Chapter 5
RHYS
The station feels too quiet after what we just survived. Wells is on the phone with state police, his voice a low murmur from the front desk.
I don't care about the quiet. I care about the files spread across my desk. The ones that might finally explain what happened to Emma.
Harlow sits across from me, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. She's been like this since we got here. Focused. Driven. No sign of shock or hesitation despite what we just survived.
Former FBI. Crisis negotiator. Undercover work in Chicago that went sideways.
She's been through hell. That much is clear.
"Got something," she says.
I look up from the report I've been reading. The accident report from Emma's death. Same one I've read a hundred times before. Looking for details I might have missed. Connections I failed to see.
"What?"
"Security footage from the mining site. I pulled the admin access logs for this morning." She turns the laptop so I can see. "One person accessed the system remotely at eight-fifteen a.m. Right when we were checking the north perimeter access points."
"Who?"
"Jason Merrick. Assistant site manager."
The name doesn't ring immediate bells. But I know the type. Middle management. Access to systems and schedules. Trusted enough that nobody questions his presence.
Perfect position for someone feeding information to traffickers.
"Background?"
Harlow's fingers fly. She's pulling up files before I finish asking.
"Hired eight months ago. Previous employment at a mining operation in Montana that shut down under suspicious circumstances.
No criminal record." She pulls up another screen.
"But his phone records show multiple calls to the same unregistered number over the past six months.
Always after hours. Always from locations away from the facility. "
"Can you trace it?"
"It's a prepaid phone. No owner information registered.
But the number's been used to contact other mining operations in Alaska.
Same pattern—assistant managers, shift supervisors, people with access but not enough oversight.
" She looks at me. "This isn't some local operation.
It's connected to something bigger. International reach.
The kind of network that kills to stay hidden. "
My phone buzzes. Text from Doc Sage in Glacier Hollow. Three words:
Call me. Urgent.
I move to the back office for privacy and make the call.
Doc answers on the first ring. "Rhys. A woman just showed up at my clinic.
Beaten. Drugged. She managed to escape from wherever they were holding her.
Zeke's out on patrol and I can't reach him, but she's asking for law enforcement and she mentioned your wife's name. "
The world goes still.
"What?"
"She says Emma Blackwater was murdered. That it wasn't an accident. And she knows who did it."
My hand clenches around the phone hard enough that the case creaks. Someone who knows. Someone who can finally give me answers.
"I'm on my way."
I end the call. Stand there for a moment. Breathing. Trying to process.
Emma. The accident that wasn't an accident. The black truck that forced her off the road. The investigation that went nowhere because someone made sure it went nowhere.
The same someone who's running a trafficking network through these mountains.
The door opens behind me. Harlow steps in. Takes one look at my face and her expression shifts. Concern. Understanding.
"What happened?"
"A witness just surfaced in Glacier Hollow. Someone who escaped from the traffickers. She says my wife was murdered. Says she knows who did it."
Harlow doesn't say she's sorry. Doesn't offer meaningless comfort. She just nods once. "Then let's go talk to her."
We take my truck. The rear window is still cracked, but the engine runs and that's all that matters. Wells stays at the station, coordinating with state police and getting backup moving toward the mining site.
The drive to Glacier Hollow takes ninety minutes. Harlow doesn't talk. Just sits beside me. Steady presence. No questions. No demands for explanations.
She understands. Sometimes the only thing you can do is move forward. Process later.
The mountains close in as we drive deeper into the valley. These roads killed Emma. Or more accurately, someone used these roads to kill her.
I've driven past that spot a thousand times since she died. Always slow down. Always remember.
Today I don't slow down. Today I'm finally getting answers.
Glacier Hollow appears through the snow. Small town. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone and strangers get noticed immediately.
The kind of place that attracted men like Zeke MacAllister and Nate Barrett and Caleb Knox. Military veterans looking for somewhere quiet to heal. Somewhere they could protect after protecting the world for too long.
Doc Sage's clinic is on Main Street. Single story building. Well-maintained despite the harsh winters. The lights are on. Curtains drawn.
I park. Kill the engine. Sit there for a second.
Three years. Three years of not knowing. Of suspecting but never proving. Of living with the possibility that I failed to protect the one person I was supposed to protect above all others.
"Ready?" Harlow asks.
"No. But let's do it anyway."
The clinic is warm. Quiet. Doc Sage meets us at the door. Sixties. Gray hair. Competent hands that have set bones and delivered babies and stitched knife wounds without asking questions.
"She's in the back room," Doc says. "Sedated but conscious. Multiple contusions. Evidence of prolonged restraint. Whatever they did to her, it wasn't quick."
"Can she talk?"
"Yes. But she's scared. Traumatized. Be careful how you approach her."
I nod. Follow Doc through the small clinic to a room in the back.
The woman on the examination table is young. Early twenties maybe. Dark hair pulled back from a face marked by bruises. Arms and face showing evidence of recent trauma. Wrists raw from rope burns.
But her eyes are sharp. Alert. Watching the door like she expects someone to come through it with a weapon.
She sees me. Sees the badge on my belt. Relaxes slightly.
"Sheriff," she says. Voice hoarse. "You're Sheriff Blackwater."
"I am. What's your name?"
"Irina. Irina Dmitriev." Russian accent. Faint but present. "I escape. From the camp. In the mountains."
Camp. Not a facility. Not a holding area. A camp.
"How long were they holding you?"
"Six weeks. Maybe more. Hard to know. No windows. Just dark and cold and other women crying."
Other women. Multiple victims.
"How did you escape?"
"One of the guards, he gets drunk. Leaves door unlocked. I run. Walk through snow for hours. Find this town." She looks at me directly. "I know about your wife. Emma Blackwater."
My chest tightens. "What do you know?"
"The men who hold us, they talk. Brag about things they do. One of them, he says he killed a sheriff's wife three years ago. Made it look like accident. Say she ask too many questions. See something she not supposed to see. So they make her disappear."
The room tilts. My vision goes gray at the edges. Harlow's hand touches my arm. Steadying. Grounding.
Emma. My wife. Killed because she saw something she wasn't supposed to see. Because she asked questions about trucks on mining roads.
The same roads we investigated this morning. The same operation we just hit.
"Who?" The word comes out like gravel. "Who killed her?"
Irina's eyes go distant. Remembering. "Big man. Tattoos on arms. Scar on face. He run the camp. The other men, they scared of him. Call him Sergei."
"Sergei." Harlow pulls out her phone. Starts searching databases. "Russian national. Probably ex-military or organized crime."
"He still there," Irina says. "At the camp. With the other women."
Which means if we move fast, we can hit the camp. Take Sergei into custody. Get justice for Emma and rescue whoever else is being held.
"Where?" I ask. "Where's the camp?"
"Mountains. Northeast of mining site. Maybe five miles. There's an old logging road. Abandoned buildings."
Harlow's already pulling up satellite imagery on her phone. Marking locations. "I see it. Cluster of structures. Remote. Perfect for a hidden operation."
"How many guards?" I ask Irina.
"Four. Sometimes five. All armed. All dangerous."
Four or five armed guards versus me and Harlow and whatever backup we can get. Not great odds.
But better than the odds Emma had when they forced her off that road.
"Can you identify the men?" I ask. "If we bring photos?"
"Yes. I remember all their faces." Irina's voice hardens. "I want them to pay. For what they do to me. To the other women. To your wife."
"They will. I promise you that."
Doc Sage steps in. "She needs rest. And medical treatment beyond what I can provide here. She should go to a hospital."
"Not yet," Irina says. "If I go to hospital, police ask questions. Make reports. The traffickers, they have people everywhere. They find out I talk. They come for me."
The network has reach. Inside contacts. If we move her to an official facility, word will get back to them.
"She stays here," I say to Doc. "Under protection. We'll have Zeke coordinate security when he gets back."
Doc nods. "I'll set her up in the recovery room. She'll be safe."
I turn to Harlow. "We need to hit that camp. Tonight. Before they realize Irina escaped and relocate."
"Agreed. But we need backup. Tactical support. This isn't something we can do alone."
Getting that support takes time. Coordination. Official channels that might give them warning.
Or we move fast. Hit hard. Use the element of surprise.
"Call Zeke," I say to Harlow. "Former SEAL. If anyone can help us put together a team fast, it's him. Doc will have his number."
I step outside while she makes the call. Need air. Need space to process what Irina just told me.
Emma was murdered. Killed because she saw too much. Because she was brave enough to ask questions about things that didn't make sense.
And I failed to protect her. Failed to see the danger. Failed to stop it before they killed her.
My hands clench. The burn in my chest isn't grief anymore. It's rage—focused, purposeful, aimed at the man who took her from me.
Sergei. The man who killed my wife. He's five miles from here in an abandoned logging camp. Holding women captive. Running the same operation that took Emma from me.
The door opens. Harlow steps out. "Zeke's on his way. He's bringing Nate Barrett and Caleb Knox. Three former SEALs. They can help us plan the assault."
"How long?"
"Thirty minutes."
I look at Harlow. She stands beside me in the snow. Steady. Ready. Someone who just proved she'll fight beside me when things get dangerous.
"You don't have to do this," I say. "This isn't your fight. You came to Alaska for a job as a security guard for a mining site. Not to assault a camp in the middle of nowhere."
She looks at me. Really looks at me. And what I see in her eyes isn't hesitation or fear. It's determination.
"I told you I was one of the FBI's crisis negotiators.
The best of the best, they said." Her voice goes flat.
"Then I found out even the best of the best can get people killed.
My partner caught a ricochet in the throat when an armed suspect panicked.
Baker died in my arms telling me it wasn't my fault. "
"Harlow—"
"I came to Alaska to hide. To take a job where I'd never be responsible for anyone's life again.
Where I could patrol empty buildings and never have to make a call that might get someone killed.
" Her jaw tightens. "But I'm done hiding.
Done letting fear keep me from doing what I'm trained to do.
Those women in that camp deserve someone who'll fight for them. And you deserve justice for your wife."
"This is personal for you."
"Everything's personal when the last call you made cost someone their life." Her voice catches. "I couldn't save Baker. But I can save those women in that camp. And I can help you get the man who killed your wife."
We stand there. Two people shaped by loss and failure. Two people refusing to let the past define the future.
"Thank you," I say.
She nods once. "Let's get him."
Zeke's bringing tactical support. Former SEALs who know how to hit hard and fast. We'll plan the assault, coordinate the approach, rescue those women… and make sure Sergei never kills anyone else's wife.