Chapter 1 #2
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."
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.