Chapter 14
HARLOW
The newly renovated space above the sheriff’s office still smells like fresh paint. Two weeks since Katerina Volkov traded her freedom for information, and I'm organizing files from what she gave us.
Two desks face each other across the small room. Four folding chairs that wobble when you shift your weight. Filing cabinets still in their boxes. A coffee maker we haven't bothered to unpack. Voices drift up from the street below—someone arguing about tire chains.
Not much, but it's a start.
"You sure about this?" Rhys asks from the doorway. He carries two more boxes, sheriff's badge still clipped to his belt. "Taking the consulting position means you're tied to Alaska. To this investigation. Could be years before we dismantle what's left of the network."
"I'm sure." I take one of the boxes from him. "Katerina gave us names. Locations. Enough to prove the network is bigger than we thought. Someone needs to coordinate the investigation."
He sets his box down. "The Bureau's loss."
"More like their stupidity." I pull out file folders and start organizing them. "But forming a multi-agency task force means I can stay involved without the red tape. Consulting pays better anyway."
Katerina bought her freedom with eighteen hours of interrogation.
Names. Financial records. Safe houses from Anchorage to Seattle.
The feds gave her witness protection in exchange.
But she couldn't give us the Marshal. The mysterious figure who built the network Sergei managed.
The ghost who's still out there rebuilding what we tore down.
"The federal office approved the task force yesterday," Rhys says.
He crosses to the window. Snow falls through gray afternoon light, coating Main Street below.
"Official jurisdiction spanning Alaska, Washington, and Oregon.
You're listed as lead consultant on trafficking operations.
Wells gets promoted to deputy in charge when I'm working task force business.
" His jaw tightens. "Town council wasn't happy about me splitting time. "
"What did you tell them?"
"That the trafficking network targeted our town. That eight women were held captive twenty miles from here. That we have a responsibility to finish what we started." He turns to look at me. "They came around."
I join him at the window. Below, a few trucks are parked outside the diner. Someone shovels the sidewalk in front of the post office. The ordinary rhythm of a small town in winter.
"The office needs work," I say, "but it'll do. Whiteboards for network mapping. Secure server for federal databases. Coffee maker that actually functions." I glance at him. "You don't have to split your time. I can run the task force solo."
"No." He pulls me close. "We started this as partners. We finish it as partners."
"Even though it means years of work? Even though the Marshal is still out there rebuilding?"
"Especially then." He cups my face. "You're not doing this alone, Harlow."
My shoulders drop. Tension I didn't realize I was carrying releases. "Okay. As partners."
He kisses me. Soft at first, his lips testing, asking.
Then I rise on my toes and his hand slides into my hair, angling my head.
The kiss deepens. Turns hungry. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him.
The taste of coffee and want. Heat spreads through my chest, pools low in my belly.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, thumb stroking my jaw.
Footsteps pound up the stairs. Wells appears in the doorway, tablet in hand. The deputy stands straighter these days. Shoulders back. Chin up. The promotion suits him.
"Sheriff. Harlow." He nods to each of us. "Federal office sent over surveillance footage from Anchorage. Three possibles at the safe house Katerina identified."
I take the tablet. Three men entering and leaving a nondescript building over a two-week span. All wearing hats or hoods. All avoiding direct camera angles.
But not careful enough.
One glances up at the wrong moment. I freeze the frame. Run it through facial recognition software connected to federal databases.
"Yuri Lebedev," I read when the match appears. "Known associate of the Volkov organization. Multiple arrests for witness intimidation. Three suspected kills, all cases dropped due to lack of evidence."
Rhys moves beside me. Studies the screen. "Seattle based. What brings him to Anchorage?"
"Cleaning up loose ends." I pull up Lebedev's file. "He specializes in eliminating people who testify against the organization. Witnesses. Informants."
My throat tightens. I helped rescue eight women. Testified at Sergei's arraignment. My name is in every federal report.
I am exactly the kind of target Yuri Lebedev eliminates.
Wells shifts his weight. "The footage is from three days ago. He could still be in the area."
"Or already here." Rhys straightens. His hand drops to his weapon. Pure instinct. "Harlow testified. She's on his list."
"Then we protect her," Wells says. "Set up a safe house. Federal protection until—"
"No." I hand the tablet back to Wells. "I came to Alaska to hide. But I'm done hiding now."
Rhys's jaw tightens.
Wells looks between us. "I'll coordinate with the federal agents. Get those surveillance plans set up." He backs toward the stairs. "Let me know what you decide."
The door closes behind him.
"You want to put me in a safe house," I say.
"I want you alive."
"Hiding me away won't accomplish that. It'll just make me—" I stop. Breathe. "It'll make me feel like Baker did when I told him to stay back."
He flinches.
"You know what I'm capable of. You've seen me work. Trust that."
Snow taps against the window. Someone honks a horn down on Main Street. The coffee maker box shifts with a rustle of cardboard.
Rhys exhales. "We do this controlled. We set the trap."
"I'm the bait."
"You're the target he's already hunting. We just give him an opening he can't resist." The calculating sheriff takes over. "You maintain your normal schedule. Office during the day. Lunch at the diner. Predictable patterns. When he moves, we take him."
He pulls out his phone. Starts typing. "I'll coordinate with Wells and the federal agents. Get surveillance on all approaches to town. And I'm calling in Zeke, Nate, and Caleb."
"Good. If anyone can help us take this bastard down, it's them."
The plan takes shape over the next hour. I maintain my routine while Lebedev watches and waits. When he makes his move, we're ready.
The community meeting that evening is held at the town hall.
A converted hunting lodge with exposed beams and a massive stone fireplace that crackles with burning pine.
Seventy people pack into the space. The air smells like coffee and wood smoke.
Folding chairs scrape against the floor. Voices echo off the vaulted ceiling.
Rhys guides me through the crowd, one hand on my lower back. People nod. Smile. A few introduce themselves. Most already know who I am. The former FBI agent who helped take down the trafficking ring.
The meeting starts. The mayor drones on about snow removal and budget concerns. I sit beside Rhys in the third row. Our fingers lace together.
Halfway through a presentation on road salt procurement, Rhys leans close. His breath warm against my ear. "This is the most boring meeting I've attended in five years."
"And you dragged me here why?"
"Because boring is good. Boring is normal." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "And I want you to have normal."
After the meeting, people approach to chat. Ask about the consulting business. Invite me to a book club. Offer recommendations for the best places to buy supplies.
A woman in her sixties clasps my hand. "Emma would be glad," she says quietly. "That Rhys found someone. That he's living again."
I nod. Don't trust my voice.
Rhys and I drive back to the cabin in comfortable silence. Snow falls heavy through the headlight beams. The road is slick but manageable. When we pull up to the cabin, I scan the tree line out of habit. Looking for movement. Threats. Nothing but snow and shadows.
Inside, Rhys builds a fire while I make tea. The cabin smells like pine and the faint scent of the soap I use. When the fire catches and the tea is ready, we sit on the couch. His arm around my shoulders. My head on his chest.
"Zeke, Nate, and Caleb will rotate overwatch starting tomorrow," he says. His voice rumbles under my ear. "Wells is coordinating with federal agents. We have eyes on every approach to town."
"That's a lot of resources for one assassin."
"You're worth all the resources." He strokes through my hair. "And Lebedev won't see it coming. He's used to targets who don't know he's hunting them. You know. We know. That changes everything."
"When do you think he'll move?"
"Soon. He's been in Anchorage for three days. He'll want to finish the job and disappear before winter closes the roads."
I shift to look at him. "Are you ready for this?"
"No. But I'll do it anyway." He cups my face. "I can't lose you, Harlow. But I won't cage you either. So we do this your way. We work as partners."
The next morning, Zeke, Nate, and Caleb arrive at the task force office. We go over the plan. Communication protocols, positioning, sight lines. The same kind of tactical coordination that worked during the camp assault.
"We'll stay off comms unless absolutely necessary," Nate says. "Lebedev might have a scanner. When he makes his move, Rhys will coordinate."
Caleb hands me an earpiece. "Same setup as before. If things go sideways, you'll hear us."
Three days pass. I maintain my routine. Office in the morning. Lunch at the diner. Afternoon case work. Evening at the cabin with Rhys. Each day the same. Predictable. Tempting.
I never see Zeke, Nate, or Caleb. But I know they're there. Watching. Waiting.