to put bullets through her skull.
"I might have found something," she says carefully. "Something someone doesn't want found."
Before I can press her on that, Palmer PD units pour into the garage, lights flashing, officers spreading out to secure the scene. I recognize the sergeant who approaches, a guy named Patterson I've worked with on joint operations before.
"Wells. Appreciate the quick response."
"Active shooter call was wrong," I tell him. "Targeted hit. Professional contractor, suppressed weapon, knew his victim's vehicle and schedule. He's gone, left through the east stairwell a few minutes ago."
Patterson's face goes tight. "Targeted? Who's the victim?"
"Sela Mitchell. Trauma nurse. She's uninjured but needs protection until we know what we're dealing with."
I turn back to Sela, who's still crouched behind her Subaru like she's waiting for the next threat to materialize. She's smart. The shooting might be over, but whoever sent that contractor isn't going to stop just because the first attempt failed.
"Ms. Mitchell, I need you to come with me. We're going to get you somewhere safe while Palmer PD processes this scene, and then you're going to tell me exactly what you found."
She studies me for a long moment, weighing her options. Then she nods and stands, moving with controlled grace that tells me she's more capable than most people give her credit for.
"I have something in my pocket," she says. "Evidence. It's why he came after me."
"What kind of evidence?"
"I think the kind that might have gotten Emma Blackwater killed."
The name hits me like a fist to the gut.
Emma Blackwater. Rhys's wife. Murdered during the Montrose investigation, federal case that went nowhere, killer still at large. The FBI closed the file and classified half theevidence, left Rhys and the rest of us with nothing but questions and a body count that didn't make sense.
I'd worked Emma's case personally. Spent weeks chasing leads that evaporated the moment I got close to anything substantial. Witnesses who suddenly couldn't remember details. Evidence that disappeared from chain of custody. Federal agents who smiled politely and told me they'd take it from here, then buried everything so deep it might as well have never existed.
Emma died because she knew something. Because she saw something or documented something that made her a threat to people with enough power to make murder look like random violence.
And now this nurse is standing in a parking garage telling me she has evidence connected to Emma's murder while a professional hitter just tried to execute her.
"We need to move," I say. "Now."
I get Sela into my vehicle, ignoring Patterson's protests about witness statements and chain of custody. There'll be time for paperwork later, assuming we keep her alive long enough to give testimony. Right now, I need to get her away from this garage and somewhere defensible while I figure out what the hell is going on.
Palmer PD can process the scene. They can collect shell casings and take witness statements and write reports that'll sit in a file until the FBI shows up to classify everything and make it disappear. I've seen this dance before. I'm not watching it happen again.
I pull out of the garage with Sela buckled into my passenger seat, hands folded in her lap like she's waiting for a doctor's appointment instead of recovering from an attempted execution. She has nerves I can respect. Most people would be shaking, crying, demanding answers. She just sits there quietly,processing what happened with the same steady assessment I saw when she was pinned behind her car.
The route back to Whitewater Junction will take close to half an hour if I keep my speed reasonable. I could push it faster, but right now distance matters more than speed. Getting her away from Palmer, away from the network of contractors who know she survived.
Julian Montrose is dead, but the network he ran didn't die with him. That's the problem Rhys, Harlow and I discuss when we're alone, when there's no one around to overhear speculation that makes people nervous. Montrose was a facilitator, a logistics coordinator, making sure product moved and money flowed and nobody looked too closely at the trucks rolling through Alaska's back roads. He was good at it—better than good. That level of skill doesn't happen without federal protection making sure investigations stall and task forces get redirected.
