Chapter 11
RHYS
The cabin squats thirty yards ahead, lights burning in windows that should be dark. Sergei Volkov paces inside, visible through the glass. The man who killed Emma. I've spent three years hunting her killer without a name, without a face. Now I have both. Right there.
Close enough to kill.
Harlow's hand tightens on my arm. A silent reminder of the promise I made. Justice, not revenge. The words taste bitter now that I'm finally staring at the man who murdered my wife.
"We go in quiet," I whisper. "Secure him first, then search the place."
"What if he runs?"
"He won't get far."
We move closer. Snow muffles our footsteps.
My breath comes out in white puffs that hang in the frozen air.
The temperature has dropped to maybe twenty degrees.
Every inhale burns my lungs. Through the window, Sergei grabs files from a desk, stuffs them into a pack.
He's preparing to run. Knows the camp assault is coming and will mean his operation is endangered.
Has a backup plan. An escape route. Maybe even a contact waiting to extract him.
Not tonight.
I signal Harlow. She moves to cover the back exit while I approach the front. Standard breach procedure. My heart hammers against my ribs. Every step brings me closer to the moment I've been building toward since Emma died.
The front door isn't locked. Overconfident or rushed. Either way, it's his mistake.
I ease it open. Rifle up. Scanning. The main room is cluttered with gear. Radio equipment. Maps spread across a table. Filing cabinets against one wall. Wood smoke and stale cigarettes taint the air. Sergei stands frozen mid-step, escape pack in hand.
His eyes meet mine. Recognition flashes across his face. Then calculation.
"Sheriff Blackwater," he says. His English is good. Barely accented. "I wondered when you would come."
"On the ground. Hands behind your head."
He doesn't move. Stands there holding the pack. Measuring distances. Exits. Chances. The radio on the table crackles with static. Outside, wind howls through the trees.
"I could run," he says. "You would shoot me. Quick death. Better than prison, yes?"
"I'd aim for your legs. You'd live. Just wouldn't walk right again."
That gets a thin smile. "You are not here to arrest me. You are here for revenge."
"I'm here for both. On the ground. Now."
He drops the pack. But instead of complying, he pulls a pistol from his waistband. Fast. Practiced. The muzzle swings toward me.
I fire first. The rifle kicks hard against my shoulder.
The report deafens in the enclosed space.
The round catches his thigh. Spins him sideways into the desk.
The pistol clatters across the floor, slides under a filing cabinet.
He staggers, grabs the desk edge with both hands.
Dark stain spreads across his pants. He doesn't go down though.
Braces himself and laughs. Actually laughs.
"See? You want me alive. To suffer." He clutches his leg. Blood wells between his fingers. "Your wife suffered too. Three years ago on that mountain road."
Heat floods my chest. My finger tightens on the trigger.
"Tell me what happened."
Sergei's eyes widen slightly. Then that smile returns. Colder now. Calculating. "You want confession? You want me to say I gave the order?"
"Tell me." The words come out flat. Dead. I need to know. Need to hear it from his mouth.
"Black truck forced her off the road. Driver did exactly as I instructed." He shrugs. "Mountain roads dangerous in winter. So many accidents. Brake lines fail."
"Who drove the truck?"
"Dead now. Network does not leave loose ends.
" Sergei shifts his weight. Testing the wound.
Seeing if he can move. "The Marshal called me after.
Said it was done. Clean. Ruled accidental within two weeks.
" His smile widens. "Your own investigation found nothing because there was nothing to find. Perfect execution."
The world goes red at the edges. My vision narrows to a pinpoint focused on his chest. On the spot where his heart beats. Where one round ends everything.
"You ordered her murder."
"I followed orders. The Marshal wanted it done, I made it happen." He says it like he's discussing the weather. "She was a problem. Problems get eliminated. This is business."
My hands shake. The rifle trembles. Every muscle in my body locks tight. Three years of hunting. Three years of knowing Emma was murdered and being unable to prove it. And here's the man responsible, treating her death like a transaction.
"Rhys." Harlow's voice comes from the back door. Calm. Steady. The only thing keeping me from crossing the line that once crossed can’t be undone. "Don't do this."
"He killed her." The words barely come out. My throat has closed. "He gave the order."
"Yes," Sergei says. "I gave the order. Black truck.
Mountain road. Winter conditions. Easy to make it look like accident.
" He leans forward despite the pain. "And you could do nothing about it.
Three years, Sheriff. Three years you investigated and found nothing.
Because we are very good at what we do."
I chamber another round. The sound echoes in the cabin.
Loud as a gunshot. My finger trembles against the trigger.
One more pound of pressure. That's all it takes.
Every nerve in my body screams for it. For him to pay for Emma's murder.
For the three years he's walked free while I've drowned in grief.
My aim doesn't waver. Steady on his chest. Center mass. One shot and this ends.
"Do it," Sergei whispers. "Become what you are. Killer. Murderer. No different than me."
But I can't look away from Sergei. Can't lower the rifle. The image of Emma trapped in her car, dying on a mountain road because this bastard made a phone call, burns behind my eyes.
"She was nobody to you," I say. "Just another problem."
"She was investigating the operation. Treating workers from the camps.
Asking too many questions." Sergei coughs.
His breathing comes harder now. "She took photographs of injuries.
Made notes. Your wife was building a case, Sheriff.
The Marshal said she had to be stopped before she gave everything to you. "
"Shut up."
"She was smart. Made copies of everything. Hid them." He gestures weakly toward the filing cabinets. "We found them. Took two years. But we found them."
The rifle barrel drifts up. Centers on his head. Execution shot. The kind that doesn't leave questions.
"Where are they?"
"Filing cabinet. Second drawer." His smile returns despite the pain. "Everything your wife died protecting. Every photograph. Every document. All of it right there."
Harlow moves into my peripheral vision. Doesn't touch me. Doesn't try to disarm me. Just stands there. Present. Solid. Real.
"He wants you to do it," she says quietly. "Can't you see? He wants you to pull that trigger. Wants you to become what he is. Because then he wins."
"He already won. He killed Emma."
"No. He killed her body. But you're killing her memory if you do this.
" Harlow takes a small step closer. "The Emma you told me about—the nurse who wanted to help people—she wouldn't want this.
She'd want justice. Real justice. The kind that stands up in court.
The kind that exposes the whole network. "
Sergei laughs. Wet and weak. "Listen to your woman, Sheriff. Be good dog. Heel."
His gaze shifts between us as he sinks to his knees, still smiling despite the wound. His face is pale now. Sweating despite the cold. Shock setting in. "I am already dead man. Network does not tolerate failure. But you, Sheriff. You have to live with what you choose tonight."
My shoulders burn from holding the rifle aimed. My hands ache. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cold. I've been standing here for maybe two minutes but it feels like hours. Like the entire three years since Emma died compressed into this single moment of choice.
Kill him and end it. Quick. Final. The way he should have ended three years ago before Emma ever crossed his path.
Or arrest him. Do it right. Build the case. Expose the network. Make Emma's death mean something beyond my revenge.
The rifle wavers. Just a fraction. But enough that Sergei notices.
"You are weak," he says. "Your wife died because you are weak. You could not protect her. Could not stop us. Could not find evidence." He coughs. Spits onto the floor. "Even now, with me on my knees, you are too weak to do what must be done."
The rage crystallizes. Becomes something cold and hard in my chest. Not the burning heat from before. This is different. Colder. More dangerous.
I lower the rifle. Just slightly. Enough to meet Sergei's eyes without the scope in the way.
"You're right," I say. "I am weak. Weak enough to let you live. Weak enough to believe in a system that'll probably let you walk. Weak enough to choose justice over the satisfaction of watching you die."
I move closer. Keep the rifle trained on center mass. Gun smoke hangs acrid in the cold air. My eyes water from it. "Who is the Marshal? Give me a name."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It matters."
He shrugs. Grimaces at the pain it causes. His breathing comes faster now. Shallower. "Federal marshal. That is all I know. Very powerful man. Very connected. Makes problems disappear."
The Marshal. I file it away. Another target. Another thread to pull. The title fits what I've suspected for months—someone in federal law enforcement running interference. Making evidence disappear. Witnesses vanish.
"Why Emma? Why not just threaten her?"
"She would not be threatened. The Marshal tried. She kept investigating." He coughs. Presses harder against his thigh. "She was going to expose everything. The camps. The trafficking network. The federal protection. Your wife was going to bring it all down. So the Marshal ordered her eliminated."