Chapter 2 #2
"I think the kind that might have gotten Emma Blackwater killed."
The name hits me like a fist to the gut.
Emma Blackwater. Rhys's wife. Murdered during the Montrose investigation, federal case that went nowhere, killer still at large. The FBI closed the file and classified half the evidence, left Rhys and the rest of us with nothing but questions and a body count that didn't make sense.
I'd worked Emma's case personally. Spent weeks chasing leads that evaporated the moment I got close to anything substantial.
Witnesses who suddenly couldn't remember details.
Evidence that disappeared from chain of custody.
Federal agents who smiled politely and told me they'd take it from here, then buried everything so deep it might as well have never existed.
Emma died because she knew something. Because she saw something or documented something that made her a threat to people with enough power to make murder look like random violence.
And now this nurse is standing in a parking garage telling me she has evidence connected to Emma's murder while a professional hitter just tried to execute her.
"We need to move," I say. "Now."
I get Sela into my vehicle, ignoring Patterson's protests about witness statements and chain of custody.
There'll be time for paperwork later, assuming we keep her alive long enough to give testimony.
Right now, I need to get her away from this garage and somewhere defensible while I figure out what the hell is going on.
Palmer PD can process the scene. They can collect shell casings and take witness statements and write reports that'll sit in a file until the FBI shows up to classify everything and make it disappear. I've seen this dance before. I'm not watching it happen again.
I pull out of the garage with Sela buckled into my passenger seat, hands folded in her lap like she's waiting for a doctor's appointment instead of recovering from an attempted execution.
She has nerves I can respect. Most people would be shaking, crying, demanding answers.
She just sits there quietly, processing what happened with the same steady assessment I saw when she was pinned behind her car.
The route back to Whitewater Junction will take close to half an hour if I keep my speed reasonable. I could push it faster, but right now distance matters more than speed. Getting her away from Palmer, away from the network of contractors who know she survived.
Julian Montrose is dead, but the network he ran didn't die with him.
That's the problem Rhys, Harlow and I discuss when we're alone, when there's no one around to overhear speculation that makes people nervous.
Montrose was a facilitator, a logistics coordinator, making sure product moved and money flowed and nobody looked too closely at the trucks rolling through Alaska's back roads.
He was good at it—better than good. That level of skill doesn't happen without federal protection making sure investigations stall and task forces get redirected.
We took down Montrose. We didn't take down his protection.
And now Sela Mitchell is sitting in my passenger seat with evidence that might finally expose who's been protecting the network all along.
I radio Rhys on the encrypted channel we use for sensitive communications.
"Hold on," I tell Sela. "You need to hear this." I switch the radio to speaker mode and set it in the console between us. She needs to understand what she's walked into, who she's dealing with.
"Rhys, it's Marc. I'm at Palmer Regional. Someone just tried to kill a trauma nurse named Sela Mitchell with a professional hit in the parking garage. She says she has evidence connected to Emma's murder."
Silence on the other end. Then Rhys's voice comes through the speaker, cold and controlled in the way it gets when he's processing something that matters.
"Emma's evidence." Not a question. "What kind of evidence?"
"USB drive. Hidden in Emma's old locker at the hospital. Ms. Mitchell found it this morning and called the FBI tip line. Four hours later, a contractor showed up to execute her."
Another pause. When Rhys speaks again, his voice carries an edge I recognize—the sound of a man who's been hunting something for years and just found a trail.
"The Marshal knows. He's got people monitoring those tip lines, flagging anything related to the network.
Emma documented his protection of the trafficking operation, and he's spent three years making sure that evidence stayed buried.
" A breath. "Bring her to Whitewater Junction.
I'll make calls. We need Harlow, Finn and Cara on this.
If The Marshal sent a contractor after her, he won't stop with one attempt. "
"Copy that. En route."
I disconnect and glance at Sela in my passenger seat. She's staring straight ahead, jaw set with determination I recognize from people who've decided they're not going down without a fight.
Empty highway stretches ahead of us, asphalt that'll get us back to Whitewater fast if I keep my foot down. I check my mirrors more often than I need to, watching for vehicles that might be following, looking for threats that could materialize from any direction.
Whoever sent that contractor knows Sela survived. They know she has Emma's evidence. One failed hit won't be the end of it.
"What's in your pocket?" I ask.
"The USB drive."
A few hours between a call to the FBI and a professional contractor showing up to execute a hospital employee in broad daylight.
This isn't standard investigation timeline.
This isn't bureaucratic response. This is someone with access to federal communications who can mobilize assets fast enough to stop a threat before it becomes a problem.
Someone monitoring tip lines for keywords that trigger alerts.
Someone with resources and authority and connections that let them deploy killers the same way normal people deploy pizza delivery.
The same person who kept Julian Montrose protected. The same person who's still out there, still operating, still making sure the trafficking network stays functional even after we took down their logistics coordinator.
I focus on the road ahead but no traffic except the occasional semi hauling goods between Anchorage and points north. Alaska's vast enough that you can disappear into wilderness and never be found, remote enough that bodies stay buried if you know where to put them.
We're miles from anywhere that matters, surrounded by territory that's as beautiful as it is indifferent to human survival. It's perfect country for making problems disappear.
My eyes flick to the rearview again. Still clear. But that doesn't mean we're safe. Professional contractors don't give up because the first attempt failed. They adapt. They wait. They find another angle and come back harder.
"You said you called the FBI tip line," I say. "What exactly did you tell them?"
Sela's quiet for a moment, working through the details, separating what matters from what doesn't.
"That I found a USB drive hidden in Emma's locker. That the files were encrypted but the metadata showed surveillance photos, transaction records, timelines. That it looked like documentation of something big." She pauses. "I gave them my name. My location. My supervisor's contact information."
Perfect. She gave them everything they needed to identify her, locate her, and send someone to eliminate the threat before anyone could decrypt Emma's files.
"The woman you talked to," I ask. "She say anything that seemed off?"
"She told me to keep the evidence secure and not discuss it with anyone. Said an agent would contact me soon to arrange retrieval." Sela's voice goes quieter. "She also said 'for your own safety' I shouldn't share the information with anyone outside official channels."
For your own safety.
The same phrase that probably appeared in Emma's case file before someone made sure she couldn't testify to whatever she'd documented.
Sela Mitchell just became the most important witness in Alaska, and she's sitting in my passenger seat with evidence that could finally expose the federal connection we've been hunting for months.
Assuming we can keep her alive long enough to use it.