Chapter 10 #2
The guard's eyes flick toward Rhys's position. He can't see him but he knows he's there. Knows I'm telling the truth.
"Let her go," I repeat. "Walk away from this alive."
His hand shakes. The gun wavers against the woman's head. She whimpers but doesn't struggle. Smart woman. She knows better than to give him an excuse.
"I need to know you'll let me go," he says. His English is good. Educated. He's young enough to have a future if he makes the right choice.
"I can't promise that. But I can promise if you hurt her, you die right here. Right now. No trial. No lawyer. Just dead in the snow."
The seconds stretch. Every woman watches, holding her breath. Nate moves into position behind me. Covering angles. Ready to take the shot if this goes wrong.
But it won't go wrong. I won't let it.
"Think about your family," I say quietly. "What would they want? You dead in Alaska? Or alive with a chance to see them again?"
It hits home. His expression shifts. The guard is just a kid. Maybe twenty-five. Pulled into this network through desperation or greed or circumstance. But not a killer. Not yet.
His gun lowers. Just a fraction. Just enough.
"Drop it," I say. "Let her go and drop the gun. Do it now."
He does. The gun falls into the snow. The translator stumbles forward and I catch her. Pull her behind me. Safe.
The guard raises his hands. "Don't shoot. Please don't shoot."
Rhys emerges from the darkness without a sound. He has the guard zip-tied and on his knees in under ten seconds. Professional. Efficient. No wasted movement.
"Good work," he murmurs to me.
"You too. Thanks for not shooting him."
"Had him the whole time. But you had it handled."
We get the women moving again. Nate appears with two state troopers. They take custody of the captives, wrapping them in thermal blankets and guiding them toward vehicles staged on the access road.
"Guard quarters secure," Zeke reports over the radio. "Four prisoners. All with various wounds. But we have a problem."
"What problem?" Rhys asks.
"Sergei's not here. According to the prisoners, he left two hours ago. Took a snowmobile north to their secondary location."
Rhys goes absolutely still beside me. The kind of stillness that comes before violence.
"Where?" His voice is cold. Flat.
"Abandoned mining cabin about five miles northeast. He's got a head start but we can catch him."
"I'm going after him."
"Rhys, we need to secure the scene first. Process evidence. Make sure—"
"I'm going after him," Rhys repeats. "Now."
Zeke is quiet for a moment. Then: "Copy. But not alone. Take Harlow."
"I'm coming," I say before Rhys can argue.
He looks at me. Really looks. Sees the determination in my face. The refusal to back down.
"Okay," he says finally.
We check our gear. Extra ammunition. Thermal imaging scope. GPS coordinates for the mining cabin. Snowmobile keys from one of the captured guards.
The machine roars to life. Rhys takes the controls. I climb on behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. The night vision goggles turn the world into shades of green and gray.
"Five miles," Rhys says. "Rough terrain. If he's armed—"
"Then we deal with it," I finish. "He killed your wife. He's not getting away."
The snowmobile launches forward. We leave the camp behind. Leave Zeke and the team to process the scene and care for the rescued women. Leave safety and backup and everything smart tactical doctrine says we should do.
Because this isn't about tactics anymore. This is about justice. About closure. About a man who's hunted Emma's killer for three years finally getting his chance.
The forest swallows us. Trees flash past in green-lit blur. Snow kicks up in our wake. Somewhere ahead, Sergei Volkov is getting ready to run. But he doesn't know we're coming. Doesn't know that Emma's husband and the woman who loves him are bearing down through the darkness like the wrath of God.
He will soon enough.
The mining cabin appears on GPS. Three miles. Two. One.
Rhys slows the snowmobile. We approach the final half mile on foot. Silent. Weapons ready. Using the trees for cover as we advance.
The cabin sits in a small clearing. Lights burn inside. A snowmobile is parked out front. Fresh tracks in the snow lead to the door.
He's here.
Rhys and I exchange a glance. We've done this before. No words needed.
We move into position. Covering angles. Watching windows. Waiting for the right moment.
Through a window I catch movement. A man paces inside, restless. Older. Hard-faced. Scar across his jaw exactly like the photo Chris showed us.
Sergei Volkov. Emma's killer.
Rhys sees him too. His finger tightens on the trigger. Every muscle coiled to strike.
"Wait," I whisper. "We take him alive. Make him talk. Make him give up the network."
"He murdered my wife."
"I know. And he'll pay for it. But the right way. Your way. Justice, remember?"
Rhys breathes hard. Fighting every instinct. Every bit of rage he's carried for three years.
Then he nods. Once. "Justice."
We move toward the cabin. Sergei Volkov waits inside. The man who cut Emma's brake line and sent her truck over the edge three years ago.
Rhys's breathing is controlled beside me. Steady. But I can feel the coiled violence in him, barely restrained. Three years of grief and rage focused on the man behind that window.
My hand finds his arm. A brief squeeze. We're in this together.
He nods once. We move forward, weapons ready, into whatever comes next.