Chapter 4
HARLOW
The security monitor shows four figures moving along the north fence line. Even spacing between them. Military precision in every step. They're not trying to hide.
They want us to see them coming.
"Rhys?" My voice comes out tense despite my attempt to stay calm. "I've got movement on the security cameras. North fence line. Multiple figures."
His footsteps pound across the frozen ground outside. Radio crackles. "I see tire tracks. Fresh. Same pattern as the access points."
Whoever's coming was already here. Watching us. Waiting.
The other camera feeds show nothing. East and west perimeters are clear. South too. They're funneling us—classic containment pattern. Force the targets to retreat into a confined space, then lock them down.
My sidearm clears the holster. Glock 19.
Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. Not enough if this goes sideways, but better than nothing.
The weight settles in my palm—familiar, reassuring.
How many times did I hold this weapon during negotiations?
Standing behind SWAT teams while I talked desperate people down from ledges, literal and metaphorical.
Sometimes talking wasn't enough.
The door opens. Rhys fills the frame, shoulders blocking most of the light. Snow dusts his jacket, and his hand rests on his weapon. Sharp eyes sweep the room, assessing.
"Wells is fifteen minutes out," he says. "We need to hold this position until backup arrives."
"They'll be inside the compound in five minutes."
"Then we slow them down." He moves to the window, checks the angle. "Do these doors lock?"
"From the inside. Deadbolts. But they won't hold against a sustained assault."
"We don't need them to hold. We just need time." He turns, meets my eyes directly. "You've done this before."
His tone makes it clear he's not asking.
"The FBI trains everyone for active threat response." My voice stays steady. "But yes."
He nods once, accepts that, doesn't push for details I'm not ready to give.
The monitor shows the figures closer now. The lead man moves with practiced efficiency—large frame, tactical gear, rifle held in ready position. Behind him, three more with the same trained precision.
They're ex-military. Maybe current. Definitely not local talent.
My chest tightens. This isn't some trafficking crew scraping by on desperation and cheap labor. They're organized. Well-funded. The kind of operation that has resources to clean up witnesses and make problems disappear.
Viktor Petrov was a problem. Now we're problems too.
"They're not here to talk," I say.
"No, they're not."
Rhys grabs the filing cabinets, starts pulling them away from the walls. Creating barriers. Cover positions. Smart.
The first cabinet screeches across the floor as I help him drag it into position. The metal shriek sets my teeth on edge, but we need every advantage we can get.
Outside, voices carry through the thin walls—too distant for words, but the tone is clear. Coordinated. Controlled.
They're setting up.
"How many rounds?" Rhys asks.
"Sixteen. You?"
"Thirty in the rifle. Twelve in the sidearm." He positions the last cabinet. "We're outgunned."
"But not outmaneuvered."
The radio on the desk crackles. Static, then a voice—male, calm, controlled.
"Ms. Kane. Sheriff Blackwater. We know you're inside. We're not here to hurt you. We just need to have a conversation about Viktor Petrov."
Rhys shakes his head slightly. Don't respond.
The voice continues. "We understand you found him yesterday. That you've been investigating the facility. We can explain everything. Clear up any misunderstandings."
Misunderstandings. Right.
"De-escalation tactics," I say quietly. "They make it sound reasonable. Like we're the ones overreacting."
"You recognize the technique."
"I used the same words when I meant them. These people want us to drop our guard long enough to put bullets in our heads."
One of the figures moves into view through the window gap. Closer than the monitor showed. Fifty yards from the main entrance. He's holding a radio.
Rhys moves beside me, shoulder almost touching mine.
"What's the play?" he asks.
The figures spread out. Two moving toward the main entrance. One circling east. One west. Classic breach formation.
My pulse kicks up—not fear, just the body preparing. Muscles tensing. Breathing deepening. Mind going clear and sharp. The warehouse in Chicago taught me this part. When negotiations break down and bullets start flying, you either freeze or you move.
I learned to move.
"They think we'll lock ourselves in and wait for rescue," I say, gesturing to the east window. "Or come out with hands up."
"Neither sounds good."
"So we make our own opening." The space heater catches my attention. Old model, propane tank visible beneath. "This thing leaks. I've smelled it all morning."
Understanding flashes in Rhys's eyes. "You want to stage an explosion."
"I want to give them something else to focus on besides us." The west figure is thirty yards from the building now. "We disconnect the heater. Open the propane valve fully. Give it sixty seconds to fill the room. Then we go out the back window and you shoot the tank through the window."
"That'll bring the whole building down."
"Exactly. They'll think we're inside. Or at least they'll have to check. It buys us time to reach your vehicle and get clear."
He studies me, weighing risk versus reward. "You've done this before."
Not exactly. But close enough. The Chicago warehouse. When my cover got blown and three armed men tried to kill me before federal backup arrived. A forklift. A propane tank. Sheer desperation.
It worked. Barely.
It'll work now. It has to.
The radio crackles again. "Ms. Kane. Sheriff. We're coming in. Please don't make this difficult."
"Sixty seconds," Rhys says. "On my mark."
The heater's feed line disconnects with a quick twist. Propane hisses into the air immediately—sharp, chemical, dangerous.
Rhys wedges the back window open while I grab my laptop and the security hard drive, shove them in my jacket, zip it tight.
The propane smell is overwhelming now, making my eyes water.
"Thirty seconds," he says.
The figures are closer. Twenty yards from the entrance. Weapons raised. Moving with purpose.
"Fifteen seconds."
The mixture needs to be exact—too rich and the explosion won't work, too lean and same problem. But the air's flooded with propane now, and oxygen pours through the open window.
"Go."
Through the window, dropping to the snow bank outside.
My boots hit and sink six inches. Cold bites through my jeans where snow packs against my shins.
Rhys follows, lands beside me with barely a sound despite his size.
We're ten yards from the building when he stops, raises his rifle, sights through the window at the propane tank.
"Cover your ears."
My palms press against my head. The world goes muffled—just wind and my own heartbeat thundering in my chest. Through my fingers, I watch Rhys's shoulders shift as he adjusts his stance. The rifle barrel tracks steady despite the wind.
The crack splits the air.
For half a second, nothing. The window spider-webs where the bullet punched through. The propane tank sits there, intact, mocking us.
Then the world tears itself apart.
The explosion isn't just sound—it's pressure, a wall of force that slams into my chest and drives the air from my lungs. My feet leave the ground. The snow bank catches me hard, drives frozen crystals into my face and down my collar. My head snaps back. Stars burst across my vision.
Heat rolls over me in a wave that sears exposed skin.
The building erupts—not just flames but a fireball that climbs into the gray sky, orange and black and hungry.
Windows don't just break, they vaporize.
Glass becomes shrapnel that hisses through the air above us.
Metal screams as support beams twist and buckle.
The roof collapses inward with a sound like thunder.
My ears ring so loud I can't hear anything else. Can't hear the secondary explosions as office equipment ignites. Can't hear the men shouting. Can't hear my own gasping breaths as I try to suck air back into my lungs.
Rhys's hand clamps around my arm, hauls me upright. His mouth moves—words I can't process through the ringing. But his meaning is clear. The look in his eyes. The way he's already pulling me toward his truck.
Run.
My legs don't want to work. The blast scrambled my balance, turned my inner ear into a carnival ride. But training takes over. One foot in front of the other. Don't think. Just move.
The snow drags at my boots. Each step takes effort, muscles burning as I push through the drifts. Fifty yards to the truck. Might as well be fifty miles.
Behind us, men are shouting—confused voices cutting through the roar still echoing in my skull. The explosion scattered them, but they're regrouping. Professional operators don't stay scattered long.
Forty yards. My lungs scream for air. The cold burns going down, makes my chest ache. But I keep moving. Keep pushing.
Thirty yards.
Movement in my peripheral vision. A figure emerging from behind the equipment shed—one of the traffickers, rifle already coming up. Time slows. I see him tracking us. See his finger moving toward the trigger.
Rhys sees him too. Doesn't break stride. Just pivots, brings his rifle up in one smooth motion. Three shots crack out so fast they almost sound like one. The figure jerks. Stumbles. Falls face-first into the snow and doesn't move.
Center mass. Perfect grouping. The man never had a chance.
Twenty yards to the truck. My thighs burn. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind the reality of what we just did. What we're still doing.
Ten yards.
More shouting behind us. Closer now. They're coming.
The truck looms ahead—safety, mobility, a chance. Rhys reaches it first, yanks the passenger door open. "Get in!"