Chapter 3
RHYS
Ipull into the mining compound parking lot at exactly eight a.m.
Slept maybe three hours. Spent the rest of the night cross-referencing the trafficking routes from yesterday's camp with mining road access points. Every route leads here. Arctic Ridge Mining sits at the perfect junction for moving people through wilderness that doesn't show up on tourist maps.
The drive up here took forty minutes through mountain passes that ice over without warning. The same roads Emma drove five days a week. Same curves. Same blind spots where a black truck could force a car off the edge and disappear before anyone noticed.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. Three years of dead ends and buried reports, and now two trafficking cases in two days. Both connected to this facility.
Emma drove roads like these. If she saw something she wasn't supposed to see, this operation is why she's dead.
The main office is a single-story prefab building near the equipment yard. Lights are on inside. Through the window I can see movement. Harlow Kane, probably. Waiting like she said she would.
I kill the engine and step out into morning cold. The sun hasn't cleared the mountains yet. Everything is gray and frozen and quiet except for the diesel generators running backup power.
The door opens before I reach it.
Harlow stands in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. She's traded last night's security uniform for jeans, work boots, and a thermal shirt under a canvas jacket. Hair still pulled back in that no-nonsense ponytail. No makeup. All business.
"Sheriff."
"Ms. Kane."
"It's Harlow." She steps back to let me in. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."
"Thanks."
The office is basic. Desk, filing cabinets, wall map of the mining operation, and a space heater working overtime against the cold. She pours coffee into a chipped mug and hands it to me. Black. No sugar, no cream. Like she already knows I don't want anything that complicates it.
I take a sip. Strong enough to strip paint. Perfect.
"I pulled employee records going back six months," she says, gesturing to a stack of files on the desk. "Cross-referenced them against the security logs. Found some inconsistencies."
The files are organized with color-coded tabs. Notes in neat handwriting mark specific pages. This isn't someone who threw paperwork together to look busy. This is methodical investigative work.
I set my coffee down and flip open the top file. Standard employment paperwork for a worker named Viktor Petrov. Except the hire date is three weeks ago and there's no corresponding security badge activation in the system.
"He never checked in," I say.
"Not officially. But someone with administrative access created his employee record. Backdated it to make it look legitimate."
"Can you trace who?"
"Working on it. The system logs show the entry came from the main office terminal, but that doesn't narrow it down much. Six people have access to that computer."
Smart. Thorough. She's already done the preliminary work most investigators would take days to figure out.
I flip through more files. Three other names jump out. All hired within the last two months. None with corresponding security badge activations. All showing up in employee records but not in any of the actual facility access logs.
Ghost employees. Paper workers who exist in the system but never actually worked here.
"Someone's using your company's infrastructure to create cover identities," I say. "Probably for trafficking victims they're moving through the area. Give them fake employee status, and suddenly they have a reason to be on mining roads if anyone questions them."
Harlow nods. "That's my assessment. And if they can create fake employee records, they can also manipulate shift schedules and access logs. Make it look like people are working when they're actually being moved."
"You said six people have administrative access. Who are they?"
She pulls out a list. "Site manager, assistant manager, HR coordinator, two shift supervisors, and me."
"You trust any of them?"
"Site manager is sixty-five years old and has worked here for twenty years. I don't see him being involved. The others?" She shrugs. "I've been here thirteen months. Long enough to know who drinks too much and who's sleeping with who, but not long enough to guarantee anyone's clean."
"I'll need to interview all of them."
"Already set up meetings for this afternoon. Told them it's a routine security review." She pulls out a second stack of files. "I also mapped the facility access points. Places where someone could bring people in without triggering cameras or checkpoints."
She spreads a hand-drawn map across the desk. The mining compound is marked with meticulous detail. Buildings, equipment yards, perimeter fencing, camera locations, and most importantly, gaps in coverage.
"Here, here, and here." She points to three locations on the northern perimeter. "Old service roads that used to connect to the mining operations before they shut down the north pit. No cameras. No regular patrols. Just chain-link fence that's been cut and rewired at least a dozen times."
"You checked them personally?"
"This morning before you arrived. Found tire tracks at all three locations. Recent. Within the last week."
I study the map. The service roads all connect to wilderness trails that match the routes I found marked at yesterday's trafficking camp. Someone's been moving people in and out of this facility using paths that avoid any official security.
And Harlow figured it out in less than twelve hours.
"You're good at this," I say.
"It's what I was trained for."
"Crisis negotiation doesn't usually include facility security analysis."
"No. But the FBI trains you to see patterns.
To understand how criminal operations work.
Trafficking networks use the same infrastructure principles whether they're moving people through Chicago or Alaska.
" She pauses. "And I worked a few trafficking cases before I transferred to Crisis Negotiation. "
Her voice goes careful on that last part. Controlled. There's history there she's not sharing.
I don't push. Not yet.
"I want to check those access points myself," I say. "See if there's any evidence beyond tire tracks."
"I can show you."
We take her truck. Four-wheel drive, well-maintained, equipped with emergency supplies that suggest someone who understands Alaska winters. She drives like she knows the roads. Confident but not reckless.
The cab smells faintly of stale coffee. A tactical flashlight sits in the cup holder. First aid kit visible behind the seats. Everything positioned for quick access. She's thought through emergency scenarios, prepared for them. Like someone who's been in situations where preparation meant survival.
The first access point is a mile from the main compound. Old service road barely visible through overgrown brush. She parks and we walk the rest of the way on foot.
Our footsteps are nearly silent in the fresh snow, barely audible over the wind moving through the spruce. My breath fogs in the cold. Harlow moves quietly beside me, economically, like someone trained to minimize noise and maximize awareness.
The fence has been cut professionally. Wire cutters, clean edges, then rewired to look intact from a distance. Beyond it, tire tracks in frozen mud. Recent enough that the treads are still sharp.
I crouch beside the tracks. "Commercial vehicle. Probably a van or small truck."
"Same as the other two locations. Someone's been running regular trips through here."
I pull out my phone, take photos of the tracks and the fence line. Document everything. Then I notice a scrap of fabric caught on the fence wire. Dark blue. Synthetic.
I bag it carefully. "Might be nothing. Might be from a worker's jacket."
"Or from a victim." Harlow's voice is quiet. "People moving through tight spaces in the dark snag clothing all the time."
She says it like she knows. Like she's seen it before.
I seal the evidence bag and hand it to her to log. Our fingers brush. Brief. Her hands are steady despite the cold. No gloves. Like she needs to feel everything directly.
"You told me you worked trafficking cases," I say. Not a question.
"Three years. Before Crisis Negotiation." She writes the evidence number on the bag with precise notation. "Chicago field office. Mostly domestic operations but some international connections."
"What made you switch to negotiations?"
She caps the pen. Hands the bag back. "Decided I was better at talking people down than chasing them down."
There's more to that story. But she's already moving to check the perimeter, and I let it drop.
We check the other two access points. Same pattern. Cut fences. Fresh tire tracks. More fabric scraps. Evidence of regular traffic that's been carefully hidden from official security monitoring.
By the time we return to the office, it's almost noon. I spread the photos across the desk alongside the map Harlow drew. The trafficking routes from yesterday's camp. The access points here. The ghost employees in the system.
It all connects.
I arrange the evidence like puzzle pieces. Three access points. Four ghost employees. Multiple tire track patterns suggesting different vehicles. The routes converge here, branch out from here. This facility isn't just part of the network. It's a hub.
Harlow leans over the desk beside me, studying the layout. She smells like coffee and cold air and something clean. Soap, maybe. Practical.
"Someone with inside access to this facility is part of the trafficking network," I say. "They're using your company's infrastructure to move people. Creating fake employee records for cover. Using service roads to bypass security. This isn't opportunistic. It's organized."
"And Viktor Petrov was one of the victims they were moving."
"Until they left him behind. Drugged and abandoned in your equipment shed."