Chapter 12
MARC
The threat of Haywood still out there echoes in my head.
Sela's asleep against my chest, her breathing steady, but I've been awake for hours mapping Haywood's next moves. He has to know we met with Calder; knows we handed over Emma's evidence. He'll escalate—the question is when and how hard.
Gray light filters through the cabin windows, turning everything colorless.
My shoulder's gone numb where Sela's been resting against it, but I haven't moved.
Outside, snow drips from the eaves in a steady rhythm.
The perimeter sensors have been quiet all night, but that doesn't mean we're safe.
Just means Haywood's still deciding how to hit us.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Rhys.
I extract myself carefully, grab the phone, step outside into cold air that bites through my shirt.
"Yeah."
"Suspension's official." Rhys doesn't waste time. "I got a call from FBI Anchorage. You're on administrative leave pending investigation. Badge and service weapon by end of day."
Expected, but it still hits hard. Haywood's moving fast, using official channels to isolate me before DOJ can act.
"When did it come through?"
"Early this morning. I stalled as long as I could." Rhys pauses. "Marc, the legal exposure here is real. Federal obstruction charges carry serious time. You could be looking at prison if this goes wrong."
"Then it better not go wrong."
"I'm serious. This isn't just your badge. It's your freedom."
"I thought it through and made my call."
"Stubborn bastard."
"Learned from the best." I end it before he can argue more.
When I step back through the door, Sela's awake, pulling on clothes with quick efficiency. She doesn't ask who called—my face tells her enough.
"What did Rhys say?"
"Suspended. I need to turn in my credentials today."
Her expression shifts, jaw tightening. "Because of me—"
"Stop." I cross the room, grip her arms. "Haywood had Emma killed. Haywood's running a trafficking operation. Haywood filed false charges. His choices, not yours."
"But if I hadn't called the Bureau—"
"Then he'd still be out there, and more women would die." I hold her gaze. "This is what doing the right thing costs sometimes. I knew that going in."
She studies my face, searching for hesitation. Gives a single sharp nod.
"What do we do now?"
"I turn in my badge. We meet Calder. We finish this."
Finn and Cara are up when we emerge from the cabin, systems running, perimeter checked. Cara glances up from her laptop.
"Calder wants to meet. She says it's urgent."
"How soon?"
"She's en route. She should be here shortly."
There's not enough time to handle the suspension first. I holster my weapon—still mine for a few more hours—and settle in to wait.
Calder arrives driving hard, her SUV throwing up slush. She's alone, but body armor bulges under her jacket and her eyes sweep the perimeter before she exits. She knows she's a target now.
She climbs out and follows us into the cabin, pulling up files on her tablet as she walks.
"DOJ's moving. Public Corruption Unit has Emma's documentation, Jackie Nielsen's testimony, the contractor's statement. Solid evidence."
"But?" I hear the qualifier coming.
"But it's all historical. Past crimes. What they need is proof of active criminal conspiracy happening right now. Something that shows Haywood's still operating, still dangerous."
"The charges he filed against me this morning aren't enough?"
"Retaliation through official channels. Dirty, but not criminal conspiracy." Calder pulls up more files. "They need direct evidence of him ordering violence, eliminating witnesses—something that proves ongoing criminal activity."
"So we wait for him to try killing one of us," Finn says. "Then we document it."
"That's the reality." Calder's tone goes flat. "Without active conspiracy, the case takes months. Haywood has time to destroy evidence and disappear. But if we can prove he's eliminating witnesses right now—"
"DOJ acts immediately," I finish.
My phone rings. The number is unknown.
I answer, putting it on speaker. "Wells."
"Deputy." It's a voice I don't recognize—male, controlled. "You have files that don't belong to you. My client would like them back."
Client, not employer. Careful word choice from someone used to avoiding direct connection. Professional, military cadence. Contractor, not local muscle.
I catch Calder's eye. She's already pulling out her phone.
"Tell your client to come get them himself."
"He prefers to delegate." Background noise filters through—traffic, city sounds. Anchorage, probably. Close. "Here's the offer. You return all copies of the files. You convince the nurse to recant her statement. You make this disappear."
"And if we don't?"
"Then my client handles it personally. You don't want that."
The line goes dead.
Silence settles over the cabin. Nobody moves for three seconds, then everyone moves at once.
Calder pulls out her phone, typing. "Ex-military contractor based on the phrasing. Local—they gave you a deadline, which means they're close enough to act."
"Can you trace it?"
"If they're smart, it's a burner already dumped." Cara's typing, running traces anyway. "But the call itself proves coordination between Haywood and outside contractors."
"Evidence of intimidation," Calder says. "Not enough. We need him ordering a hit directly. Something DOJ can't ignore."
Her phone rings. She answers, listens, her shoulders going rigid. "When did this happen? Where?"
She hangs up, looks at me. "Someone just tried to breach my place back in Anchorage. Posed as maintenance. Security stopped them."
"The contractors were looking for you," Finn says.
"Haywood's not just targeting witnesses." Calder's jaw sets. "He's going after the investigation itself."
"You need protection," Sela says. "FBI resources—"
"And tip off whoever's feeding Haywood information from inside?" Calder shakes her head. "I'm burned until DOJ moves. Anyone I contact could be compromised."
"Then you stay here." Cara gestures around the cabin. "We've got defensible positions, armed personnel, perimeter sensors."
"I can't ask—"
"You're not asking," I interrupt. "You're our only shot at stopping this. You die, the investigation dies."
Calder weighs it, her gaze tracking between us. Quick nod. "Until DOJ moves. After that, I go official and take my chances with Bureau protection."
"Understood."
We spend the rest of the day fortifying. Finn runs diagnostics on sensors. Cara monitors law enforcement channels and runs digital traces. Harlow arrives mid-afternoon with supplies and equipment, her truck loaded with gear she's pulled from the task force stockpile.
"I heard you got suspended," she says, unloading cases. "Haywood's burning through favors fast."
"Scared and cornered." I grab one of the heavier cases. "Makes him more dangerous."
"It also makes him sloppy." Harlow sets down ammunition. "Desperate people make mistakes."
We work in efficient silence, years of tactical training turning the setup into practiced routine.
Extra ammunition distributed to fighting positions.
Communication gear tested and retested. Fields of fire cleared and marked.
Calder watches from the cabin porch, absorbing how we operate—the hand signals, the spacing, the way we move around each other without getting in the way.
"You've done this before," she observes.
"Different countries, same principles." I secure a spare magazine. "Create layers of defense, eliminate dead angles, maintain clear retreat routes."
"Military?"
"Army CID. Deployed with combat units." I don't elaborate. She doesn't push.
By the time darkness falls, we're as ready as we'll get. Rhys and I are running exterior patrol when Finn's voice crackles through the radio.
"There's movement in the northeast sector. Multiple contacts are approaching through the trees."
I shift position, rifle up, scanning the darkness. Figures emerge from the tree line—hand signals, covering sectors, experienced operators moving with tactical precision. They're contractors heading for the main cabin, heading for Calder.
"Finn, light them up."
Floodlights slam on, catching them in harsh illumination. They freeze, hands drifting toward weapons.
"Don't." I step into view, rifle raised. "You're outgunned."
The lead contractor—older, scarred, moves like former special forces—raises his hands slowly. Another one, visible, follows.
"Just here to talk," he says.
"Talk doesn't need guns and night approaches."
"Our client wants his property back."
"Evidence of federal crimes doesn't belong to the criminal." I step closer, keeping my rifle trained center mass. "Who sent you?"
"We take contracts, not names."
"Convenient." Rhys positions himself on the flank. "Who cleared this hit? Someone had to authorize going after a federal agent."
The contractor's expression goes blank, a professional mask sliding into place. "We take orders, don't ask where they come from."
"It must be nice," I say. "Not having to think about the trafficking victims you're protecting."
His jaw tightens. Brief, but enough to confirm he knows exactly what operation he's defending.
"You've got a deadline," he says. "After that, we stop being polite."
"We'll keep that in mind."
They disappear into the darkness. Finn confirms they're clear of the perimeter before I lower my rifle.
Inside the cabin, Calder's recording, uploading encrypted files. "Got it. Video, audio, the full encounter. Proof that Haywood's using contractors to intimidate federal law enforcement."
"Is that enough?" Sela asks.
"Evidence of intimidation, but they never said Haywood's name. No direct connection." Calder's fingers fly across her keyboard. "And these guys won't flip. Too experienced, too insulated."
"Then what do we need?"
Calder looks up. "We need a target Haywood can't resist. Someone he has to eliminate immediately before they testify."
"Jackie Nielsen," I say.