Chapter 2
MARC
The Palmer courthouse looks like every other government building in Alaska—practical construction, minimal decoration, built to withstand winters that would make weaker structures collapse.
I push through the front doors into afternoon air that's finally lost some of winter's bite, testimony finished, another case moving through the system.
Arraignment hearing for a DUI I'd arrested outside Whitewater Junction last month.
Simple testimony, routine questions, the prosecutor doing her job and the defense attorney doing his.
The kind of work that keeps small-town law enforcement functioning—showing up, telling the truth, letting the courts handle the rest.
My truck sits in the courthouse parking lot where I left it this morning.
I'm reaching for the door handle when Palmer PD's radio frequency crackles to life on the portable clipped to my belt.
I monitor their channel whenever I'm in their jurisdiction, professional courtesy and practical cooperation between departments that share overflow calls when things get busy.
"All units, we have reports of shots fired at Palmer Regional Hospital. Parking garage, lower level. Caller reports possible active shooter situation. Any available units respond."
My hand freezes on the door handle.
Palmer Regional. Less than two blocks from here. I can see the hospital complex from the courthouse parking lot, the multi-level parking garage visible on the north side of the main building.
I key my radio to Whitewater Junction's frequency. "Dispatch, this is Wells. I'm in Palmer finishing court testimony. Responding to Palmer PD's active shooter call at the hospital."
"Copy that, Wells. Advising Palmer PD of your response. Notifying Sheriff Blackwater."
I'm already moving, yanking open my truck door and firing the engine. Palmer PD units will be rolling from all over town, but I'm two blocks away. Close enough that I might beat the first responders to the scene.
I flip the lights and pull out of the courthouse parking lot.
Two blocks disappear fast. I run tactical scenarios in my head while navigating traffic that's pulling to the side to let me pass. An active shooter in a hospital parking garage means confined space, multiple levels, civilians everywhere. Law enforcement nightmares don't get much worse.
Except something doesn't fit.
Active shooters don't operate in parking garages. They want visibility, body count, maximum terror before getting taken down. Parking garages are execution sites, locations for targeted hits and professional work done by people who understand how to control the environment.
My thoughts crystallize as I push well past the speed limit.
Montrose used contractors—clean operators who knew how to make problems disappear without leaving evidence that pointed back to the network.
We found two of them during the investigation, both dead before they could talk, both killed with the kind of precision that told us someone was cleaning house.
If this connects to Montrose's operation, if the network he built is still running, they'd use the same playbook. They'd deploy professional hitters with suppressed weapons. They'd eliminate targets in locations where witnesses scatter and evidence gets contaminated by panic.
Palmer Regional's parking garage sits on the north side of the hospital, a multi-level concrete structure that serves staff and visitors who don't want to walk from the main lot. I pull in hard, tires squealing on the ramp down to the lower level where dispatch said the shooting occurred.
Chaos hits me all at once.
People are running, scrambling for cover, some pressed against concrete pillars with their hands over their heads.
A woman is screaming somewhere to my left.
Gunpowder hangs sharp and chemical in the air, recent enough that my nose burns with it.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, half of them flickering like they can't decide whether to stay on or give up entirely.
A Subaru Outback sits in the middle of it all with three holes punched through the windshield.
I'm out of my vehicle before I've fully processed the shot pattern.
Training takes over—years of CID work and enough firefights to know the difference between panic fire and professional marksmanship.
I draw my weapon, scan the garage for active threats.
Nothing moves except terrified civilians trying to make themselves smaller.
A tight grouping shows through the windshield, center mass, angled from a position of cover. Whoever fired those shots knew precisely where their target would be sitting, knew the vehicle, knew the timing. This was planned and calculated.
"Sheriff's deputy," I call out. "Anyone injured?"
A man crouched behind a pickup truck points toward the Subaru. "Woman. Behind the car. She's pinned down."
I move tactically, using vehicles for cover, weapon up and ready.
The shooter could still be here. Could be waiting for law enforcement to arrive, setting up for a second engagement.
I clear angles as I advance, checking sight lines and potential ambush points.
My boots echo on the concrete, too loud in the unnatural quiet that follows gunfire.
Everyone's holding their breath, waiting to see if the violence is over or just paused.
Then I see her.
A woman, maybe early thirties, is pressed tight against the rear quarter panel of the Subaru with her back to the tire.
Hair pulled back, scrubs stained with what looks like coffee.
Her hands are steady. Her breathing is controlled.
She's not panicking, not frozen, just calculating her options with combat veteran calm, knowing how to wait for her moment.
"Sheriff's deputy," I announce, keeping my voice level. "What's your situation?"
She doesn't flinch at my approach. Her eyes track to me, assess, and then flick back to a point across the garage.
"Shooter's gone," she says. "Left through the stairwell on the east side a few minutes ago. Male, maybe six feet, dark jacket, moved like he knew what he was doing. Three shots fired, all through my windshield, suppressed weapon based on the sound profile."
I blink.
Most civilians in a shooting freeze up or lose their ability to articulate anything beyond "someone's shooting.
" This woman just gave me a tactical brief that would make a field commander proud.
Her hands are steady. Her voice is even.
Tension around her eyes shows fear, but she's functioning through it with discipline that doesn't come from weekend self-defense classes.
"You see the weapon?"
"Handgun. Couldn't tell you the model, but the suppressor was professional grade, not some homemade can.
He fired from cover behind that concrete pillar.
" She nods toward a structural column across the garage.
"Had the angle on the driver's seat through the windshield.
I went low and came around the back before he could adjust."
I study the angle she's describing. The pillar provides clean cover with a direct line of sight to the driver's seat through the windshield.
From that position, you could wait for a target to approach their vehicle, take the shot while they're still processing movement, and be gone by the time anyone reacts.
"You military?"
"Trauma nurse. You learn to stay calm when things go sideways." She meets my eyes, and intelligence sharpens her gaze despite what just happened. "He wasn't trying to scare me. He was trying to kill me, and he knew where to wait to do it."
That's what matters. Not just that someone tried to kill her, but that they knew her vehicle, her schedule, her routine well enough to set up an ambush in precisely the right location at the right time.
I notice the pattern then.
Three shots through the windshield. Not random spray, not panic fire. Tight grouping, center mass, right where a driver's head and chest would be if they'd gotten into the car and sat down. Professional precision.
This was an assassination attempt.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Sela Mitchell. I work here. Just finished my shift."
"Anyone have reason to want you dead, Ms. Mitchell?"
She hesitates. Just a fraction of a second, but I catch it—the pause that means she's deciding how much to tell me, how much to trust a cop she just met while someone's trying to put bullets through her skull.
"I might have found something," she says carefully. "Something someone doesn't want found."
Before I can press her on that, Palmer PD units pour into the garage, lights flashing, officers spreading out to secure the scene. I recognize the sergeant who approaches, a guy named Patterson I've worked with on joint operations before.
"Wells. Appreciate the quick response."
"Active shooter call was wrong," I tell him. "Targeted hit. Professional contractor, suppressed weapon, knew his victim's vehicle and schedule. He's gone, left through the east stairwell a few minutes ago."
Patterson's face goes tight. "Targeted? Who's the victim?"
"Sela Mitchell. Trauma nurse. She's uninjured but needs protection until we know what we're dealing with."
I turn back to Sela, who's still crouched behind her Subaru like she's waiting for the next threat to materialize. She's smart. The shooting might be over, but whoever sent that contractor isn't going to stop just because the first attempt failed.
"Ms. Mitchell, I need you to come with me. We're going to get you somewhere safe while Palmer PD processes this scene, and then you're going to tell me exactly what you found."
She studies me for a long moment, weighing her options. Then she nods and stands, moving with controlled grace that tells me she's more capable than most people give her credit for.
"I have something in my pocket," she says. "Evidence. It's why he came after me."
"What kind of evidence?"