Chapter 6
HARLOW
The clinic door opens twenty minutes later, bringing three men who move like soldiers even in civilian clothes.
I recognize the type instantly. Former Special Operations. The way they scan the room, check exits, position themselves for optimal coverage.
The lead man clasps hands with Rhys, the brief grip of old friends rather than strangers. "Got here as fast as we could."
"Appreciate it, Zeke." Rhys turns to me. "Harlow Kane, meet Zeke MacAllister. Sheriff of Glacier Hollow."
Zeke extends his hand to me. "Rhys has mentioned the trafficking routes before. Didn't realize how bad it had gotten." He gestures to the other two men. "This is Nate Barrett. Wildlife enforcement."
"Been tracking some of these routes for months," Nate says, shaking my hand. Leaner than Zeke, intense focus in his eyes. "They overlap with illegal hunting operations."
"And Caleb Knox." The third man nods at me. "Wilderness guide. I know every trail in these mountains."
Doc Sage ushers us into a back room where Irina waits, looking small and fragile wrapped in blankets despite the clinic's warmth. Her eyes track each man as they enter, wary despite knowing they're here to help.
Rhys makes the introductions quickly, his voice gentle when he addresses Irina. "These men are going to help us. They're the best at what they do."
She nods once, fingers twisting in the blanket edge.
Zeke pulls up a chair, sitting so he's at her eye level rather than looming over her. The right move. Makes her feel safer, more willing to talk.
"Rhys told me about the location. Can you give us more details? Building layouts, guard positions, anything that'll help us plan the assault."
Irina nods and points to the topographical map Nate spreads across the exam table.
Her finger trembles as it traces the area northeast from the mining site.
"Here. Old logging camp. Five miles, maybe six.
Main building here, where they keep most of us.
Smaller building here for guards. Road comes in from south, very bad. They use trucks with big tires."
"How many guards?" Nate asks, making notes.
"Four. Sometimes five when they bring new girls or take girls away." Her accent thickens with stress. "They work in shifts. Two awake, two sleeping. Always two with guns watching."
"And the women?" I lean forward, keeping my voice calm. "How many are being held?"
"When I leave, there are eight. Maybe nine. Hard to know. They keep us in different buildings." Irina's eyes meet mine. "Some are there long time. Weeks. Others only days before they move them."
My chest tightens. Eight or nine women. Waiting. Scared. Living the nightmare I've seen too many times in case files and crime scene photos.
Caleb marks locations on the map. "Access points?"
"Only one road in. But there are trails." Irina traces routes with surprising accuracy. "The guards, they walk the trails when they check perimeter. Here and here. Every two hours."
Zeke and Nate exchange glances. Military precision in that look. They're already planning approach vectors, timing, extraction routes.
"This is good intel," Zeke says to Irina. "Really good. You're helping save those women."
For the first time since we arrived, something almost like hope flickers across her bruised face.
Rhys's phone buzzes. He steps away to answer, and I watch his expression shift from neutral to granite. His jaw locks. The hand not holding the phone curls into a fist.
"Understood. Stay alert. We'll figure out next steps." He ends the call and turns to face us. "Wells says two armed men showed up in Whitewater Junction looking for us. Went to the station first and then went around town asking a lot of questions."
The room goes silent.
"Details," Zeke says.
"Wells spotted them at the gas station and approached. They opened fire instead of answering questions." Rhys's voice stays level, but fury simmers beneath it. "One dead, one in custody. The one they caught isn't talking."
"Which means there are more," I say. The trafficking network doesn't send a two-man team for a hit this important. They send backup. Layers of backup.
"And they know Irina escaped." Nate looks at the map, then at us. "This camp is going to relocate. Soon. Maybe in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
Rhys shakes his head. "Then we hit it now. Tonight. Before they can move those women."
"With what team?" Zeke's voice is calm but firm. "It's you, me, Nate, Caleb, and Harlow. Five people against at least four armed guards on their home ground. We need reconnaissance. We need a solid plan. And we need to make sure we're not walking into a trap."
"While we're planning, they're moving victims."
"While we're rushing in blind, we're getting ourselves and those women killed." Zeke crosses his arms. "I know this is personal. I know it's connected to Emma. But we do this smart or we don't do it at all."
The silence holds. Two sheriffs. Two protectors. Both right in different ways.
I step forward. "What if Rhys and I disappear while you three do reconnaissance? The kill team is hunting us, not you. If we're off the board, they'll focus on finding us instead of securing the camp. Gives you time to surveil and plan the assault."
Zeke considers this. "Where would you go?"
"My cabin," Rhys says. "It's completely off-grid. No one knows the location except me. Not even Wells."
"How off-grid?"
"Forty miles into the wilderness. No road access for the last ten miles. Solar panels and a generator. Wood heat. Satellite phone only." Rhys looks at me. "It's primitive, but it's secure."
"Storm system moving in tonight," Caleb adds. "Weather service is calling for heavy snow. Could be two feet by morning. Perfect cover."
Zeke nods slowly. "Forty-eight hours. Nate, Caleb, and I will run full reconnaissance on the camp. Map every guard rotation, every entrance, every escape route. You two stay hidden at the cabin. We regroup in two days with a solid tactical plan."
"What about Irina?" I ask.
"She stays here under Doc's care. I'll have my deputy coordinate protection." Zeke's already texting. "No one gets to her without going through us first."
Tactically sound. But the idea of hiding while women are being held captive makes my teeth grind.
Rhys must see it on my face. "Forty-eight hours," he says quietly. "Then we bring them home."
I nod. Forty-eight hours I can do.
We spend another twenty minutes coordinating details. Communication protocols. Check-in times. Emergency extraction plans. The kind of planning that keeps people alive.
By the time we're finished, dusk is beginning to fall. The temperature has dropped ten degrees. Through the clinic windows, the first fat snowflakes drift down lazy and thick.
Rhys and I pack into his truck. The rear window is still cracked and spider-webbed from this morning's firefight, the safety glass frosted white where bullets hit but still holding together.
You sure about this?" I ask. The snow begins to fall as he pulls onto the main road. "Being stuck in a cabin with someone you barely know?"
His eyes stay on the road. "I'm sure about keeping you alive. The rest we'll figure out."
We drive in silence for the first twenty miles. The road narrows, pavement giving way to gravel, then to dirt track barely visible under fresh snow. Trees press close on both sides, spruce and pine heavy with white. The last gas station disappeared in the rearview fifteen miles back.
I pull my jacket tighter, watching the wilderness swallow us whole.
"How did you find this place?" I ask.
"Built it." Rhys navigates a switchback, the truck's four-wheel drive gripping where other vehicles would slide. "After Emma died, I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere nobody could find me unless I wanted them to."
"You built an entire cabin?"
"Took two years. Mostly worked on it during my days off. Gave me something to do besides drink and feel sorry for myself." His voice is matter-of-fact, no self-pity. Just stating facts. "It's not fancy. But it's mine."
The truck climbs higher, the road becoming more suggestion than reality. Snow falls heavier now, thick enough that the headlights reflect back white. Visibility drops to maybe twenty feet.
"We might not make it out for a few days," Rhys says. "If this storm dumps as much snow as they're predicting."
"Forty-eight hours is the plan anyway."
"Forty-eight hours minimum. Could be seventy-two. Could be longer if the roads don't clear."
I should feel trapped. Anxious. But instead there's something almost peaceful about the isolation. No one can find us out here. No assassins. No trafficking networks. Just snow and silence and two people trying to survive.
The cabin appears through the trees like something from a different century. Single story, hand-hewn logs dark with age and weather. A stone chimney rises from one end. Solar panels angle from the roof, barely visible under accumulating snow.
Rhys doesn't stop at the cabin. He drives past it another fifty yards into a dense stand of spruce, killing the engine under the heavy canopy. "I keep a tarp in the back. Help me cover it?"
We work quickly, spreading the dark green tarp over the truck until it's nearly invisible against the trees and shadows. Snow is already accumulating on top, adding natural camouflage.
"Anyone looking won't find it easy," he says.
We make our way back to the cabin through snow that's already ankle-deep. The door is heavy wood with iron hinges, the kind that belongs in a medieval castle. It swings open smoothly despite its weight.
The interior is dim and cold. A wood stove sits in the corner, its door closed.
The main room is small but functional. The kitchen area occupies one wall with a propane stove and hand pump sink.
A table and two chairs sit near the center.
A worn couch faces the wood stove. Shelves line the walls, stocked with books and canned goods.