Chapter 14
MARC
Haywood's vehicle sits abandoned at the Lost Creek trailhead in the foothills outside Anchorage, driver's door still open like he ran.
Fresh tracks lead north into the backcountry.
Snow's melted enough to leave boot prints in the mud, deep impressions where he's carrying weight.
His stride is panicked, no attempt to cover his trail.
He's making this easy.
I kneel beside the clearest print, check the depth. He's carrying at least forty pounds. A bug-out bag, maybe supplies for a few days if he's got someone meeting him. But Haywood's FBI brass, not wilderness trained. He'll make mistakes.
"How far ahead?" Sela asks behind me.
I glance back at her. She's standing beside my truck in tactical pants and a fleece jacket Cara loaned her, hair pulled back, eyes determined. She brought her med kit. Smart move.
"Hours ahead, maybe more." I stand, brush mud off my hands. "He's moving fast but sloppy. Trail's easy to follow."
"Then let's go."
"No." I pull my rifle from the truck bed, start checking gear. "You're staying with Finn and Calder. They're setting up a perimeter on the access roads in case he circles back."
"Like hell I am."
I look at her. She's got that expression I've learned means she's not backing down. Same look she had when she volunteered to be bait.
"Haywood's armed and desperate," I say. "He's got nothing to lose. This isn't an observation room with one-way glass between you and the danger."
"You think I don't know that?" She moves toward me. "Emma's evidence came to me. Haywood tried to have me killed. I've earned the right to see this through."
"This isn't about earning rights. It's about keeping you alive."
"Then keep me alive." Her voice drops. "But I'm not sitting on the sidelines while you go after him alone."
Finn's watching from his truck, smart enough not to get involved. Calder's on the phone with DOJ, coordinating the perimeter and calling in a tactical team from Anchorage. Neither of them is going to back me up on this.
"How long until your team arrives?" I ask Calder when she gets off the phone.
"Two hours minimum. They need to gear up for backcountry pursuit." She looks at the trail, then back at me. "You're not waiting, are you?"
"Trail's fresh. Every minute we wait, Haywood gets farther ahead or closer to extraction." I check my rifle. "I'll track him, keep him contained until your team catches up. Radio in his position when I find him."
"And if he's armed and desperate when you catch him?"
"Then I'll handle it."
She doesn't look happy about it, but she nods. "Keep comms open. My team will follow your track." She looks at Finn. "You stay here. When my team arrives, you lead them in. You know this terrain better than anyone."
Finn nods. "I'll get them to you."
I could order Sela to stay, trying to pull rank and telling her it’s official.
But she'd find a way to follow anyway. Better to have her where I can protect her.
"You stay behind me," I say. "You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. No arguments, no improvising."
"Agreed."
I grab a second tactical vest from my gear bag, help her into it. Adjust the straps, make sure the plates sit right. My hands linger on her shoulders longer than necessary.
"Haywood's not coming back alive if he points a weapon at you," I say quietly.
She holds my gaze. She knows what I'm promising.
"Then let's make sure it doesn't come to that."
We head north on the trail, following Haywood's tracks into dense timber. The terrain's familiar. I've hunted these mountains for years, know every ridge and draw. Haywood doesn't. He's following the path of least resistance, staying in the valley where the snow's melted and the footing's easier.
Valley routes are predictable and easy to intercept.
After tracking for a while, I find where he stopped to rest. Boot prints in a cleared area, pack impression in the pine needles. He sat for a while, long enough to leave deep marks.
"He's struggling," Sela says, studying the tracks.
"City boy in mountain country." I check the timeline, calculate distance. "He's closer now. We're gaining."
We push on. The trail climbs through old-growth forest, crosses a creek swollen with snowmelt. Haywood went straight through, didn't bother finding a crossing. His tracks on the far bank show he slipped, went down hard. Scrambled up, kept moving.
He's getting tired, making more mistakes.
Hours later, I spot the cabin.
It sits in a clearing ahead, weathered logs and a metal roof. Old hunting camp, abandoned years ago. Smoke rises from the chimney.
I pull Sela down behind a deadfall, glass the cabin with my scope. Movement in the window. Haywood's inside, pacing.
"He's holed up," I whisper. "Probably trying to contact whoever's supposed to extract him."
"Can he get a signal out here?"
"Satellite phone, maybe. Or he's got a scheduled pickup time." I lower the rifle, consider approach vectors. "Either way, he's cornered."
"So what's the plan?"
I study the clearing. Cabin's got one door, a couple windows. Dense timber on three sides, open ground to the south. No cover for the last stretch.
"I approach from the north, use the treeline for concealment. You stay here, cover me with the radio. Anything goes wrong, you call Finn and get out."
"Marc—"
"This is the part where you don't argue." I look at her directly. "Haywood's desperate. Desperate men do stupid things. I need to know you're safe."
She doesn't like it, but she nods.
I move through the timber, circling wide to approach from the north. Take my time, stay quiet. Haywood's trained in procedure, not fieldcraft. He's watching the obvious approach, not the flanks.
Close to the cabin now, I catch voices through the window. Haywood's on a phone, speaking in clipped, urgent tones.
"—need extraction now. They're tracking me. I did what you asked, cleaned up the witnesses, kept the operation secure. You promised protection."
He's listening to someone on the other end.
"I know the risks. I'm not asking, I'm telling you. Send the extraction team or I start talking to DOJ. I've got records, communications, proof of your involvement."
Another pause. Then Haywood's voice goes cold.
"Don't threaten me. I did everything you asked for years. The Marshal wants this network protected, you get me out. Otherwise, I burn it all down."
The Marshal. Confirmation he's taking orders from someone higher.
But no names, no specific details. Just code names and vague threats.
I key my radio, whisper to Sela. "He's on the phone with his handler. Claims he has proof of The Marshal's involvement."
"Can you take him?"
"Working on it."
I move in, angle for a view through the window. Haywood's at a table, satellite phone pressed to his ear. A pistol on the table beside him. A bug-out bag in the corner, still packed.
He's planning to run the second his ride shows up.
That's not happening.
I consider options. Breach the door, go in hard and fast. But Haywood's armed, cornered. He'll fight. Probably die before he talks.
I need him alive. Need what he knows about The Marshal.
I move to the door, position myself to the side. Weapon ready.
"Sheriff's department! Come out with your hands up!"
Nothing. Then footsteps, fast. He's moving.
I breach the door, rifle up. Haywood's at the window, pistol in hand, turning toward me.
"Don't!" I track him with my sights. "Drop the weapon!"
For a second, I think he'll try it. His eyes are wild, desperate. Finger on the trigger.
Then reality hits. He's staring down a rifle barrel, and the rifle is held by someone who won't miss. He lowers the pistol, sets it on the table.
"Hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers."
He complies. I move in fast, kick the pistol away, secure him with zip ties. Pat him down, find a backup weapon in an ankle holster. Backup satellite phone in his jacket.
"You're making a mistake," Haywood says. "The Marshal will bury you. You have no idea how deep this goes."
"Then enlighten me."
"I want a deal. Full immunity, witness protection."
"You're not in a position to negotiate." I pick up the bug-out bag, dump the contents. Cash, fake IDs, encrypted flash drives. All of it is evidence.
"Those communications are insurance," Haywood says. "The Marshal knows I kept records. You arrest me, I disappear in custody before trial."
"Not if DOJ puts you in a hole deep enough."
"You're a fool." He laughs, bitter and sharp. "The Marshal has people everywhere. Federal agents, judges, politicians. You think you're hunting a corrupt FBI supervisor? You're hunting a ghost who controls the entire network."
"Give me a name."
"I don't have one. I've never met The Marshal face-to-face. All communications through encrypted channels and dead drops. I receive orders, I execute them, I get paid. That's how it works."
It's smart compartmentalization. The Marshal stays insulated while foot soldiers like Haywood take the risks.
"Where's the next dead drop?"
"There isn't one. I was supposed to be extracted today, disappear before you got close. But you moved faster than expected." His jaw tightens. "The Marshal won't be happy about that."
I bag the evidence, sling my rifle. Key my radio. "Sela, I've got him. Coming out."
She appears at the treeline, moves toward the cabin. Her shoulders drop when she sees Haywood in custody, tension bleeding out. Then her jaw sets when their eyes meet.
"You ordered men to kill me," she says quietly.
Haywood doesn't answer.
"Emma died because of you. How many others?"
"I followed orders." No remorse in his voice. "The network had to be protected."
"By murdering witnesses? By trafficking women?" She clenches her jaw. "You're not a soldier following orders. You're a coward who sold your badge."
Haywood's mouth thins, but he stays quiet.
I haul him toward the door. "We're done here. Finn's got a vehicle waiting at the trailhead. DOJ can have him processed by tonight."