Chapter 4 #2
I dive for the door. My boot slips on ice. For one heart-stopping second I'm falling, off-balance, vulnerable. Rhys's hand shoots out, catches my jacket, keeps me upright long enough to scramble into the cab.
The engine roars to life before I even get the door closed. Rhys slams his foot down. The tires spin, screaming against ice and gravel. The truck lurches sideways. For a second we're not moving forward at all, just fish-tailing in place while armed men close the distance.
Then the tires bite. Catch. The truck shoots forward so fast my head snaps back against the seat.
Gunfire erupts behind us. Not scattered shots—concentrated fire. Professional. They're aiming for the engine block, the tires, trying to disable us before we can get clear.
Bullets punch through the rear window. The safety glass spider-webs but holds, creating a frosted barrier between us and our pursuers. One round hits the headrest inches from my skull. Another blows out the side mirror in a spray of plastic and metal.
Rhys keeps his foot down. The truck's engine screams as we hit forty, fifty, sixty. The compound recedes behind us—a pillar of black smoke rising into the winter sky, flames still licking at what's left of the office building. Evidence burning. Our tactical advantage evaporating with every second.
But we're alive. Moving. And that's more than those men expected.
My ears are still ringing. Hands shaking from adrenaline dump. But we're alive. Moving. Free.
For now.
"Wells," I manage. "We need to warn him. They might hit him on the way in."
Rhys already has his radio. "Wells, abort approach. Hostiles at the mining site. Armed and dangerous. I repeat, do not approach alone."
Static, then Wells's voice. "Copy that. Redirecting to your location. Where are you?"
"Heading south on Ridge Road. Meet us at the junction."
"Ten minutes."
Rhys sets the radio down, checks the rearview. No pursuit yet. But they'll come. Men like that don't leave witnesses.
"That was good thinking," he says. "With the heater."
"Glad it worked. Wasn't entirely sure it would."
"You were sure enough." He glances at me. "Chicago. That's where you learned to think like that."
The statement hangs between us—not quite a question, but close enough.
"Chicago taught me a lot of things." The road behind us stays clear through the cracked rear window. "Most of them I wish I could forget."
He doesn't push. Just drives, puts distance between us and the men who tried to kill us.
The mine road connects to Ridge Road—empty, no traffic. Good. Less chance of civilians getting caught in crossfire if the traffickers catch up.
My shoulder aches where I slammed into the snow bank. Ribs tender from the blast wave. Nothing serious. Nothing that won't heal.
Not like Chicago. Not like the warehouse where I spent three hours undercover before someone leaked surveillance photos and three armed men came for me with orders to eliminate the problem.
The sound of bullets hitting concrete. The woman in the photos I couldn't save because my cover got blown before we could raid the safehouse.
"You with me?"
Rhys's voice pulls me back. The present. The truck cab. The broken window. The man beside me who just killed someone to keep us alive.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Good. Because we're not done yet."
He's right. We just blew up their operation's headquarters. Exposed their network. Killed one of their operators.
They'll come for us. Hard. Fast. Organized.
And we need to be ready.
"Viktor Petrov," I say. "They took him from the hospital for a reason. Either to eliminate him or to use him."
"Or both." Rhys turns onto Ridge Road. "If he saw something at the facility, if he can identify who's running the operation—"
"Then they'll interrogate him. Get everything he knows. Then kill him."
"Unless we find him first."
My phone comes out, security footage already queued. Fast-forward to this morning, watch the timestamp when we were checking the access points.
There. A vehicle entering the compound. Dark SUV. No plates visible. Drives straight to the equipment shed where we found Viktor yesterday.
Someone was there while we were out checking fence lines. Someone who knew exactly where to look.
It has to be inside access.
"Someone at the company is working with them," I say. "One of the six people with administrative access. They knew we found Viktor. Knew we'd be investigating. They probably called in the tactical team to clean up."
"Can you identify who?"
The footage won't give me that—resolution too low, windows tinted. "Not from this. But I can cross-reference who was on-site this morning. Who had access to the security system to see where we were."
Rhys nods. "Do it. We need a name."
Ahead, Wells's patrol SUV appears, lights flashing. He pulls across both lanes, gets out with weapon drawn, scanning for threats.
Rhys stops the truck, rolls down his window. "Clear. For now."
Wells approaches, takes in the cracked rear window, the damage to the truck, to us. "What the hell happened?"
"Trafficking operation tried to eliminate witnesses," Rhys says. "We declined."
"How many?"
"Four confirmed at the site. One deceased. Three still active." Rhys kills the engine. "We need to coordinate with state police. Get tactical support. These aren't amateurs."
"I'll call it in." Wells moves back to his vehicle.
Rhys looks at me—really looks, checking for injury, for shock, for signs of collapse.
He won't find any. Crisis negotiation taught me how to function through trauma. How to compartmentalize fear and keep moving. How to do the job even when every instinct screams to run.
"You did good back there," he says.
"So did you."
We hold each other's gaze. Something passes between us—recognition maybe, or respect. Two people who've been in the fire and came out the other side.
Two people who aren't done fighting yet.
"They'll come for us again," I say.
"I know."
"We need to find Viktor and we need to identify their inside contact at the company."
"Agreed. Let's get somewhere secure. Regroup. Figure out our next move."
The trafficking network just showed us they'll kill to protect their operation. They have resources. Training. Inside access to law enforcement systems.
But they don't know what I know. Years with the FBI. Early years working trafficking cases before Chicago. All the nights of security patrols, studying the facility and learning its vulnerabilities.
And now I have Rhys—a sheriff who just proved he'll fight beside me instead of trying to protect me from the fight.
The propane smell still clings to my jacket. My hands are finally steady. Behind us, smoke rises from the compound in a dark column against the winter sky.
They came for us once.
Next time, we'll be ready.