Chapter 10
HARLOW
The convoy moves through darkness without headlights, navigating by night vision and GPS coordinates burned into memory during the briefing.
I sit in the passenger seat of Rhys's truck, tactical vest tight across my chest, rifle between my knees.
The weight is familiar. Comforting in ways it shouldn't be after two years away from this life.
But tonight I'm not running from who I was. Tonight I'm exactly where I need to be.
Rhys drives with the same controlled precision he does everything else.
Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes scanning the road ahead through night vision goggles.
We haven't spoken since leaving the forestry station.
Don't need to. The silence between us isn't empty.
It's full of everything we said, and didn't say, in that upstairs room.
Every promise we made with our bodies and our words.
The radio crackles. Zeke's voice, barely above a whisper. "Rally point in two minutes. Kill engines and proceed on foot."
"Copy," Rhys says.
He pulls off the road into a stand of spruce trees. Zeke's SUV is already there, barely visible even with night vision. The tactical van carrying Irving and Morris slides in beside us. Chris's vehicle brings up the rear.
We exit the trucks without slamming doors. Every movement deliberate, minimizing sound. The cold hits immediately, sharp enough to burn lungs and sting exposed skin. My breath fogs in the air despite the darkness.
The team gathers in a loose circle. Zeke at the center, map spread on the hood of his SUV. The green glow of a tactical flashlight illuminates our faces in eerie detail.
"Final positions," Zeke says, voice low and hard. “No changes. Deadly force is authorized if threatened,"
Rhys's jaw tightens but he nods. We've been over this. Justice, not revenge. I can see the war raging behind his eyes, every instinct screaming at him to end Sergei right here.
Zeke looks at Rhys and me. “South team, you approach from here.
Harlow enters the main holding building, secures the captives.
Rhys provides cover and watches for runners.
Once captives are secure, signal and we move.
We want prisoners who can testify. Especially Sergei Volkov.
" Zeke's expression hardens. "He's the key to rolling up the network. "
"Synchronized watches," Zeke says. "Mark on my count. Three, two, one, mark."
I press the button on my tactical watch. Zero-one-forty-five hours. Fifteen minutes until go time.
"Comms check," Zeke orders.
We test the encrypted radios. Clear signals all around. No interference.
"Questions?" Zeke scans the group.
Silence. We all know what we're doing. We've all done this before in one form or another. The only difference is that this time it's personal for Rhys. And by extension, personal for me.
"Then let's end this," Zeke says.
We split into teams. Everyone melts into the trees heading to their positions. Rhys and I move south, navigating by compass and GPS through terrain that wants to kill anyone stupid enough to traverse it in darkness.
The camp is two miles from the rally point. Two miles through snow and ice and trees that grab at clothing and gear. Two miles to think about everything that could go wrong.
I've done dozens of operations like this. Hostage rescue. High-risk warrants. Tactical assaults on fortified positions. I was good at it before I moved to crisis negotiation. But it's been years since I wore a tactical vest and moved through darkness with a team at my back.
Years since Baker died on my watch, despite the review board ruling it a freak ricochet.
"You good?" Rhys asks quietly.
"Better than I've been in two years." The truth of it surprises me. "You?"
"Focused." His jaw tightens. "Ready."
We reach our position with five minutes to spare. The camp spreads below us in a small valley. Two buildings exactly where Irina said they'd be. The larger structure for the captives. The smaller one for guards. A generator hums somewhere out of sight. Lights burn in windows despite the hour.
Through my night vision scope I count three guards on patrol. Two more visible inside the guard quarters through a window. That's five. Intel said four on rotating shifts, which means they're running heavier security than expected.
"I've got five guards visible," I whisper into the radio. "Two inside, three on patrol."
"Copy," Zeke responds. "Adjusting approach. Caleb, you see the extra patrol?"
"Affirmative. I have clean shots on all three external targets."
"Hold fire until breach. We take them all at once."
My watch reads zero-one-fifty-eight. Two minutes.
Rhys settles beside me, rifle aimed at the guard quarters. His breathing is slow and controlled. Combat calm that comes from years of training and experience. I match my breathing to his. Let the familiar rhythm steady my pulse.
Zero-two-hundred hours.
"Execute," Zeke says.
Flashbangs detonate. The night explodes into blinding white light and concussive thunder that echoes off the valley walls. Guards stumble, disoriented. Caleb's rifle cracks once, twice, three times in rapid succession. All three external guards drop.
Zeke's team hits the guard quarters. More flashbangs. Shouting in Russian and English. Gunfire. Short controlled bursts.
"Move," Rhys says.
We're up and running. Fifty yards to the main building. My boots find purchase in snow and ice. The tactical vest weighs twenty pounds but the adrenaline makes it weightless. Just move. Fast and low. Rifle up and ready.
A guard appears from around the building. Young. Maybe twenty. Eyes wide with panic. He raises an AK-47.
I fire first. Center mass. Two rounds. He goes down.
Rhys is already at the door. Tries the handle. Locked. He doesn't hesitate. Kicks it hard right next to the lock. The frame splinters and the door flies inward.
I'm through first. Rifle up. Scanning. Sweeping corners. The training I thought I'd left behind flows through me like muscle memory. Room clear. Move. Next room. Clear. Move.
"Law enforcement!" I shout. "Stay down! We're here to help!"
A hallway. Doors on both sides. The first one opens and a woman peers out. Dark hair. Maybe thirty. Eyes huge with terror.
"It's okay," I say in English, then try the Russian phrases I picked up during crisis negotiation training. "We're here to get you out. Where are the others?"
She points down the hall with a shaking hand.
The last door is locked from the outside. A heavy padlock. Rhys shoots it off. The lock shatters. I pull the door open.
Seven women crowd in a room meant for maybe four. They're wearing thin clothes despite the cold. Some have bruises. All have the hollow eyes of people who've been broken down systematically over time.
"Law enforcement," I say again, keeping my voice steady and controlled despite the chaos still raging outside. "We're here to rescue you. We're going to get you out of here but I need you to do exactly what I say."
Most stare at me in blank incomprehension. Different languages. Different countries. Brought here through different routes but all ending in the same hell.
I try the limited Russian I know. A few Ukrainian phrases. Even some basic Polish from training scenarios. Finally one woman, older than the others, steps forward.
"You are police?" she asks in heavily accented English. "I speak English. I can translate for others."
"Yes. We're getting you out. But we need to move fast. Tell them to follow me. Stay together."
She nods. Speaks rapidly in Russian. The women start to move, clustering together. Scared but willing to follow.
Gunfire erupts outside. Close. Too close.
"Rhys?" I call into my radio.
"Guard from the main building. He's barricaded in the hallway. I can't get a clean shot without exposing myself."
"Hold position. I'm bringing the captives out the back."
I turn to the women. "Follow me. Stay low. Stay quiet. Do exactly what I do."
The translator repeats it in Russian and what sounds like Ukrainian. The women nod.
I lead them back down the hallway. Away from the gunfire. Toward the rear exit Zeke marked on the map. Behind me the translator speaks in rapid, hushed Russian, keeping the others moving.
The back door is unlocked. I ease it open. Check the approach. Clear.
"Moving captives to extraction point," I report.
"Copy," Nate responds. "I'm moving to intercept. Thirty seconds."
We're ten yards from the building when the guard appears. The one Rhys couldn't shoot. He comes around the corner and sees us. His eyes go wide. Then calculating.
He grabs the nearest woman. The translator who helped me. Yanks her in front of him as a shield. Presses a pistol to her head.
"Stop!" he shouts in English. "Stop or I kill her!"
The women freeze. The translator's eyes meet mine. Terror and resignation in equal measure. She's seen this before. She knows how this ends.
But I haven't spent two years running from who I am, haven't spent the last twelve hours falling for a man who believes in justice, and haven't come all this way to let one scared guard destroy everything.
I lower my rifle slowly. Raise my hands. Keep my voice level and calm. This is what I trained for. What I'm good at.
"Nobody needs to die," I say. "You can walk away from this. But only if you let her go."
"No! You leave or she dies!"
"Look around," I say gently. "Your friends are down. The camp is secure. There's nowhere to go. But if you let her go right now, you live. You get a lawyer. You get a trial. You don't get a bullet."
"I will kill her!"
"You could. But then what? You think my partner won't put you down before you take another breath?
" I gesture toward where Rhys is positioned.
"He's a sheriff with three years of hunting the people who run this camp.
And he's got you in his sights right now.
The only reason you're still breathing is because I asked him not to shoot while you're holding her. "