We took down Montrose. We didn't take down his protection.
And now Sela Mitchell is sitting in my passenger seat with evidence that might finally expose who's been protecting the network all along.
I radio Rhys on the encrypted channel we use for sensitive communications.
"Hold on," I tell Sela. "You need to hear this." I switch the radio to speaker mode and set it in the console between us. She needs to understand what she's walked into, who she's dealing with.
"Rhys, it's Marc. I'm at Palmer Regional. Someone just tried to kill a trauma nurse named Sela Mitchell with a professional hit in the parking garage. She says she has evidence connected to Emma's murder."
Silence on the other end. Then Rhys's voice comes through the speaker, cold and controlled in the way it gets when he's processing something that matters.
"Emma's evidence." Not a question. "What kind of evidence?"
"USB drive. Hidden in Emma's old locker at the hospital. Ms. Mitchell found it this morning and called the FBI tip line. Four hours later, a contractor showed up to execute her."
Another pause. When Rhys speaks again, his voice carries an edge I recognize—the sound of a man who's been hunting something for years and just found a trail.
"The Marshal knows. He's got people monitoring those tip lines, flagging anything related to the network. Emma documented his protection of the trafficking operation, and he's spent three years making sure that evidence stayed buried." A breath. "Bring her to Whitewater Junction. I'll make calls. We need Harlow, Finn and Cara on this. If The Marshal sent a contractor after her, he won't stop with one attempt."
"Copy that. En route."
I disconnect and glance at Sela in my passenger seat. She's staring straight ahead, jaw set with determination I recognize from people who've decided they're not going down without a fight.
Empty highway stretches ahead of us, asphalt that'll get us back to Whitewater fast if I keep my foot down. I check my mirrors more often than I need to, watching for vehicles that might be following, looking for threats that could materialize from any direction.
Whoever sent that contractor knows Sela survived. They know she has Emma's evidence. One failed hit won't be the end of it.
"What's in your pocket?" I ask.
"The USB drive."
A few hours between a call to the FBI and a professional contractor showing up to execute a hospital employee in broad daylight.
This isn't standard investigation timeline. This isn't bureaucratic response. This is someone with access to federal communications who can mobilize assets fast enough to stop a threat before it becomes a problem. Someone monitoring tip lines for keywords that trigger alerts. Someone with resources and authority and connections that let them deploy killers the same way normal people deploy pizza delivery.
The same person who kept Julian Montrose protected. The same person who's still out there, still operating, still making sure the trafficking network stays functional even after we took down their logistics coordinator.
I focus on the road ahead but no traffic except the occasional semi hauling goods between Anchorage and points north. Alaska's vast enough that you can disappear into wilderness and never be found, remote enough that bodies stay buried if you know where to put them.
We're miles from anywhere that matters, surrounded by territory that's as beautiful as it is indifferent to human survival. It's perfect country for making problems disappear.
My eyes flick to the rearview again. Still clear. But that doesn't mean we're safe. Professional contractors don't give up because the first attempt failed. They adapt. They wait. They find another angle and come back harder.
"You said you called the FBI tip line," I say. "What exactly did you tell them?"
Sela's quiet for a moment, working through the details, separating what matters from what doesn't.
"That I found a USB drive hidden in Emma's locker. That the files were encrypted but the metadata showed surveillance photos, transaction records, timelines. That it looked likedocumentation of something big." She pauses. "I gave them my name. My location. My supervisor's contact information."
Perfect. She gave them everything they needed to identify her, locate her, and send someone to eliminate the threat before anyone could decrypt Emma's files.
"The woman you talked to," I ask. "She say anything that seemed off?"
"She told me to keep the evidence secure and not discuss it with anyone. Said an agent would contact me soon to arrange retrieval." Sela's voice goes quieter. "She also said 'for your own safety' I shouldn't share the information with anyone outside official channels."
For your own safety.
The same phrase that probably appeared in Emma's case file before someone made sure she couldn't testify to whatever she'd documented.
