Light and Darkness

IZZY LLEWELLYN SMALL TOWN SUSPENSE SERIES

BOOK THREE

ZARA EVANS

Chapter One

The cold bit into her palms as she dragged herself forward, knuckles white. Her breath clouded in front of her face, each exhale a ghost that dissipated into the darkness. The night air seeped through her Columbia jacket, raising goosebumps along her arms.

A sliver of moonlight gave the space around her a vague shape, but nothing more. Her gaze was drawn to the jagged silhouette of mountains against the star-strewn sky. Snow glinted on their peaks, a deceptively peaceful sight that only emphasized how utterly alone she was.

Her muscles ached from holding still, from fighting the tremors that threatened to give away her position. The cold had settled deep in her bones, but she didn’t dare move to generate warmth. Not yet.

A whisper of wind slipped in, carrying with it the bite of a winter that should have been done. The temperature had dropped since sunset, and her thin layers offered little protection. She flexed her fingers, willing circulation back into them. The gap through which she saw the mountains offered the only path to civilization.

No roads visible from her vantage point. No lights except the distant, cold stars and the mocking glow of the moon. Help felt so close, yet too far for rescue to be an option.

Another gust of wind rattled through. She flinched at the sound, then cursed herself for the involuntary movement. Amateur mistakes could get her killed. The thought sent ice through her veins that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The mountain peaks disappeared into low-hanging clouds, promising more weather, more cold, more isolation. No one would think to look for her here. No one would hear her if she screamed.

A metallic clang echoed in the dark, the cavernous space making it impossible to triangulate. Her muscles tensed, body reacting before conscious thought. The sound sparked a flash of memory—a different kind of metallic sound, with the scorch of desert sun on her neck. The first time she had a team, a purpose. Now her hands were empty, searching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Then, the desert heat had baked into her, made her grateful for every sip of water. Now, the cold seeped in, dulled her reactions, slowed her thinking. She shifted her weight, careful to avoid the telltale scrape of her boots.

The sound came again. Closer? She’d faced this kind of danger before and made it through, almost whole. She was determined to do so again.

Her mind churned over the series of mistakes she had made to get here. Red flags ignored. She’d grown soft in this new life, let her guard down. Rookie mistake.

The moon disappeared again behind clouds, leaving her one sense down. She pressed deeper into her hiding spot, mind racing through tactical options that no longer applied. This life had stripped away her tools, but not her instincts. Those remained sharp as ever, screaming danger into the darkness.

Then she heard the footsteps, the sound amplified in the absence of light. Her pulse spiked. The steps carried weight, purpose—like a hunter.

She pressed back into her hiding spot, willing herself to melt into it. The steps paused, then resumed. Closer. The repetition made it possible to pinpoint their location, but the lack of visual confirmation gave her doubt. When she moved—and she would have to move—she would have one shot, and she needed to be sure she was running from the danger, not into its arms.

A drop of sweat rolled down her spine despite the cold. Her fingers spread on the surface below.

The footsteps stopped.

Her muscles coiled, ready to sprint or strike. The rational part of her mind calculated odds—running meant exposure, meant becoming a target. Fighting meant close quarters, meant gambling on her strength against a bigger opponent. Experience told her what the wrong choice meant.

The silence stretched, broken only by her controlled breathing. Her training screamed at her to move, to act, to do something besides wait for death to find her.

Movement, barely ten feet away.

Her body made the choice before her mind could process it. She dropped into a crouch, spreading her weight to avoid slipping.

The moon broke through the clouds, casting silver light through the gap. The sudden illumination revealed more of the surrounding space—and exposed her position.

She bolted.

Her boots slapped in rapid succession as she sprinted for the opening. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out everything except the thunder of pursuit behind her. The gap seemed to shrink with each step, freedom receding like a cruel mirage.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness ahead. The silhouette of a man blocked her path, broad-shouldered and solid as a wall. She tried to pivot, to change direction, but momentum carried her forward.

Her ankle twisted. The ground rushed up to meet her. Impact drove the air from her lungs in a harsh gasp and pain shot through her palms where they struck the frozen surface.

She scrambled to rise, but her body betrayed her. Her muscles seized from cold and exhaustion. Her fingers slid, offering no purchase as she tried to drag herself away.

The sound of footsteps echoed, more purposeful now. She flipped over and scrambled backward on her elbows, defeat settling over her like a shroud. The gap that had promised escape now framed only empty sky and distant peaks, and the outline of her pursuer.

Her last threads of hope unraveled as the footsteps stopped beside her. The moon slipped behind clouds again, plunging her world back into darkness.

Chapter Two

Sheriff Izzy Llewellyn pushed through the glass doors of the sheriff’s office, the bite of mountain spring air following her inside. The lobby’s warmth did little to thaw the chill that had settled into her bones during the walk from her grandfather’s house, and as she shuddered, her dark ponytail bounced from one shoulder to the other.

Adrianne looked up from her desk, her rose-printed muumuu a splash of color against the stark walls. “Morning, Sheriff. Coffee’s fresh.”

“Thanks.” Adrianne buzzed the security door, and Izzy walked through the spacious, light-filled lobby, her boots leaving muffled thumps on the tile as she crossed to the break room.

Two deputies huddled near the water cooler fell silent as she approached. Their conversation resumed in hushed tones once she’d moved by, the words too low to make out. She felt their stares boring into her back as she poured her coffee.

“Gentlemen,” she said, as she turned to leave.

“Ma’am,” they replied in unison.

The squad room buzzed with morning activity. Computer screens glowed, phones rang, and the usual shuffle of paperwork filled the air. But there was an undercurrent of tension, like a live wire humming beneath the surface.

Deputy Martinez offered a small wave as she passed his desk. Wilson nodded and returned to his typing. Small gestures of support that hadn’t existed when she’d first arrived five months ago.

Undersheriff Hawkins stood in his office doorway, phone pressed to his ear. His groomed mustache twitched as he tracked her progress across the floor. The movement reminded her of a cat watching prey, calculating the perfect moment to pounce.

She’d earned half the department’s respect through consistent leadership and fair treatment. The other half, Hawkins’ old guard, were counting down the days until the election, hoping their champion would replace her.

The decision she planned to announce at the morning briefing would only widen that divide, but she hadn’t taken this job to make friends or play politics. She’d come to Mirage County for her own reasons, and now she was here and settled, she planned to do what was right for the community and for the office she led, even if it meant ruffling some feathers along the way.

Izzy settled into her office chair, the faux-leather creaking. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the high desert stretched endlessly east, its muted browns still carrying winter’s touch despite the calendar claiming it was spring. She pulled an employment application from the stack of papers on her desk.

The resume was short but showed promise. High school valedictorian, active in community service, and glowing references from her volunteer work. She knew the community, understood its rhythms and peculiarities in a way that would take an outsider years to grasp. More importantly, Izzy had seen the candidate at work, assisting her with investigations in a consulting capacity, and she showed real promise.

Izzy traced her finger down the neat columns of text. The old guard would protest, of course. They’d say the candidate was too young, too inexperienced, too female. The same arguments they’d used to try to block every change she’d implemented since taking office.

Things had shifted after the December arrest of a local community patriarch. The divisions in her office had crystallized that night when a number of her deputies refused to respond to an all-hands call to the scene. They’d expected her to cave, to let another rich man get away with crime. Instead, she’d suspended everyone who defied her orders, including Undersheriff Hawkins.

The write-ups still sat in their personnel files, a reminder that the old ways of doing business were over. The backbiting continued, but orders were followed now. Progress, however grudging.

She set down the application and pulled up the crime statistics on her computer. The numbers told a stark story—before her arrival, domestic violence reports had been virtually non-existent. Not because the crimes weren’t happening, but because victims knew better than to report them to the good old boys’ network that were more likely to feed any complaint back to the perpetrator than act on it.

That had changed in the past five months. Reports were up three hundred percent, albeit from a near-zero base, and arrests followed. The old guard grumbled about family matters being private, but Izzy had made it clear—the law applied equally to everyone, regardless of their name or position in the community.

Still, many women remained hesitant to report crimes to male deputies. Izzy needed female officers who understood the unique challenges women faced in a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. This could be the first step toward building that trust.

The sound of voices carried through her open door—Hawkins holding court downstairs in the squad room, no doubt sharing his opinions on how things should be run. His supporters would be nodding along, dreaming of returning to the days when the sheriff’s office served only part of the community.

Izzy gathered her papers and headed down to the squad room, where deputies filled the rows of chairs facing the lectern. The scent of coffee and gun oil hung in the air, mixing with the low murmur of conversation. Hawkins stood at the front, his pressed uniform and polished boots a reminder of his attention to appearance over substance.

“Quiet down,” Hawkins called out. “Night shift responded to two drunk and disorderlies at the Horseshoe, one domestic at the trailer park—subject fled before arrival—and a noise complaint out on Ridge Road. Day shift, keep an eye out for that domestic subject. Description’s on the board.” He adjusted his belt. “Sheriff has an announcement.”

Izzy took her place at the lectern, setting her papers down before looking around the room. “As you’re aware, we recently had a vacancy arise in our ranks. After an extensive search and interview process, I’ve selected a candidate who will help us better serve our entire community.”

She gestured toward the back of the room. “Jenny Wahlberg will be joining us as a trainee deputy.”

Jenny stood near the door in her crisp sheriff’s office polo and tactical pants, her light brown waves pulled back in a neat ponytail. Though she wore no badge yet, her posture radiated quiet confidence. Her green eyes swept the room, meeting the stares of the deputies.

“Ms. Wahlberg has already demonstrated her investigative abilities during several cases where she assisted in a consulting capacity. Her insight and attention to detail were instrumental in identifying key evidence that led to arrests. She brings a fresh perspective and strong ties to our community that will make her an asset to this office.”

The room erupted in murmurs. Deputy Wilson broke into applause, joined by Martinez and a few others. Jenny’s husband, Elliot, beamed from his seat, pride evident in his expression.

Hawkins cleared his throat. “Sheriff, with all due respect, we’ve always required academy certification before hiring. It’s a matter of office standards.”

“And safety,” Deputy Johnson added, leaning back in his chair. “Back when I started, you had to complete the full academy before they’d even let you touch a badge. Now we’re just handing them out?”

“And where did learn how to actually do the job?” Izzy fired back at Johnson. “In a classroom or on the street? This is not an unusual way of recruiting new deputies, and no one believes more in formalized training that I do. Some of you have already benefited from attending courses since I arrived. Trainee Deputy Wahlberg will complete her certification through the block program at the academy in Riverside. She’ll train here between sessions, learning from our experienced deputies. This model has been successfully implemented in other rural departments facing staffing challenges.”

“So we’re babysitting instead of patrolling?” Johnson’s lip curled. “What happens when she encounters a violent suspect? Will her consulting experience help then?”

“Remind me again, Deputy.” Izzy’s gaze locked onto Johnson. “What was your last certification score on the range?”

Johnson shifted in his seat but said nothing.

“If I recall, a one-seventy-seven out of two-fifty, with a one-seventy-five minimum to pass. Am I right?”

Johnson averted his eyes.

“Am I right, Deputy Johnson?”

He spoke through gritted teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Trainee Deputy Wahlberg, you shot at the range last week when Elliot recertified. What did you score?”

Jenny lifted her chin. “Two-twenty, ma’am.”

“Right,” said Izzy. “So, room for improvement.”

“Thirty points’ worth, ma’am.”

“Indeed. So if any of you feel that you can’t handle the job of helping to train this office’s future, then you just come see me. There’s always paperwork that needs doing.”

Hawkins folded his arms. “And what are we supposed to call an unsworn deputy?”

“You could try her name, Dale. In case you missed it, it’s Jenny. But Trainee Deputy Wahlberg will also work.”

Hawkins frowned. “And will she carry?”

“No. Only in training sessions, until she is sworn. Just like you did, Undersheriff.” Izzy tapped her papers together. “That’s all. If anyone has further concerns, you can submit them in writing to my office.” Izzy gestured to Jenny. “Deputy Wahlberg starts today. She’ll be partnered with experienced officers until she completes her certification blocks. I trust everyone will demonstrate the professionalism this office requires.”

Izzy caught Martinez’s eye as the deputies filed out. He nodded, hanging back until the room cleared. His compact frame moved easily toward the podium. Despite only being five-ten, he carried an air of authority to which other deputies and civilians alike responded.

“Martinez, I’m assigning Jenny to ride with you today,” said Izzy.

“Okay, boss.” Martinez adjusted his duty belt and narrowed his deep brown eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Deputy?”

“I guess I’m just not sure about the protocol. Like, what happens if we encounter an armed suspect? I don’t want to put her in danger, but I also can’t leave her in the car all the time, can I?”

“That’s exactly why I chose you.” Izzy leaned against the lectern. “You’ve got the judgment to handle those situations. If there’s a firearms risk, call for backup. Jenny stays back until the scene is secure. But most of our calls are not dangerous. You know that. So don’t sideline her completely. She needs to learn, and you’re one of our best.”

“Appreciate that, ma’am.” Martinez’s expression softened. “Some of the others might give her a hard time at first.”

“Let them try.” Izzy straightened. “I suspect Jenny can take anything these boys dish out, but I’m putting her under your care, Martinez. Every rookie goes through it—it’s part of what bonds us—but you know where the line is.” Izzy sighed. “She’s smart, resourceful, and she thinks fast under pressure. Show her the ropes, help her build confidence. The rest will fall into place.”

“Will do, Sheriff.” Martinez offered a nod and walked over to the new trainee, who waited at the door.

Izzy watched Martinez speak to her and Jenny return an eager nod. Then they strode out of the squad room together.

Izzy noticed one person across the lobby watching them go. She walked over to Elliot Wahlberg. He was six feet tall but at twenty-one hadn’t filled in the way men usually did, so he had a look that reminded her of a Great Dane puppy. “She’ll be fine, Elliot.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I think she will. But it won’t stop me worrying.”

“It won’t stop her worrying about you, either. Now, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes, boss.”

Izzy watched Wahlberg turn out the door toward the rear parking lot. She stood for a moment in the silence and took a long, slow breath. Then she made her way back up the stairs to her office.

Glancing down from her window, Izzy could see the patrol SUVs pulling out. All except one. Martinez stood beside his vehicle, driver’s door open, with Trainee Deputy Wahlberg in the seat. Martinez was pointing at the dashboard computer system. Showing her the ropes.

It was a solid pairing. Martinez had emerged as a natural leader since Izzy took office, embracing change while maintaining high standards. His steady guidance would help Jenny navigate both the practical and political challenges ahead.

She hoped.

Chapter Three

The intercom buzzed. “Sheriff? I have Ranger Malcolm Garth on line one.”

Izzy pressed the button. “Who?”

“Forest Service.” Adrianne’s voice softened. “He’s one of our rangers up in Mirage National Forest. Been here longer than I have. Says it’s urgent.”

Izzy picked up the phone. “Sheriff Llewellyn.”

“Ranger Garth here. Got a radio call from some climbers up on Mt. Mollison. They’ve found what appears to be a body. At the alpine trailhead.”

Izzy grabbed her notepad. “Location details?”

“Take Muir Road west until it dead ends. There’s a trail to the alpine zone from there.” His voice carried the steady calm of someone used to wilderness emergencies. “It’s about a four-hour hike to reach the site.”

Izzy’s pen stopped moving. “Four hours?”

“I can pick you up. Got snowshoes and crampons in my truck. Weather’s clear, but there’s still heavy snowpack up there.”

Izzy pinched the bridge of her nose. A body recovery at altitude was not how she saw this day going. “We need to call in Dr. Barrow.”

“He got snowshoes? Not sure I’ve got three sets handy.”

“He does.” Izzy checked her watch. “How soon can you get here?”

“Twenty minutes. I’m at my cabin.”

“Meet me at my office. I’ll have Dr. Barrow here by then.” Izzy ended the call and dialed Cole’s office.

Serena Alvarez answered cheerfully. “Darkness Medical Clinic.”

“Serena, it’s Izzy. I need Cole for an urgent call out. Some hikers found a body in the mountains.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. It’s going to take all day to get up there and back.”

“I’ll let him know and reschedule his appointments.”

“Thanks, Serena. Tell him to grab his snowshoes and whatever else he might need and come to my office ASAP.”

Izzy rushed home and grabbed her winter gear from the closet. She made it back to the office just as a green Forest Service SUV pulled into the lot.

Malcolm Garth stepped out of his vehicle, his weathered face creased, green eyes alert beneath reddish-brown hair going grey at the temples. The Forest Service uniform sat crisp on his lean frame, and he moved with the economy of someone who’d spent decades navigating mountain terrain.

“Sheriff Llewellyn,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Malcolm Garth. Folks call me Mal.”

“Call me Izzy. We’re just waiting on Dr. Barrow.” Her eyes drifted over the ranger’s shoulder to the black Dodge Ram pulling into the lot. “Here he is now.”

Cole unfolded his tall frame out of the cab. The winter sun caught the angles of his face—chiseled jawline and high cheekbones framed by slightly tousled brown hair. His preferred tan jacket had been replaced by a heavy parka, and his deep brown eyes scanned the surroundings.

Izzy made to introduce the two men, but they shook hands like they knew each other. “Of course, the doctor knows everybody.”

“I’ve known Cole since he arrived in Darkness,” said Mal.

Cole took his hiking pack from his truck and tossed it into Mal’s SUV, then they headed out. The drive took them south of Darkness, then west along Muir Road. The pavement gave way to gravel, then dirt, until it dead-ended at a small clearing where a blue minivan sat alone.

“Climbers’ vehicle,” Mal said, killing the engine. “They’ll be waiting at the trailhead.”

They shouldered their packs, snowshoes tied to the backs. Izzy adjusted her watch cap. “Four hours to a trailhead? Aren’t those usually at the start of a hike?”

Mal’s laugh held no humor. “This isn’t considered a proper trailhead. No one comes this way unless they’re gluttons for punishment. It’s brutal, but it’s the fastest route to the alpine trailhead. That one branches to three different fourteeners.”

“Fourteeners?”

“Peaks over fourteen thousand feet. California’s got fifteen of them. Three are accessible from where we’re headed, if you call this accessible.”

The first stretch lived up to Mal’s warning. They scrambled over ice-slicked boulders where spring melt created treacherous patches. After an hour, crusty snow forced them to strap on snowshoes. Several times Izzy tried talking to Cole only to find the terrain and the altitude had sucked the conversation from her.

Two hours of trudging through snowpack brought them to the steeper sections where the snow had compressed to solid ice. They switched to crampons, the metal spikes biting into the frozen surface with each step.

After another hour, the ledge opened into a wider trailhead, hemmed in by a sheer drop into a ravine on one side and the mountainside rising to a subpeak on the other. Beyond that, Mt. Mollison stretched toward the clouds.

Two orange mountaineering tents huddled against the mountain. Four men in technical gear clustered around a camp stove, steam rising from a pot.

“Sheriff Llewellyn, Mirage County.” Izzy pulled out her badge.

“Luke Emerson.” A man in red Gore-Tex gestured to his companions. “Hugh, Martin, and Zander.”

Izzy tracked their different colored jackets—blue, green, and black—to keep them straight. They all shared the same lean build and weather-beaten look of serious climbers. Their gear looked well-maintained, not rental equipment.

Their story came out in pieces, each man adding details the others missed. Clear speech patterns, no contradictions. They’d planned a spring ascent of Mt. Mollison’s west face. Found the body while scouting routes.

“Spring conditions are tricky,” Luke explained. “Freeze-thaw cycles make the ice unstable. We were checking the snowpack for avalanche risk when we spotted her.”

Izzy noted how the others deferred to Luke, their body language suggesting he was the most experienced. The one in the black jacket, Zander, looked a few years younger than the others and kept glancing nervously at the ravine while Hugh and Martin maintained steady eye contact.

“Where exactly did you find the body?” asked Izzy.

Luke led them to the ravine edge. Loose scree shifted under their boots as they approached. Izzy dropped to her belly and crawled the final feet to peer over.

About a hundred feet down, wedged between two rock outcroppings, lay a body. The slight frame and long black hair suggested female. Her limbs bent at unnatural angles, clothing torn and bloody.

Izzy turned to Cole. “I’m sorry I dragged you up here. I think I can pronounce this one by myself.”

Cole crouched at the edge, his expression grim. “We need to get her out.”

Mal uncoiled a length of climbing rope from his pack. “Luke, help me set this anchor.”

They secured the line around a boulder the size of a small car, testing the knots with solid tugs.

Izzy pulled out her phone, documenting the scene from multiple angles while Mal rigged the rappel system. The body’s position, the rock formations, the scattered debris caught in the crevices below.

“Brooks ultralight,” Mal said, pulling out a small pouch that looked like it might hold a one-man tent. He and Cole each took an end and spread the rip-stop nylon sled out on the ice, then assembled aluminum poles into a frame. “Usually, you’d jury-rig this with skis and poles, but I keep this setup for situations where that’s not an option.”

While Mal and Cole worked, Izzy turned to the remaining climbers. “So you were camping on the mountain for the night?” she asked.

“No,” said Luke. “We hiked up early. Started at 3 a.m. We can do Mollison in an eighteen hour day.”

“So, what’s with the tents?” Izzy jutted her chin at their camp set up.

“We carry tents just in case. We would have left them somewhere nearby and picked them up on the way down—don’t need them for the final ascent—but you never know when the mountain might throw a curve ball at you.”

“Quite.” Izzy glanced at the ravine. “What brings you up here this early in the season?”

“Late, actually. We’re climbers, not hikers. This is a training run,” Hugh said, adjusting his blue jacket. “Getting ready for Denali this summer.”

“Denali?”

“Alaska. We’re hitting some technical routes.” Martin’s green Gore-Tex rustled as he shifted his weight. “Testing our systems before the big climb.”

“Systems?” Izzy asked.

“Safety protocols.” Zander’s voice cracked. “Buddy system, equipment checks.”

“Never climb alone,” Hugh added. Izzy noted something in his expression as he glanced toward the ravine.

“You’re thinking something?” said Izzy.

“Why was that person out here alone? Either they were way inexperienced, which makes you wonder how she got here, or she was experienced and had a buddy.”

“Right.” Izzy noted how Zander’s eyes darted between his companions. “And you all have experience with technical climbs?”

“I’ve been climbing for a few years, but this would be my first fourteener,” Zander said.

“I’ve done five,” said Martin.

Hugh nodded. “Same.”

“Seven for me,” said Luke.

Izzy watched them answer but couldn’t deny they moved with the confidence of people who knew their way around technical equipment and high altitudes.

When he was set up, Izzy handed Mal a camera, and he clipped onto the rope and disappeared over the edge. He paused at the body, his head bowing briefly before he began taking photos of the scene. He stowed the camera in a pocket, then dragged the body onto the rescue, before securing it the rope. Once he was ready, the climbers worked in sync, hauling the line while Mal guided the sled around jutting rocks.

When they pulled the body over the edge, Zander stepped forward for a look, then spun away. He ran to the mountain face, where the sound of retching echoed off the rocks. Izzy understood his reaction as she took in the victim’s condition. Female, based on build and clothing, but her face was destroyed beyond recognition, a mass of purple-black bruising, lacerations, and dried blood.

Izzy kept her eyes off the victim’s face as she did a quick check of the body for ID, finding nothing.

“Worst fall I’ve seen in fifteen years up here.” Mal’s voice carried an edge.

Cole knelt beside the body. “Mal, did you see blood trails down the ravine?”

“No.”

“At the bottom. Where she landed?”

“Not really. Why?”

Cole glanced at Izzy and shook his head.

Izzy gestured to Mal. “Can you go back down? I need photos of the terrain. Along the path she fell, especially any blood spatter patterns. And look for any personal items—a backpack, jacket, anything.”

The climbers worked the ropes again, lowering and raising Mal while he documented the scene. When he returned, he shook his head at Izzy, who turned to the group.

“We need to clear the scene,” she said. “Pack up your camp.”

“But we’re going up tomorrow—” Hugh started.

“Show some respect. One of your fellow climbers⁠—”

“She wasn’t a climber,” Luke cut in. “Look at that lightweight jacket. No proper gear, no pack. No climber would come up here like that.”

Izzy noted the point, but her poker face made her mood clear.

As the men broke down their tents, Mal drew Izzy aside. “You got suspicions about this?”

“The lack of blood is an unanswered question.”

“I don’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

“What’s bothering you, Mal?”

He glanced toward the ravine. “We’re standing in Mirage National Forest. That makes this federal jurisdiction.”

Izzy’s stomach clenched. The last thing she wanted was FBI involvement, not after the way she’d left the Bureau. But Mal was right—jurisdiction could get messy fast.

“Let’s establish cause of death first,” she said. “Then we can sort out who takes point.”

“I think maybe I should call Sacramento when I get down.”

Izzy put her hands on her hips. “Anyone the Bureau sends will come from Fresno.”

“I don’t have a number for them, but I heard you were with the FBI before.”

“I was. Don’t worry, Mal. I know who to call. Let’s just get this poor woman off this mountain before it gets dark.”

Izzy watched the climbers break down their camp, each man focused on his task. Luke kept glancing her way as if gauging her reactions.

Mal secured himself to the rescue sled, testing the straps with sharp tugs. The body lay wrapped in a silver emergency blanket, looking small against the stark white snow. The setting sun painted long shadows across the mountaintop, turning the ravine into a dark gash.

The descent would be treacherous. Already the temperature had dropped as daylight faded, the snowpack refreezing. One misstep could send any of them tumbling down the same path that had claimed their victim.

Something about this scene nagged at Izzy. She’d worked enough crime scenes to know that bodies told stories—in their position, their injuries, the evidence around them. This story had holes.

The jurisdictional mess loomed large. If this turned out to be more than an accident, the Bureau would have to take the lead. They’d cite federal land, possible links to other cases, whatever justification let them take control. She’d seen it before from the other side.

“Ready?” Mal called out.

Cole helped steady the sled from the front. The climbers stood in a tight cluster, gear packed, watching. Their earlier eagerness to climb had vanished, replaced by a tense silence. Izzy wondered if they were finally considering what the mountains could do to them.

The first section down proved brutal. Ice crackled under their crampons as they picked their way between jutting rocks. Mal kept the sled steady, but the extra weight threw off his usual grace. Twice he had to catch himself as scree shifted beneath his boots.

Izzy’s thighs burned from the controlled descent, but her mind raced faster than her feet, cataloging details that didn’t add up. No blood where there should have been pools of it. No signs of climbing gear on the victim, not even a day pack.

What was she doing up there?

Chapter Four

Cole’s muscles burned as he helped Mal guide the rescue sled down the steep mountainside. The silver emergency blanket crinkled with each careful step, their movements synchronized to keep the precious cargo stable. His crampons crunched through the crusty top layer of ice, seeking purchase on the terrain beneath.

“Watch that outcrop,” Mal called from the front, his voice steady despite the strain evident in his posture.

The sled lurched as it caught on an ice-covered rock. Cole threw his weight against the rear, steadying it before it could slide sideways. His breath came in sharp bursts, visible in the fading light. They’d been at this for over an hour, and the physical toll was mounting.

“Need a break?” Luke stepped forward, his red jacket popping against the white landscape.

Cole nodded, grateful for the offer. His shoulders ached from maintaining constant tension on the guide ropes. “Hugh, you take front position with Luke. Remember to keep the weight distributed evenly.”

The climbers moved with greater ease, taking control of the sled while Cole and Mal caught their breath. Cole watched their technique. They clearly knew their way around mountain rescue equipment.

“How much further?” Cole asked Mal.

“Another hour, maybe more in these conditions.” Mal pulled out his water bottle, frost forming on the metal surface. “Light’s fading faster than I’d like.”

They continued down, trading positions every thirty minutes to prevent fatigue from compromising their safety. The mountains cast long shadows across their path, and Cole found himself grateful for the headlamp he’d packed on instinct.

About thirty minutes from the bottom, Izzy’s phone chirped. She stepped aside, phone pressed to her ear, deep brown eyes scanning side to side, as she coordinated with the fire department to meet them.

Cole focused on his footing as they navigated the final stretch. The lights from emergency vehicles below pierced the gathering darkness, creating eerie shadows on the snow.

The paramedic van sat waiting, red and white lights painting the snow in alternating colors. Cole recognized Ben MacGill, the crew chief of the Darkness Fire Department. He was the only paid full-time employee and a trained EMT. Ben and one of his volunteers transferred the body from the rescue sled to a gurney.

Izzy checked over the body for ID again but came up empty, then stepped aside to let the firemen lift the gurney into the van.

“Take her straight to Harris,” Cole instructed as they transferred the body. “Dr. Pickett’s facility. I’ll call ahead.”

He pulled out his phone while the paramedics secured their cargo. “Dylan? Cole Barrow. We’re sending you a body from Mt. Mollison.”

“I heard about it. You went up there?”

“Yes. Just got down.”

“So, an accident?”

“Maybe. My preliminary look makes me wonder if there’s more to it, but I’ll let you make that call. Ben MacGill’s on his way to you now. About an hour or so.”

“I won’t be at the lab, but my staff can receive. I’ll alert them.”

“Thanks, Dylan. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

The ambulance pulled away, lights cutting through the darkness. Cole watched it disappear around the bend, his mind wondering how long it would take for Dylan to get to the autopsy among his hospital responsibilities, but those thoughts could wait. Right now, his body demanded rest, and the mountain had extracted its toll from all of them.

Cole watched the climbers shoulder their packs, their movements betraying exhaustion from the long day. Luke approached, adjusting his red jacket.

“When can we get back up there?” Luke’s eyes kept drifting toward the peak.

“I’ll need statements from all of you first,” Izzy said. “I have your hotel details. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

Luke nodded, though his brow creased in frustration. The climbers piled into their blue minivan, the engine rumbling to life in the quiet mountain air.

Cole slid into Mal’s Forest Service SUV beside Izzy, his muscles protesting the movement. They followed the minivan’s taillights down the winding road, the darkness pressing against the windows.

Back at the sheriff’s office, Cole’s Ram sat waiting in the empty public lot. As they got out, Izzy told Mal she would speak to him in the morning.

Cole touched Izzy’s arm before she could head inside. “Why don’t you stay at mine tonight? I’ll make you dinner.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to be very good company, and I need to check on Aitona.” Izzy’s voice held warmth despite her evident fatigue.

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking for witty conversation either. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll take care of Joe and then I’ll take care of you.”

He saw the ripple of gratitude as she touched his hand and then turned toward her vehicle.

The drive to Joe’s house took only minutes. They found the old Basque sheepherder on the front porch, wrapped in a wool blanket against the evening chill.

“Everything okay?” Joe’s bronzed face creased with concern.

“Just checking in,” said Izzy, putting her hand on her grandfather’s shoulder. “Had a rough day up on Mollison.”

“Heard the sirens.” Joe’s dark eyes studied her. “Bad business?”

“Yeah. Did you eat?”

“There’s leftover pasta. I’m fine.” Joe’s tanned face crinkled further. “You staying at Cole’s?”

“Is that okay?”

Joe smiled. “Of course. You look exhausted, though. You kids get some sleep.”

“You too, Aitona. I’ll drop by before work tomorrow.” Izzy kissed her grandfather, and the old man offered Cole a wave as they headed for their vehicles.

The final drive to his cabin felt longer than usual. Cole’s thoughts drifted to the body they’d recovered—someone’s daughter, sister, friend. Like always, it felt like such a waste.

His cabin emerged from the darkness, the porch light casting a warm glow across the silvered cedar siding. Izzy parked behind him, and they wandered to the side door. Inside, they dropped their gear in the mudroom, and Cole sank into his favorite chair, letting the quiet of his home wash over him.

Nanook lumbered into the living and nuzzled against Izzy’s leg before crossing to Cole. Days like this reminded him of his time in Afghanistan—the weight of mortality, the stark reality of lives cut short. Even now, it took a toll.

“How about I get dinner?” said Izzy.

“No.” Cole pushed up from the chair. “I promised to look after you.”

She pushed him gently back down, then followed it up with a kiss. “You already have. You sit with your doggo for a moment.”

He watched her walk toward the kitchen, then closed his eyes. He drifted off with his malamute’s chin in his lap until the sound of food preparation piqued the dog’s interest and he headed for the kitchen, waking Cole as he did.

He dragged himself out of the chair and wandered into the kitchen. The sounds and smells of dinner preparation permeated the air. The metal spatula scraped against his worn wok as Izzy moved vegetables around. She’d shed her sheriff’s attitude but retained that laser focus she brought to investigations, channeling it into her knife work as she prepped ingredients.

Cole recognized this mood. The tight set of her shoulders, the way she moved her jaw. She was processing, analyzing, picking apart details from the scene. The kitchen had become her evidence board, each ingredient a piece of the puzzle she was trying to solve.

He grabbed a jar of Aleppo pepper from the spice rack—a secret ingredient from his time stationed in Turkey. The deep red flakes carried subtle heat and an earthy sweetness that elevated simple dishes. As he reached around Izzy to sprinkle some over the sizzling vegetables, she didn’t break rhythm, but he felt the slight lean of her body toward his.

“The climbers bothering you?” Cole asked, setting the jar aside.

“Everything’s bothering me.” Izzy’s knife sliced through another bell pepper. “All of it.”

When Izzy was ready, Cole spooned rice into bowls as she served the stir-fry. The simple ritual of sharing a meal helped ground him after the day’s grim work.

They settled at his oak dining table, Nanook sprawled at their feet. Steam rose from their plates as Cole drizzled hot sauce over his portion.

“How did Jenny do today?” he asked.

“As expected.” Izzy spooned some rice into her mouth and chewed. “She’s a good one.”

“Elliot’s turned into a solid deputy.”

“He has. And Jenny’s going to be just as good, maybe better.” Izzy’s fork pushed food around her plate. “But she’ll have to work twice as hard to prove herself. They all watch for mistakes, waiting for her to fail.”

“Because she’s a woman?” he asked.

“Because she’s married to a deputy. Because she hasn’t been through the academy. Because she’s young.” Izzy met his eyes. “And yes, because she’s a woman. We have to be perfect just to be considered competent.”

They finished eating in comfortable silence. Izzy disappeared into the bathroom, and soon the shower started running. When she called out that she was done, Cole entered to find her toweling off, water droplets trailing down her spine. Despite the temptation, exhaustion had enveloped him, and he stepped by her and under the hot spray.

He showered quickly, muscles unknotting under the falling heat. By the time he emerged, Izzy had settled on the couch in old sweats, Nanook’s head in her lap.

Cole noticed she hadn’t mentioned the autopsy, hadn’t pressed for preliminary findings like she usually would. Maybe she was learning to appreciate the slower rhythm of small-town life, understanding that Dylan juggled multiple roles at the hospital. The woman who’d left Darkness for the FBI was adjusting to being home again.

He sank onto the sofa beside her as she scrolled through movie options. Nanook shifted to press against both their legs, a furry space heater in the cool spring evening.

Cole stared blankly at the screen as Izzy selected an old rom-com, the volume low enough to be soothing. The story washed over him as his muscles relaxed into the old sofa.

Through half-closed eyes, he noticed Izzy’s head dip forward, then snap back up. Within minutes, her breathing deepened and evened out as she slumped against his shoulder. The blue light from the TV played across her face, softening the features she carried in uniform.

He eased himself up, careful not to wake her. Nanook followed him to the kitchen, where Cole let him out for a moment, then filled the dog’s water bowl and checked the back door’s deadbolt. The malamute padded back in through his doggie door and straight to his bed in the corner of the kitchen, circling three times before settling with a contented sigh.

Cole moved through his nightly routine—checking windows, turning off lights. The cabin grew quiet except for the low murmur of the TV and Izzy’s steady breathing.

He flicked off the TV, then lifted Izzy gently, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She stirred but didn’t wake, her head tucking naturally against his chest. The scent of her shampoo mixed with the lingering mountain air in her hair.

In the bedroom, he laid her on the bed, pulling the quilted comforter over her shoulders. He brushed a kiss against her forehead, allowing himself a moment to appreciate how peaceful she looked in sleep, free from the weight of her responsibilities.

His own exhaustion crashed over him as he climbed into bed beside her. His last conscious thought was of the mountain, and the long journey they’d made down its treacherous slopes. Then sleep claimed him, deep and dreamless.

Chapter Five

Izzy stared at the blank incident report on her screen, cursor blinking in accusation. The weak morning light filtered through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across her keyboard. Her fingers hovered over the keys, not quite touching.

Behind her, mounted on the credenza, her father’s photo watched. The first Sheriff Llewellyn’s stern expression seemed to judge her hesitation.

The conversation with Mal yesterday played on repeat in her mind. His casual mention of FBI jurisdiction had stirred something dark inside her—a mix of resentment and wounded pride she thought she’d buried.

The rules were clear: a body on federal land meant federal jurisdiction. She’d enforced that same protocol countless times from the other side. Now the thought of calling in the Bureau made her stomach clench.

The air conditioning hummed overhead, a monotonous drone that did nothing to drown out the echoes of her last day at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Assistant Director Van Buren’s carefully neutral expression as she’d handed in her badge. The whispers that followed her down the hallway. The weight of failure pressing down on her shoulders.

Radio chatter drifted up from dispatch downstairs, the familiar codes and calm voices a reminder of her current reality. Her coffee sat forgotten on the desk, the once-rich aroma turned bitter and stale.

She knew better than this. Pride had no place in good police work. The victim deserved a proper investigation, not territorial posturing from a small-town sheriff with old wounds.

And yet.

The moment she made that call, control would slip through her fingers. The FBI would descend with their resources and protocols, reducing her role to local liaison. They’d take over the interviews, commandeer any evidence, shut her out of the loop while citing need-to-know policies she used to quote herself.

Her father’s photo caught the wan light, his eyes seeming to bore into her. He’d taught her better than this.

Izzy pushed back from her desk and crossed to the window. Deputy Wilson’s patrol car rolled into the motor pool, dirty from a night on patrol on country roads.

The reality of her office’s limitations hit her again as she watched Wilson climb out, adjusting his duty belt. Twenty-four sworn personnel, a quarter of whom were rostered on court or jail duty at any time. She didn’t have a single detective, let alone a department for investigations. The autopsy was dependent on a doctor whose main job was to process pathology tests for the hospital. Dr. Pickett had made his position clear: living patients got priority. She didn’t like it, but she did understand it.

She returned to her desk, tapping the keyboard to wake her screen. Izzy pulled up the law enforcement database, navigating past the Sacramento field office listings. She’d spent enough years in the FBI to know better than to start there. The wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly, and a body on a mountain wouldn’t rate high enough to cut through the red tape.

The Fresno Resident Agency’s number appeared on her screen. A smaller satellite office, they handled cases across the Eastern Sierra region. She’d never worked with them directly during her time with the Bureau, but she knew their jurisdiction covered Mirage County.

She dialed, straightening in her chair as the line connected.

A woman’s clipped voice answered on the second ring. “Special Agent Reeves.”

“This is Sheriff Izar Llewellyn from Mirage County. We recovered a body on Forest Service land yesterday evening on Mt. Mollison.”

“Eastern Sierra?”

“That’s correct,” Izzy said. “Look, I’ve got a suspicious death at ten thousand feet that’s technically in your jurisdiction. I need to speak to an agent in violent crimes.”

“What makes it suspicious?”

“Preliminary medical examination suggests injuries inconsistent with a climbing accident. My assistant coroner, Dr. Barrow, noted trauma that doesn’t match the rest of the impact patterns or the blood patterns at the scene.”

Papers rustled on the other end of the line. “Where’s the body now?”

“Awaiting autopsy at Harris Regional. Dr. Dylan Pickett’s facility.”

“So, there’s no confirmation of foul play yet?”

Izzy could hear the condescension in the special agent’s voice. She thought she was dealing with a small-town yokel cop having delusions of grandeur over a person who stupidly climbed a mountain and fell off. Izzy might have felt the same way, once or twice.

“We’re waiting on the autopsy results.”

The agent sighed. “Okay, Sheriff. Give me an hour to coordinate with Sacramento. I’ll call you back with a plan.”

Izzy hung up the phone, knowing exactly how this would play out. The Bureau would send someone—they had to now that an official report had been made—but likely just one agent to check the jurisdictional box. Probably someone junior who needed field experience.

She pulled up Google Maps on her screen, plotting the route from the Fresno office. The Sierra Nevada range created a natural barrier that added hours to what should be a straight shot east. She remembered that reality from a previous case as sheriff, when a buddy of Cole’s had flown her over the range rather than waste time on mountain roads.

The drive would take them through Bakersfield, up through Tehachapi, then northeast through the Mojave Desert before hitting the mountains. Four hours minimum, closer to five, with required rest stops. If they left Fresno by noon, accounting for briefings and paperwork, the agent wouldn’t reach Darkness until evening. Maybe not even today.

Her stomach knotted as she considered working alongside former colleagues. The whispers would have spread through the Bureau’s grapevine by now—how Special Agent Llewellyn crashed and burned after her husband’s death, running home to play sheriff in a backwater town. Some would see it as a tragic fall from grace, others as confirmation that she’d never belonged in the first place.

The familiar taste of copper filled her mouth as she caught herself biting the inside of her cheek. She forced her jaw to relax, focusing on her breathing like her Bureau-mandated therapist had taught her. The past was the past. She had a job to do, regardless of what anyone thought of her choices.

Still, she couldn’t shake the creeping dread of having to prove herself all over again, this time to people who’d known her at what she’d thought was her best. People who might have heard rumors about Mark’s corruption, about her part in his final undercover operation gone wrong.

Chapter Six

Izzy spread the crime scene photos across her desk, casually looking each one over. There was nothing much to see. Not blood, not personnel items. Just rocks and ice and a steep slope. Despite not being a sheer drop, an experienced climber would have known better than to venture so close to that unstable edge.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Trainee Deputy Wahlberg’s extension.

“Jenny, I need you in my office.”

She appeared moments later, notepad already in hand. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“I want you to coordinate calls to every hotel, motel, and rental property in the county.” Izzy continued as Jenny made notes. “Check with our office in Harris and confirm if they’ve had a missing person’s report. Someone must have seen this woman in the last few days. Get descriptions out. Find out if anyone matching her description checked in recently.”

“On it.” Jenny’s eyes lit up at the assignment. “I’ll start here in Darkness since it’s closest to the mountain, then work outward.”

Izzy made herself busy looking for things in the photos that weren’t there. Maybe that was the point. It was the things that weren’t there that were setting her on edge. Who went into the mountains wearing a lightweight jacket and no pack? She considered calling Dr. Pickett but was wary of putting the pathologist further offside by pushing too hard. He had made his priorities clear on autopsies before, and she had to respect that his focus was on living patients.

The office door opened without a knock. Undersheriff Hawkins filled the doorway, his expression thunderous.

“Why is Trainee Deputy Wahlberg making calls about our Jane Doe? I thought you would understand that a body in the mountains is federal jurisdiction.”

“We’re establishing a timeline while we wait for the FBI,” Izzy said, keeping her voice neutral. “Basic investigative work.”

“Seems like overreach to me.” Hawkins adjusted his belt. “Unless you’re trying to show the Bureau what they’re missing?”

“Evidence disappears, Hawkins. Memories fade. We have a responsibility to this victim, regardless of jurisdiction.”

“Responsibility?” He smirked. “Or are you just hoping to prove something to the agency that kicked you to the curb?”

Izzy took a long, slow breath before answering. “This isn’t about the FBI. It’s about doing our job until they arrive. The least we can do is find out her identity.”

“The FBI can do that.”

“But they’re not here, Hawkins. We are. And I would have thought that a small-town cop like you would relish the opportunity to outwork the Bureau.”

His frame stiffened, and he flexed his jaw. “This isn’t about me.”

Izzy held his gaze. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

Hawkins left, but the steam coming from him remained. Izzy rolled her shoulders, wondering why the hell she felt the need to explain herself to Hawkins anyway.

* * *

She was lost in a boring spreadsheet Hawkins had sent when Jenny Wahlberg appeared at her door.

“Knock, knock,” she said.

Izzy glanced up. The trainee’s cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“I found something. A rental cabin out on Telegraph Road,” Jenny said. “The owner had a solo female guest check in three days ago. Paid cash for a week’s stay.”

Izzy sat forward, her earlier frustration with Hawkins forgotten. “Go on.”

“Yesterday morning she left wearing what the owner called exercise clothes and a light jacket. Never came back.”

“She didn’t report it?”

“No. She said it was a vacation rental, not a daycare.” Jenny’s expression turned apologetic.

“Good work, Trainee Deputy.” Izzy noticed how Jenny straightened at the title. “Really good work. This could be our victim. Where’s Elliot?”

“Downstairs. He just got back from patrol.”

“Tell him to get his car and meet me out front.”

Izzy collected her jacket and sheriff’s office ball cap and walked downstairs. She could feel Hawkins watching her as she crossed the lobby and walked out of the building.

She slid into the passenger seat of Elliot’s patrol vehicle. She had gotten into the habit of having a deputy drive while she was recovering from a gunshot wound and had found it a good way to chat in a more casual environment, keeping her ear to the ground for the mood of her team. The morning sun cast long shadows across the desert floor as they headed north on 395, the Sierra Nevada a jagged wall of stone rising to the west.

Creosote and sage dotted the landscape, their muted greens a contrast to the reddish-brown soil. A jackrabbit darted across the empty highway ahead of them, disappearing into the brush.

“Should be about twenty minutes. Telegraph. You know it?” Izzy said, consulting the directions Jenny had written down.

Elliot didn’t take his eyes from the road, hands at ten and two on the wheel. “Yep.”

When they reached Telegraph Road, the patrol car swung west onto the dirt, kicking up a plume of dust behind them. The mountains loomed closer now, their snow-capped peaks blending with the pewter sky. The road deteriorated as they continued, forcing Elliot to slow down.

“Remember,” Izzy said, “this is just a preliminary check. We document everything but touch nothing. If this turns out to be our victim’s last known location, the FBI will want the scene preserved.”

“Yes, boss.” Elliot navigated around a deep rut in the road. “Jenny said the owner mentioned the woman paid cash.”

“That’s not unusual around here though, is it?” Izzy watched a red-tailed hawk circle overhead. “Folks can still be suspicious of credit cards.”

The cabin appeared around the next bend, a weathered wooden structure set back from the road. A small, covered porch faced east, offering a sweeping view of the valley. No vehicles were visible, and the windows were dark.

Wahlberg eased to a stop, and Izzy climbed out of the patrol car. The cabin sat alone against the mountain backdrop, no neighbors for miles. Perfect isolation. A cold wind whipped down from the peaks, rustling the sparse vegetation.

“Check the perimeter while I try the door,” she told Elliot.

The wooden steps creaked as she mounted the porch. No answer to her knock. The keypad lock looked out of place on the old door—a sleek black rectangle with bright LED numbers. Izzy punched in the code Jenny had gotten from the owner.

The door swung open to reveal a single room with a kitchenette. Late morning light filtered through dusty windows. A neat stack of technical climbing gear sat by the bed—ice axes, crampons, ropes. Not the equipment of an amateur.

“Clear outside,” Elliot called, joining her. He already had his camera out.

“Document everything,” Izzy said. “But don’t move anything.”

As Wahlberg took pictures, Izzy noted the order in the room. The bed was made tight enough to bounce a coin off, equipment placed in an orderly fashion, clothes folded in a large travel pack. A half-empty water bottle sat on the counter. Everything else was meticulously organized. The cabin showed no signs of violence or struggle.

In the small trash can, Izzy found a crumpled receipt from the Crossroads Bar & Grill in Harris. The name at the top caught her eye—Marisol Delgado-Teo. Three nights ago. A burger and fries and a single pint of IPA.

“Got a name,” she told Elliot, holding up the receipt in a gloved hand. “Make sure you get clear shots of this.”

The flash fired as he photographed the paper. Outside, the wind continued to moan through the valley, a lonely sound that matched the isolation of this remote cabin.

When they were done, Izzy secured the cabin door, double-checking the keypad had engaged. The climbing gear and personal items could wait until they confirmed the identity of their victim. She watched Elliot photograph the tire tracks leading away from the cabin before they departed.

Back at the sheriff’s office, Jenny hunched over her computer terminal. Martinez stood behind her, pointing at something on the screen.

“Sheriff,” Martinez called out. “We got busy while you were gone. Jenny found the bank from that bar receipt. I helped her process an electronic warrant request.”

Jenny beamed. “The bank came through with an address. Everett, Washington.”

“Good work, both of you.” Izzy unzipped her jacket. “What else?”

Martinez held up his phone. “On with Everett PD now. They’re sending a unit for a welfare check.” He turned away, speaking quietly into the receiver.

Jenny clicked through several windows on her screen. “I ran her name through the Washington DMV database. Got a hit.” She turned her monitor. “Marisol Delgado-Teo, thirty-four.”

Izzy leaned in, studying the license photo. The woman had striking features, high cheekbones, and long black hair that cascaded past her shoulders. The same general build as their victim, but the massive trauma to the head made a definitive match impossible. Still, Izzy cataloged the details—the slight asymmetry of her smile, the small scar above her right eyebrow, the warm brown eyes that stared back from the screen.

“Print everything,” Izzy said. “We’ll need it for the FBI when they arrive.”

* * *

By the time the sun had dipped below the jagged peaks, Izzy had the start of a case file. A probable ID, a location that the victim had stayed in locally and an address where she lived in Washington. Confirmation from Everett PD that the license photo matched the owner of the home, who was nowhere to be found, with a couple of days’ worth of mail in the box. Izzy rubbed her eyes, still tired from the previous day’s exertion. She liked to stay fit, but high-altitude hiking was next level.

Izzy was rubbing the bridge of her nose when her desk phone buzzed. Adrianne’s extension.

“FBI agents are here, Sheriff.”

Izzy hung up and sat for a moment. The FBI office in Fresno had never called back to confirm the plan, and now Izzy wondered if them just turning up was a tactic.

She descended the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the nearly empty building. Two figures stood in the lobby—a tall man in his early fifties wearing a well-worn suit and wire-rimmed glasses, and a younger blonde woman in designer business attire that looked fresh off the rack.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” The man extended his hand. “Special Agent Tom Yoshida. This is Special Agent Diana Scacchi.”

Scacchi gave a curt nod, her ice-blue eyes sweeping the office with barely concealed judgment.

“Welcome to Darkness.” Izzy led them upstairs to the conference room where she’d prepared case files. “We’ve made some progress identifying our victim.”

“You mean the potential victim on federal land?” Scacchi’s tone carried a hint of reproach.

Yoshida settled into a chair, removing a small notebook from his jacket pocket. His eyes were brown and warm. “Please, Sheriff. Tell us what you’ve found.”

Izzy walked them through the discovery, the climbers’ statements, and Cole’s preliminary findings. She detailed Jenny’s work tracking down the rental cabin and the receipt that led them to Marisol Delgado-Teo.

“Your deputy did unauthorized database searches?” Scacchi interrupted.

“My deputy conducted appropriate investigative work while waiting for federal response,” Izzy corrected, keeping her voice level. “She used the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System and accessed Washington State Department of Licensing records as per protocol. We secured the scene and documented everything for your team, but I can keep it all and you can start from scratch, if you prefer.”

“We appreciate the groundwork, Sheriff,” Yoshida said, his pen moving steadily across his notebook. “Especially given the conditions and remote location. What’s your take on the injuries Dr. Barrow noted?”

“The trauma pattern doesn’t match a simple fall. We’re waiting on the full autopsy, but something feels off about this one.”

Scacchi’s perfectly manicured nails tapped against the table. “Feels off? Is that your professional assessment?”

Izzy cringed. She wondered if she had come across the same way when she had been on the other side of the table. “It is, Special Agent. And when you’ve gotten your training wheels off, you might develop these skills, too.”

Scacchi made to open her mouth, but Yoshida put his hand up. “Like I say, Sheriff, we appreciate the help and the clean handover. What we really need to ascertain is what we have here. An accident or something more. You said the body has been moved to the morgue?”

“We don’t have a morgue, per se.” Izzy glanced at Scacchi and waited for a comment that didn’t come. “The county has a contract with a forensic pathologist at the local hospital, and the body was taken there last night.”

“But the autopsy hasn’t yet been performed?”

“No. I’m told live patients take precedence. But I could make a call, let the pathologist know you’re here. Or you could go bust down his door, if you prefer.”

Yoshida smiled. His face took on a gentle quality when he did. “I’d appreciate if you could facilitate an introduction.”

“Consider it done. This conference room is yours to use.” Izzy waved her hand across the space. “You have the case file, what there is of it, with the photos and documentation. I’ll ask Adrianne to arrange rooms for you both at the Desert Rose Inn. It’s the only hotel in town, and it’s not much to look at, but Angela keeps it clean.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Yoshida tucked his notebook away.

“If you need anything at all, just ask.” Izzy closed the conference room door and headed back along the mezzanine to her office.

She sank into her chair and noticed the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw. Her reaction to Scacchi bothered her. Had she snapped because of the agent’s attitude, or her own baggage?

The weight of old memories pressed down. The Bureau hadn’t given her a choice about leaving—but what happened wasn’t her fault. Mark’s corruption, his death, the fallout—none of it had been her fault.

But staying in Darkness? That was her choice. Running this office, serving this community—she’d chosen this path.

Izzy straightened in her chair. Marisol Delgado-Teo, or whoever their victim turned out to be, deserved a thorough investigation. It didn’t matter which agency solved the case.

Hawkins, of all people, had been right—this wasn’t about her.

Chapter Seven

Izzy’s patrol vehicle pulled into the lot behind Harris Regional. In her rearview mirror, the FBI’s government-issue sedan followed her every move. She couldn’t fault Scacchi for insisting on driving Yoshida herself. It was what Izzy would have done in her Bureau days, keeping discussions contained within the team.

The hospital’s rear parking lot was nearly empty midmorning. Izzy pulled into a spot near the pathology lab entrance, cutting the engine as the FBI car glided into the space beside her. The building’s utilitarian architecture loomed above them, its cubic facade a contrast to the organic shape of mountains.

Mirage Pathology occupied the back of the ground floor, its separate entrance marked by a simple plaque. Izzy used a key card to open the door and then led the way down the sterile corridor. Yoshida and Scacchi followed, their footsteps echoing against the tile floor. The smell of disinfectant grew stronger as they approached Pickett’s office.

Dr. Dylan Pickett sat behind his desk, his tall frame slightly hunched over a neat stack of papers. The office walls displayed an impressive collection of medical texts and framed certificates. His blue eyes flicked up as they entered, sharp and focused.

Izzy noticed how Pickett had already arranged three chairs facing his desk in the cramped space. She made introductions, then they all sat.

“I completed the autopsy this morning,” Pickett announced.

Izzy fought to keep her expression neutral. Of course, he’d managed to complete it in record time for the FBI. She couldn’t recall a single instance when he’d worked this quickly for her office. “Very efficient, Dr. Pickett.”

Pickett nodded as the sarcasm flew over his head.

“What are your findings, Doctor?” Yoshida pulled out his notebook while Scacchi’s gaze swept the office, lingering on the certificates.

Pickett spread several photos across his desk. “The victim didn’t die from the fall. There’s a large gash here. Nothing else is more than a minor abrasion.” He pointed to an image showing severe head trauma. “But notice the lack of organic debris in the wound. If she’d hit her head on rocks during the fall, we’d expect to find fragments.”

“Supporting Dr. Barrow’s initial assessment,” Izzy said.

“Yes.” Pickett’s tone remained clinical, his focus on the FBI agents. “Cole was on the money. The wound pattern suggests a flat metallic object, possibly a pipe wrench or similar tool. The impact crushed the temporal bone.”

Yoshida leaned forward. “So someone hit her?”

“Yes, but not in the mountains, or at least, not where the body was found.” Pickett selected another photo. “The scene photos from the mountain show minimal blood around the body or anywhere on the way down, but the victim suffered significant blood loss from the head wound. Those bleed a lot. The discrepancy suggests she was killed elsewhere and moved to the location where she was found.” Pickett didn’t take his eyes off Yoshida. “Just as Sheriff Llewellyn hypothesized.”

Izzy wasn’t sure if he was throwing her a bone or being genuine. Dylan Pickett was a hard guy to read.

Scacchi spoke for the first time. “You’re certain?”

“The evidence is quite clear.” Pickett’s blue eyes met hers directly. “We’re looking at a homicide, with the body transported post-mortem.”

Dr. Pickett spent some time going through the photos and his autopsy findings, noting the lack of inflammation response in the post-mortem contusions and the absence of blood flow in the abrasions.

Yoshida tapped his pen on his notebook. “Do you have a time of death estimate, Doctor?”

Pickett clicked his tongue. “The cold conditions make an exact TOD difficult. But based on a combination of factors, I would say some time the evening before she was discovered. Between five and seven, perhaps. That’s assuming a consistent ambient temperature. The process for that calculation will be in the full report.”

“Excellent,” said Yoshida.

Pickett swiveled his monitor around, revealing a complex array of chemical data. Izzy recognized the format from her FBI days—preliminary toxicology screening results displayed in neat columns and peaks.

“There’s something interesting here.” Pickett highlighted a section with his cursor. “An unusual compound showing up in her blood work. The preliminary screen suggests an anesthetic, but I’ll need to run gas chromatography-mass spectrometry to identify it precisely.”

Scacchi frowned. “You can do GC-MS here?”

“We can.”

“How long will that take?” Yoshida asked, still writing in his notebook.

“A few hours for the full panel. End of day, worst case.” Pickett glanced at Scacchi. “Unless you’d prefer to send samples to your lab?”

“We should,” Scacchi said quickly. “The FBI lab has more sophisticated equipment⁠—”

“And a three-week backlog,” Yoshida cut in. His tone remained gentle but firm. “Dr. Pickett’s lab is more than adequate.”

Scacchi’s perfectly shaped eyebrows drew together.

Yoshida didn’t look up from his notes. “Dr. Pickett, please proceed with the GC-MS. I’d ask you to preserve a sample as well.”

“I’ve already prepared one for you. I can store it here until you require it.”

Izzy bristled at Pickett showing off. Where was this efficiency when she needed something expedited?

Scacchi’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing further. The dynamic between the two agents was becoming clearer—Yoshida’s experience tempering Scacchi’s bull in a china shop approach. It was a methodology Izzy was intimately familiar with.

“We’d appreciate that,” said Yoshida.

The corner of Pickett’s mouth rose as if he was fighting the urge to break into a full-blown smile. “The full panel will take longer, but we should know what type of drug we’re dealing with by end of day.”

Pickett wrapped up the meeting, and Yoshida thanked him for his report. He shook hands with both the special agents and gave Izzy a friendly nod.

Izzy led the FBI team through the sterile hallway and into the morning gloom. She noted heavy clouds that often clung to the mountain tops had settled across the valley.

“Thank you for facilitating that meeting, Sheriff,” Yoshida said. “Dr. Pickett seems very thorough.”

“He has his moments.” Izzy pushed aside her irritation at Pickett’s sudden efficiency.

Yoshida offered a gentle smile. “I get the sense he was showing off for federal agents.”

“There was a little extra flair in his presentation, yes.”

“It tends to go like that,” said Yoshida. “We get the full circus or a complete roadblock. Rarely anything in between.”

Izzy nodded. “I know.”

“You do?” said Scacchi.

Izzy shrugged. “What’s your next step?”

“We need to know everything about this woman.” Yoshida tucked his notebook away. “Background, connections, recent movements.”

“My deputy got her place of work from Everett PD this morning.”

Scacchi’s eyebrows dropped again. “You should have left that to our Seattle Field Office.”

“Let’s not go down that path again.” Izzy stopped by her vehicle, turning to face them both. “This was all before you arrived, and we just got the email this morning. By all means, send your people in—you can learn more than my team can about her, and faster. The employment info is in the case file waiting for you in the conference room.”

Scacchi’s expression remained skeptical, but she didn’t press the issue. “I’ll need internet access to track down her background.”

“Adrianne can set you up with anything you need.” Izzy opened her car door, eager to put some distance between herself and Scacchi’s barely concealed disdain.

Yoshida cleared his throat. “We appreciate your cooperation, Sheriff.”

The gentle reproach in his tone seemed aimed more at his partner than at Izzy. She nodded, recognizing the olive branch for what it was.

“Just let me know what else you need.” Izzy slid behind the wheel and pulled out.

As she made for the exit, she watched in her rearview mirror as Scacchi and Yoshida stood beside their sedan, already deep in discussion.

Chapter Eight

The cloud was so heavy it made midday feel like nighttime as Izzy guided her patrol vehicle down the highway into Darkness. Her mind churned over the autopsy findings, plotting next steps despite knowing the FBI would take point on the investigation.

A flash of red and white caught her attention. She slowed, focusing on what looked like campaign signage planted in someone’s front yard. The text came into sharp focus: Vote ‘Dab’ Hawkins for Sheriff.

Izzy’s foot jerked on the brake pedal, the SUV lurching as she processed what she’d seen. Her stomach clenched. She pulled onto the shoulder, throwing the vehicle into park.

The sign stood proud against the desert landscape. Professional quality, not some homemade effort. Definitely made in a print shop on weatherproof plastic, the color scheme and large star designed to imply the stars and stripes more than a sheriff’s badge but performing dual duty, regardless.

“What the hell?” Izzy felt her mouth fall open, then she snapped it shut as if a paparazzo might be on hand to snap an unbecoming shot.

No election had been called. She’d been appointed by the county board, which had a year to call an official election. There wasn’t supposed to be a vote until the summer.

She stared at the sign, her mind racing. Had she missed something? Some local statute or regulation? No—she’d reviewed everything thoroughly since she learned she was going to have to stand for an election. This wasn’t just premature; it was completely inappropriate.

A bitter laugh escaped her throat. Perfect timing, really. A suspicious death in her jurisdiction, the FBI breathing down her neck, and now her undersheriff launching an early campaign against her.

She pulled back onto the highway and cruised through town. Through the windshield, she could see more flashes of red and white dotting front yards ahead. Hawkins had been busy while she’d been up on that mountain.

Izzy parked her patrol vehicle in her usual spot behind the sheriff’s office. She burst through the back entrance and marched to Hawkins’ office.

The door stood open. Empty desk. Empty chair.

“Convenient.” Her voice echoed in the vacant space.

She spun on her heel and marched upstairs to her office. “Adrianne, my office. Now.”

The older woman glided in and settled into the chair across from Izzy’s desk.

“What do you know about the campaign signs I saw on my drive in?” Izzy’s jaw ached from clenching.

Adrianne’s perpetual smile dimmed. “Oh, dear. You didn’t hear about the county supervisors’ meeting last night.”

“What meeting?”

“They called a special election. Finally.” Adrianne’s hands twisted in her lap. “Set for June.”

The blood drained from Izzy’s face. “And they didn’t think to inform me?”

“Yeah . . .” Adrianne’s voice softened. “That seems like an oversight.”

“An oversight?”

“To say the least.” Adrianne’s eyes held a hint of sympathy. “It’s the talk of the town.”

Izzy flopped back in her chair. “And Hawkins already had campaign signs printed.”

“Yes.” The single word carried volumes of meaning.

“You don’t seem surprised by any of this.”

“Sheriff . . .” Adrianne smoothed her dress. “I’ve worked here more than twenty years. Nothing the old guard does surprises me.”

“I know what you mean. I knew Elaine Preston had it in for me, but this is something else.”

“Actually, she didn’t call it. It was a board decision, since there isn’t currently a sitting president after, you know.”

“Yes, Adrianne, I know.” Izzy had known the election would come, but it still felt like an ambush. “I thought Supervisor Watanabe was, well, if not on my side, at least impartial.”

“And as our district’s supervisor, you’d have thought a call would be in order.”

A muscle twitched in Izzy’s cheek as she absorbed the implications. The signs had been ready. The meeting perfectly timed. A coordinated effort to blindside her while she was occupied with a potential homicide.

Izzy stood, so her administrator followed. “Thanks, Adrianne. You know where Hawkins is?”

She shook her head, and her whole outfit wafted around her. “Afraid not.”

Izzy walked out of her office and down the stairs. While Adrianne headed for the front desk, Izzy cut back toward the rear parking lot.

Izzy guided her patrol vehicle through town, each flash of red and white another knot in her stomach. The signs seemed to multiply before her eyes—Vote ‘Dab’ Hawkins for Sheriff screaming from every third yard. She was going to develop an ulcer at this rate.

Main Street’s familiar storefronts took on a sinister cast. The bakery where she’d started making inroads with the locals. The hardware store where Mr. Bryant had seemed to warm to her presence since the library renovation she had coordinated. The feed store where ranchers gathered to swap stories. How many of them had known? How many had watched her efforts to integrate while silently backing Hawkins?

She slowed at an intersection, counting four more signs on the corner alone. Hawkins had orchestrated this, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. While she’d been working to build trust, he’d been undermining her at every turn.

The signs started to look like the Vegas strip in her eyes. Her heart sank as the depth of the deception sank in. She’d known some residents resisted change, but this felt like the whole town had conspired against her.

The clinic’s parking lot came into view, a rare oasis free of campaign propaganda. Izzy pulled into a spot and killed the engine. She gripped the wheel until her fingers ached, forcing slow breaths until the pressure inside eased. She couldn’t let this throw her off balance. Not with the FBI in town.

She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. The anger was bubbling just under the surface, and she needed a calm perspective before she did something she might regret.

Izzy pushed through the clinic’s front door, the bell’s cheerful jingle grating against her nerves. Serena’s bright smile hit her like a spotlight from behind the reception desk.

“Sheriff! What brings you by?” Serena’s glossy dark hair caught the morning light, her mood annoyingly effervescent.

“Need to see Cole.” Izzy’s clipped tone bounced off Serena’s warmth.

“Of course! He’s with a patient right now, but should be done soon.” Serena’s enthusiasm remained undimmed.

The waiting room held two elderly patients leafing through magazines. Mrs. Sanchez gave a slight nod before returning to her Better Homes & Gardens. The other woman—Izzy couldn’t recall her name—kept her eyes fixed on an ancient copy of People.

Izzy leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The clinic’s calm air felt alien after the morning’s revelations. Serena hummed softly as she typed, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. The sound scraped against Izzy’s raw nerves.

A door opened, and Mr. Bryant emerged from the exam room, adjusting his jacket. His eyes met Izzy’s, and he offered her a cordial nod, as if nothing was wrong with the world. He muttered something to Serena about scheduling a follow-up.

“Sheriff?” Cole’s voice carried from the doorway. “Come on back.”

* * *

Izzy stepped into Cole’s office, her jaw clenched and hands balled into fists. Cole closed the door behind her.

“Have you seen them?” Her voice cracked with frustration.

“Seen who?”

“The campaign signs? Hard to miss.”

“Ah, those. Yeah, I saw them.” Cole felt the compulsion to rub her arms, but the vibrations coming off her dissuaded him.

“They’re everywhere. Every damn lawn in Darkness.” Izzy paced across the office and back, arms folded tight. “He must have had them printed weeks ago, just waiting for the announcement.”

“Actually—” Cole started.

“Don’t tell me it’s not that bad. The whole town’s against me.”

“That’s not what I see.” Cole worked to keep his tone calm. “I drove through the streets this morning on my way in. I saw maybe twenty signs total.”

Izzy stopped pacing. “Twenty?”

“Yes. You’re only seeing the signs. You’re not seeing the absence of them, Iz. The people who haven’t chosen sides yet.” He shrugged. “Or the ones who support you but don’t have a way to show it.”

“I’m too busy doing my actual job to worry about lawn decorations.”

“There’s a difference between doing the job and being seen doing it.” Cole’s voice remained gentle. “People need to know what their sheriff is accomplishing.”

Izzy threw her hands in the air. “So I should what—parade around town showing off?”

“No. But maybe let people see the work you’re doing. The cases you’re solving. The community you’re protecting.”

Izzy slumped against the wall, her earlier anger deflating. “I don’t know how to do that, Cole. I’m not a politician.”

“You don’t have to be. Just be yourself—the dedicated sheriff who puts this town first.” He stepped closer. “The woman I know you are.”

Her eyes met his, vulnerability replacing the frustration. “What if that’s not enough?”

“This town has come together in a way I haven’t seen since I’ve lived here. I just don’t think people realize how much of that is you.”

Cole’s words settled between them as the tension eased from Izzy’s shoulders.

She sighed long and hard. “Sometimes I wish we could just go back to your cabin and stay in bed forever.” Her voice dropped low. “Hide from all of this.”

Cole’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Nanook needs feeding.”

“He can come too.” Izzy’s smile appeared from the taut lines. “When I’m with you two, I’m the happiest person in Darkness.”

“Maybe second-happiest.”

Izzy’s head snapped up. “What’s got Serena so damn cheerful?”

“She’s seeing someone.”

“Is he cute?”

“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t met him yet.” Cole raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Just asking for a friend.” Izzy’s grin turned wicked. “Think she’s getting what I’m getting?”

“And what exactly are you getting, Sheriff?” Cole pulled the stethoscope from around his neck, the metal catching the morning light. He looped it behind Izzy’s back, using the tubing to draw her closer.

Cole’s lips found hers, soft at first, then deeper as Izzy’s fingers curled into his shirt. The kiss built between them until Cole pulled back, his eyes bright.

“I just had an idea.”

“About hiding away in your cabin?” Izzy tried to pull him back.

“About your campaign.”

Izzy frowned, but Cole kept his arm around her, his mind racing with possibilities. “You need a campaign manager.”

Izzy slapped his chest playfully. “Are you insane?”

“I’m serious.” Cole dropped one hand from his stethoscope and pulled it out from around Izzy. “Someone who knows this town inside and out. Someone who understands the politics, the relationships⁠—”

“I am not hiring a campaign manager.”

“Not hire. Use.” He caught her hand. “Someone like Tamara.”

Izzy stilled. “Tam? She’s got enough on her plate with her third graders.”

“She knows everyone in town. Their kids, their stories.” Cole pressed his advantage. “And she’s been your friend since⁠—”

“And she has a job. Just like I do.” Izzy pulled away, straightening her uniform shirt. “Which I need to get back to.”

She headed for the door, then stopped with her hand on the handle. “Damn, I almost forgot why I came here.”

“The campaign signs weren’t it?”

“No.” She turned back. “Dylan did the autopsy this morning.”

Cole frowned. “This morning?”

Izzy offered an eye roll. “Yeah, he’s showing off for the feds. But the point is, you were right. She didn’t die up there. It was murder.”

Cole watched her shift back to sheriff mode and knew the moment between them was gone. This was the challenge—getting the town to see both the loving woman who cared about the people around her and the sometimes-prickly law enforcement officer who wanted them all safe.

“So the FBI is running with it?” he asked.

“They are.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah, I’m good. This Hawkins thing, though . . .” The joy in her eyes evaporated.

“Think about it, Iz. The town needs to know you. Not just benefit from you solving cases.”

“What they need is a sheriff who puts their safety first.”

“They need both.”

Cole watched Izzy morph back into Sheriff Lew as she pulled open his office door. “I’ll let you know what the FBI finds,” she said.

“Iz.” Cole caught her gaze. “The campaign . . .”

“Not now.” But her eyes softened for a moment. “Let me process it first.”

As the door closed behind her, Cole sank into his chair. The weight of what she faced settled over him. The FBI’s presence had to be stirring up memories of her forced departure from the Bureau. Now, with Hawkins forcing an election, she’d have to navigate both challenges simultaneously.

And she’d do it alone unless someone stepped in to help.

Cole understood small towns. He’d chosen this life deliberately after leaving the military, craving the connection to community that Darkness offered, but Izzy was still finding her footing after everything in her life went bad, and it had been a huge leap for her to trust him. Trusting the townsfolk was going to take as much effort as them trusting her. She was starting to see what the people of Mirage County offered her as a person. Now they needed to see what she offered as more than just a sheriff.

Cole pulled out his phone and scrolled to Tamara’s number. Izzy might resist the idea of a campaign manager, but she didn’t have to face this alone.

Chapter Nine

Izzy paused at the conference room doorway. Yoshida and Scacchi had transformed the space into a war room, case files and photographs spread across the table’s surface and stuck to the magnetic whiteboard. Their laptops sat open, screens glowing with database searches and report drafts.

“I wanted to touch base about the bar receipt we found in Marisol’s cabin.” Izzy stepped inside. “Given the autopsy results confirming murder, it might be worth you investigating who she encountered there.”

Scacchi’s shoulders stiffened. “This isn’t our first homicide, Sheriff. We know how to follow leads.”

“Of course you do.” Izzy kept her voice calm and sincere. “You’re special agents in the finest law enforcement organization on earth. Most people who apply don’t make it through selection. You’ll absolutely reach every necessary conclusion in this investigation. I just find that sharing information and ideas helps us get there faster.”

Scacchi’s brow furrowed, clearly thrown by the lack of sarcasm or challenge in Izzy’s response.

“Sheriff Llewellyn makes an excellent point.” Yoshida closed his laptop. “Small towns have their own rhythms. Local knowledge can be invaluable.”

“I’m not here to inject myself into your investigation, guys, but people talk differently to local law enforcement than federal agents,” Izzy said. “Especially in a place like Mirage County.”

“Exactly why collaboration matters.” Yoshida pulled out a chair. “Two perspectives are better than one. We’d appreciate your coming along. So why don’t we update you?”

Izzy settled into the offered chair, noting how Scacchi’s shoulders remained rigid, her posture screaming reluctance.

“Diana’s been tracking down our victim’s background.” Yoshida’s gentle prompt earned a sharp look from his partner. “She has quite a talent for electronic investigation.”

Scacchi took several quiet breaths before she spoke. “Marisol Delgado-Teo worked in public relations for a tech firm in Bellevue. Five years with the company.” Her fingers moved across the keyboard. “Prior to that, military service.”

“That explains the cabin.” Izzy leaned forward. “When we searched it, everything was perfectly arranged. Bed made with hospital corners, everything squared away. The kind of habits you don’t lose.”

“We’re still waiting on her full service jacket from NPRC.” Scacchi’s tone carried an edge of frustration. “But the military likes to take their sweet time.”

“While we wait for those records,” Yoshida cut in, “perhaps we should visit that bar in Harris. What did you say it was called, Sheriff?”

“Crossroads,” Izzy replied. “You can follow me there, if you like.”

Yoshida flipped his notebook closed. “Why don’t we ride together?”

Izzy noticed Scacchi snap closed the jaw that had flopped open.

She led the special agents out to the parking lot and slid into the passenger seat of the FBI vehicle, as Scacchi slipped in behind the wheel. Yoshida had suggested the seating arrangement with such diplomatic grace that neither woman could object without seeming petty.

The drive to Harris passed in tense silence, broken only by Yoshida’s occasional questions about local landmarks. Izzy directed them to park behind Crossroads Bar & Grill, a two-story brick building with exposed timber beams.

Inside, mountain climbing gear and memorabilia covered every wall. Framed summit photos showed climbers on peaks across the globe—Everest, K2, Denali. Local routes got equal billing, including shots of ice climbers on the very mountain where Marisol’s body was found.

The lunch crowd had thinned, leaving scattered tables of regulars nursing beers. Izzy and the agents approached the bar where a man with salt-and-pepper hair was refilling the liquor collection.

“Sheriff.” He nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“Were you here last Saturday night?” Izzy asked.

“Sure was.”

Izzy held up Marisol’s license photo. “Remember her?”

He squinted. “Can’t say I do. Women usually grab tables, not bar seats. Andi was working that night—hey, Andi!”

A waitress with cropped purple hair and sleeve tattoos looked up from restocking napkin dispensers. She crossed to them, her Doc Martens thunking against the wooden floor. “What’s up, Pete?”

Izzy showed her the photo.

Recognition flickered across Andi’s face. “Oh yeah, her. Came in around seven, ordered the burger with sweet potato fries. Had one beer, the local IPA.”

Scacchi frowned. “You remember her order very well.”

Andi looked Scacchi’s suit up and down, then her expression darkened. “I remember ’cause some jackass wouldn’t leave her alone. Kept trying to buy her drinks, get her number. I offered to have Pete toss him out, but she said she could handle it.”

“What happened?”

“Guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Got handsy. She started off nice, but eventually warned him she’d break something if he didn’t back off. He asked which bone and grabbed her arm.” Andi smirked. “So she nailed him right in the family jewels. His buddies dragged him out pretty quick after that.” She nodded as if this outcome had satisfied her.

Izzy glanced at Yoshida, scribbling in his notebook. “What do you remember about the guy?”

“Not much. These hiker types all look the same.” Andi paused, then pointed a lazy finger in Izzy’s direction. “Except, yeah, his jacket. They all go for those bright colors, but the guy hitting on her was in black.”

“Like leather?”

“No. It was one of those Gore-Tex things.”

“And you say he wasn’t alone.”

“No. They had a tab. Actually . . .” Andi slipped behind the bar and worked the touchscreen on the register. “Yeah, here it is. Luke Carey’s credit card.”

“Luke Carey?” Izzy dropped an eyebrow. “You’re sure.”

“Yeah. He wasn’t the guy doing the harassing, but he was in the group. For sure.”

“Why do I know that name?” asked Yoshida.

“He was one of the climbers who found Marisol’s body,” said Scacchi. She glanced at Izzy. “I read all the witness statements.”

Izzy nodded. “See, I told you the Bureau only recruits good people.” She thanked Andi and gave her a card in case she thought of something more, then she nodded at Pete and they walked back to the car.

“Now what?” asked Scacchi.

“The climbers were staying at a hotel here in Harris. Let’s see if they’re still there.”

The Harris Motor Inn sat three blocks from Main Street, its pale yellow exterior glowing in the dull light. Izzy directed Scacchi into the parking lot, noting both the well-maintained flower beds and fresh paint that elevated it above typical roadside accommodations, and the absence of the climbers’ minivan.

Inside, brass light fixtures and burgundy carpet gave the lobby a kitschy charm that matched the front desk clerk’s smile. The young man’s name tag read Tyler.

“We’re looking for Luke Carey and his climbing group,” said Izzy.

Tyler tapped at his computer. “They’re still checked in. Two twin shares. Rooms 112 and 115.”

“Are they here now?”

“Haven’t seen them since breakfast.”

They found the rooms on the ground floor, facing the parking lot. Izzy knocked on 112. No answer. Scacchi tried the other with the same result.

A cleaning cart rattled past, pushed by a woman in a navy uniform.

Izzy caught her attention. “Excuse me—the guests in these rooms, have you seen them today?”

“Oh yes, the boys.” The woman nodded. “They left very early. I just finished cleaning the rooms.”

“They checked out?”

“They went out. Most of their belongings are still inside.”

“Did they say where they were going?” asked Scacchi.

“Back to the mountains.” The maid adjusted her cart.

Izzy put her hands on her hips. She had told Wahlberg to give the group the all-clear to return up the same mountain they had discovered Marisol, but she didn’t foresee them actually doing it, as if nothing had happened.

“Thank you,” said Yoshida. He turned to Izzy. “Looks like we missed them.”

“We could drive up to the trailhead,” suggested Scacchi.

Izzy shook her head. “By now, they’re somewhere on the mountain face. We’ll have to wait until they come down.”

She stared at the closed hotel room doors, frustration building. Another dead end. Another delay in getting answers about what happened to Marisol.

Chapter Ten

Scacchi pulled into a spot at the sheriff’s office. As she killed the engine, her phone chimed. The agent pulled it out, her expression brightening.

“Finally. NPRC sent Ms. Delgado-Teo’s military record.”

Izzy led the special agents into the building and up the stairs to the conference room. Scacchi settled behind her laptop, fingers flying across the keys.

Her face fell. “Tom, take a look at this.”

Yoshida leaned over her shoulder, studying the screen. “Ah.”

“Ah?” Scacchi’s arms crossed tight against her chest. “This is barely anything. Basic service record, deployment dates, rank progression. No locations, no units, not even her fingerprints.”

“That’s not uncommon for first requests.” Yoshida straightened, adjusting his glasses. “The military is not always particularly forthcoming. NPRC often provides basic documentation. We could get a file from the national archive.” Yoshida indicated that Izzy should take a look.

She moved closer to scan the sparse file. Eight years of service, Civil Affairs specialist, Sergeant First Class. Multiple deployments dates. Honorable discharge in 2022.

“We need the full record,” said Scacchi.

“That could be weeks.” Yoshida’s tone remained patient. “Sometimes months, depending on classification levels and which storage facility holds the original documents.”

Izzy’s mind raced through the options. “What if we tried a two-track approach? FBI continues through official channels while I work a personal contact?”

Scacchi’s posture shifted, skepticism warring with interest. “You served?”

“No,” Izzy said. “But I wasn’t always a sheriff.”

Izzy left without another word. She closed her office door and sank into her chair, fingers hovering over her phone. She drew a steadying breath before dialing the number.

“Major Cook’s office.”

“This is Izar Llewellyn for Major Cook.”

A pause, then a warm voice filled the line. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite fed-turned-sheriff. How’s small-town life treating you, Iz?”

“Keeps me busy, Jimmy.” Izzy smiled despite herself. “Death Valley’s got nothing on tracking arms dealers through Queens, though.”

“Those were the days. I still owe you for that Serbian crew. The big green machine would have gotten some serious egg on our face for that.”

“You gave as good as you got.” Izzy leaned back. “Actually, I could use that kind of help now. Got a possible murder victim, former army. Having trouble confirming ID due to facial trauma. We’re waiting on dental records, but . . .”

“Prints would speed things up?”

“Significantly. NPRC’s being typically unhelpful.”

“Some things never change.” Papers rustled in the background. “Give me the details.”

“Marisol Delgado-Teo. Sergeant First Class. Civil Affairs. Honorable discharge.”

“Got it.” His voice softened. “Iz, I never got a chance to talk to you after, you know, what went down in New York. You doing okay out there?”

The weight of unspoken history hung like the clouds outside her window.

Izzy swallowed hard, forcing her voice to stay steady. “I’m good, James. Really. It was a curveball, and it hurt. But I think I’ve found something good here. This woman was not so lucky. Could use your help getting answers.”

“For you? Consider it done. Give me twenty-four hours.”

“Thanks, Jim. I owe you one.”

“Add it to your tab. And Iz? Take care of yourself.”

Izzy stared at her phone after ending the call, Cook’s words echoing. Queens. The Serbian crew. Mark. Her pulse quickened as memories surfaced—the warehouse raid, gunfire in the dark, Mark’s blood pooling beneath him, the light in his eyes extinguishing in her arms.

The sharp rap of her knuckles against her desk broke through the fog. She focused on the pain, using it to pull herself back to the present. These weren’t helpful thoughts.

She straightened her uniform shirt and checked her reflection in the window. Professional. Controlled. The mask she’d perfected over years of practice slipped into place. She took a deep breath as she walked out of her office.

The conference room fell silent as she entered. Scacchi’s pen tapped against her notepad, questions clearly burning behind her sharp gaze.

“My contact should have additional information within twenty-four hours.” Izzy said. “Including fingerprints, if they’re available.”

“Your contact has that kind of access?” Scacchi’s skepticism carried an edge of curiosity.

“Yes.” Izzy didn’t elaborate. Looking at Scacchi now, Izzy realized she had been wrong in her assumption that these agents would come with baggage about her exit from the Bureau. Scacchi’s questions told her that she didn’t even know Izzy had been in the FBI. She decided that the antagonism Scacchi showed her as a small-town sheriff was enough to deal with, so she would keep her backstory to herself.

“The cabin rental started a couple of days before she died.” Izzy pointed to the earliest entry. “We should check traffic cameras, see if we can track her vehicle. I can call CalTrans and the CHP on that, if you want.”

“Sounds good,” said Yoshida. “We also don’t have her cellphone. That would be handy.” He turned Scacchi. “But we should go deep into her socials, emails, whatever we can find.”

“Already on it.” Scacchi’s focus shifted back to her laptop, though her sideways glances suggested the mystery of Izzy’s past wasn’t forgotten.

Chapter Eleven

The phone buzzed against Izzy’s hip. She glanced at the caller ID—Deputy Wilson.

“Sheriff, I’m doing my rounds. I found the victim’s car. It’s behind the medical clinic.”

Izzy’s pulse quickened. “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

She stepped out of her office and peered into the conference room. Scacchi sat hunched over her laptop, face illuminated by the screen. No sign of Yoshida. Izzy headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and dashed for her vehicle.

The evening air was heavy, the sky looking like rain but offering none as she pulled into the clinic’s back lot. The Victorian building looked ancient against the darkening sky, its rear wooden boards a contrast to the brick façade out front. Cole’s Ram pickup and Serena’s sporty Mazda occupied their usual spots near the rear entrance.

Wilson stood beside a metallic green Subaru Outback tucked into the far corner. The Washington plates matched their BOLO.

“Tried the doors?” Izzy approached, scanning the vehicle’s exterior.

“All locked. Windows up.” Wilson circled the car. “No obvious damage or signs of tampering.”

Izzy pulled out her phone and fired off a quick text to Yoshida. She dropped to her knees, checking under the chassis with her flashlight, moving around the vehicle. No magnetic key holder, no storage box.

“When’s the last time you patrolled this lot?” she asked Wilson as she stood.

“Yesterday afternoon. Can’t say for certain if it was here then.”

Izzy nodded and brushed her hands off and leaned toward the passenger window without touching it. The interior looked clean and orderly. No trash, no valuables. Nothing that looked like blood.

Izzy stood and stretched out her back, still stiff days after their excursion up Mt. Mollison. Wilson glanced over Izzy’s shoulder, as Yoshida’s sedan pulled in. He joined them at the Subaru, camera already in hand.

“Look at the dust coating.” Yoshida crouched beside the rear quarter panel, snapping photos. “Been off-road, you think?”

Izzy shrugged. “Looks more than highway dirt, but five minutes off the main drag here and you need a wash.”

She studied the undisturbed dust. No prints, no smudges, nothing to suggest anyone had accessed the vehicle since it was parked here.

“Do you know these other vehicles?” Yoshida asked.

“Yeah, they belong here. The doctor and his office manager.” Izzy motioned toward the clinic’s rear entrance. “Let’s ask inside. They might have seen something.”

The heavy wooden door creaked as they entered the former funeral home’s receiving area. The Victorian building’s conversion to a medical clinic hadn’t erased its history—wide hallways and ornate trim spoke of its past purpose.

Izzy led Yoshida and Wilson down the corridor, past examination rooms, to the waiting area where three patients slouched in chairs, thumbing through magazines. A TV mounted on the wall played the weather channel on mute.

Serena’s head snapped up from her computer screen at their entrance, her usual bright smile faltering at the sight of three law enforcement officers. She smoothed her turquoise blouse, dark eyes darting between them. “Sheriff Llewellyn? Is everything okay?”

“Just following up on something.” Izzy kept her tone casual, conscious of the waiting patients. “Have you noticed a strange car in the rear parking lot?”

“I don’t think so, but I got here early this morning.” Serena’s brow furrowed. “It’s usually just me and Dr. B who park out back.”

Yoshida stepped forward and flashed his credentials. “I’m Special Agent Yoshida. Do you have security cameras out there?”

“Only over the back door, not the whole lot.” Serena tapped her computer. “Like I say, patients don’t park there. It’s, you know, where the hearses used to park. People don’t like it.”

Serena asked Yoshida for the timeframe, and he stepped in behind the desk to view the screen.

Izzy turned to Wilson. “We should check if the vic had a Starlink subscription for her Subaru. If that doesn’t work, maybe a Big Easy tool. You got one?”

“No, but the fire boys do.” Wilson stuck his thumb in the general direction of the firehouse. “I can scoot over there.”

Izzy nodded, and Wilson walked outside to the vehicle. When Izzy turned back to the reception, Yoshida was sighing.

“Like I said, just me and Dr. B,” said Serena.

Yoshida clamped his lips into a tight smile. “Thanks for trying. What about the doctor?”

At that moment, the door to Cole’s office opened, and a farm worker walked out. Cole looked down the hallway at Izzy.

“There he is,” said Yoshida. “I’ll ask him.”

Izzy watched Yoshida walk toward Cole, who gave the FBI man a nod, then gestured him inside. He closed the door with a glance at Izzy.

Izzy turned away and watched as the farm worker and his companion left together, leaving only one elderly patient absorbed in a magazine. The quiet settled over the waiting room. She leaned against Serena’s desk, her posture softening.

“So.” Izzy lowered her voice. “I hear you’ve been walking taller these days.”

A flush crept into Serena’s cheeks. She ducked her head, dark waves falling forward to partially shield her face. “Is that what you hear?”

“Small town.” Izzy grinned. “Can’t keep anything secret for long.”

“Says the woman who managed to date Dr. Barrow for weeks before anyone caught on.” Serena’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“That’s different. I’m the sheriff. I have ways of keeping things quiet.” Izzy crossed her arms, adopting an exaggerated air of authority.

Serena laughed, the sound bright in the hushed space. “Is that so? Then you must already know about Michael.”

“Michael?” Izzy raised an eyebrow. “No, but I do now.”

“See? Your powers aren’t infinite after all.” Serena’s fingers played with the turquoise pendant at her throat. “It’s still pretty new. We’ve only been out a few times.”

“And?”

“And he’s nice.” Serena’s smile widened. “Really nice. Kind of reminds me of Dr. Barrow, actually, but with more of an edge to him. You know what I mean?”

Izzy straightened, intrigued. “How so?”

“Well, he’s got that same . . . steadiness. That quiet confidence. But he rides motorcycles and has tattoos.” Serena’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “He’s with the aqueduct, based in Harris.”

“Harris?”

“Mhmm. We met online. Our first date IRL wasn’t great. I spilled my latte all over him.” Serena’s laugh held a note of remembered embarrassment. “He just smiled and said it gave his pants character.”

Izzy found herself smiling at Serena’s obvious happiness. The younger woman practically glowed when she talked about Michael, her usual cheerful demeanor amplified by new love’s spark.

“I’m happy for you, Serena. Really.”

“Thanks.” Serena’s smile turned shy.

Cole’s office door opened, and Yoshida emerged. Serena gave a quick nod, and the elderly patient rose from his chair, tossed the magazine onto the side table, and shuffled past them into Cole’s office. As he closed the door, Cole caught Izzy’s eye. His expression held a mix of concern and something else—a silent message she couldn’t quite read.

“Thanks for your help, Serena.” Izzy pushed off from the desk.

Yoshida fell into step beside her as they headed for the exit. “Dr. Barrow says he definitely didn’t see the Subaru yesterday, but he admitted he wasn’t paying attention to the lot today.”

“So it moved after the owner was dead,” said Izzy.

Yoshida creased his lips but said nothing.

They stepped into the cooling evening air. Wilson stood by the Subaru, the passenger door hanging open. He held up the long rod he had used to flip the lock as they approached. “Martinez says the owner has Starlink, but it could take hours.”

Izzy studied the vehicle. “You look inside yet?”

“Just got it open.” Wilson gestured at Yoshida. “Figured you’d want to take a look.”

“Appreciate that,” said Yoshida. He pulled on nitrile gloves and sat in the passenger seat, then he dropped the glove compartment open. He detailed the thing he took out. “Service manuals, insurance card, registration. Nothing else, not even a candy wrapper.”

Yoshida put the items back in and closed the compartment, then checked the cup holders and storage area in the door, finding nothing. He lifted the center console compartment and pulled out sunscreen, a glasses case with sunglasses inside, and a bottle of water. “This car is neat.”

Yoshida checked the rear cargo and storage in the driver’s side door. “Nothing. No wallet, no phone.” He stood up and stretched his back like it was causing him pain. Then he looked at Deputy Wilson. “You got a print kit?”

“Yes, sir.”

Yoshida glanced at Izzy. “You mind?”

“Go at it.”

Yoshida asked Wilson to print the steering wheel and door handles. “I don’t hold out great hopes, but we gotta cross the Ts.”

Izzy circled the Subaru one more time as Wilson got the print kit from his SUV.

“Anything else we should check while we wait?” Yoshida snapped a final photo of the rear license plate.

“Nothing comes to mind.” Izzy glanced at the gathering clouds. “Wilson, call Martinez to keep on the Starlink thing. If we can remote start it, one of you can drive back to the motor pool. Save us paying for a tow truck.”

Wilson nodded. “You got it, boss.”

“Agent Yoshida and I will head back to the office. Call if anything changes.”

They left Wilson dusting the steering wheel, and Izzy headed toward Main Street with Yoshida close on her tail. The Victorian clinic’s silhouette loomed behind him, its windows now dark except for the warm glow from Cole’s office.

Chapter Twelve

Izzy scraped the last bits of pork chop pan drippings onto her grandfather’s plate. The familiar scents of garlic and rosemary filled his kitchen, mingling with memories of countless family dinners. Aitona had insisted on seconds of the mashed potatoes, claiming they reminded him of her grandmother’s.

After an hour in front of Hill Street Blues reruns, Joe fell asleep in his recliner, so Izzy headed for bed.

Sleep proved elusive. She tossed around, her mind not focused on any one thing but unable to shut down until the first hints of dawn crept through the curtains. She gave up and padded to the shower, put on a coffee pot for her grandfather, and then headed into work.

The sheriff’s office stood quiet in the early morning light as Izzy pushed through the doors.

Deputy Thompson glanced up from the front desk, coffee mug paused halfway to his mouth. “Morning, Sheriff. The feds are already here.”

“Both of them?”

“Just Agent Scacchi.”

Izzy climbed the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. The conference room door stood open, harsh LED light spilling into the hallway. Inside, evidence boxes holding Marisol Delgado-Teo’s personnel items from the rental cabin were stacked along one wall. Coffee cups and energy drink cans littered the conference table between open laptops.

The whiteboard had transformed overnight into a mosaic of crime scene photos, maps, and timeline notes. Scacchi stood before it, arms crossed, studying the details with laser focus.

“You been here all night?” Izzy asked.

Scacchi turned, her crisp suit showing no signs of wrinkles despite the early hour. “No, I’m just an early riser. Helps me think better when it’s quiet.”

“I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

Scacchi’s eyes drifted back to the board. “It’s good to be busy.”

Izzy turned away, trying to decipher if there was sarcasm in that comment.

She made another pot in the break room, then balanced three steaming mugs as she returned upstairs. Yoshida had arrived and settled into a chair, his leather briefcase open beside him, a fresh notepad ready. She set the coffees down, keeping the black one for herself and sliding the others toward the agents.

Yoshida nodded at Scacchi. “Why don’t you walk us through what you found?”

Scacchi picked up a slim remote and clicked the projector on. “Our cybercrime team pulled together Marisol’s digital footprint. Email, Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn—the usual suspects. She’s in a couple of WhatsApp groups, but we’ve found no dating apps so far.” She advanced through slides showing various social media profiles. “She maintained a strong professional presence on LinkedIn, focused on her tech PR work. Instagram tells a different story.” Scacchi brought up a new profile on the screen. “Heavy emphasis on outdoor activities. Multiple posts per week showing climbing, hiking, paddling. She was methodical about tagging locations and equipment.”

Images flashed across the screen—Marisol posed against dramatic mountain backdrops, summit shots with climbing gear, kayaking through white water.

Another click brought up a timeline graphic. “Activity was consistent until three days before she arrived in Darkness. Then nothing except a single check-in at the Crossroads Bar & Grill the night before she died.”

Yoshida’s pen scratched across his notepad, documenting each detail. Izzy studied the social media photos, noting Marisol’s confident stance, the determined eyes. These weren’t casual hobby shots. They showed someone who attacked outdoor challenges with zeal.

The projector hummed in the silence as Scacchi paused on a photo of Marisol grinning atop what looked like Mount Rainier, ice axe raised in triumph. Scacchi clicked to the next slide. “There’s one connection we need to focus on. A message thread between Marisol and someone named Anna.”

Izzy leaned forward, studying the message screenshots filling the screen. The earliest ones dated back four months.

“Both served in the army, but it appears not together.” Scacchi highlighted sections of text. “Anna was in supply, different unit. They connected through a veterans’ hiking group.”

The messages started casual—sharing summit stories, comparing gear preferences, swapping stories about deployments. As weeks passed, the tone shifted. More personal details emerged. Inside jokes developed.

“Look at the progression.” Scacchi scrolled through months of exchanges. “They planned several meetups that fell through. Weather, work commitments. But the Darkness trip stuck.”

Mari

Finally making this happen! grinning face with big eyes Already booked my cabin.

Anna

Perfect spot to test my new crampons.

Mari:

You’re going to love these routes. Technical but worth it.

Izzy tracked the growing excitement in their messages as the trip approached. The easy banter of two people who’d found common ground in both their service and their passion for climbing.

“Last message was three days ago.” Scacchi pulled up the final exchange.

Anna

Running late. Traffic nightmare at LAX. Meet you at the bar instead of cabin?

Mari

No worries. Crossroads in Harris works. Text when you’re in.

“We’ve got nothing after that,” said Scacchi. “No response from Anna confirming she arrived. No messages about meeting up.”

Izzy pulled out her phone and dialed Wahlberg’s extension. “Are you at the office yet? Okay. Can you come up to the conference room?”

Within a minute, Wahlberg appeared in the doorway. He nodded at the FBI agents before focusing on Izzy.

“Deputy, we need to know if anyone reported seeing the victim with another woman during her stay.” Izzy glanced at the screen, then back to Wahlberg. “Someone named Anna.”

Wahlberg shook his head. “No reports of a companion. We interviewed the cabin owner again yesterday—she confirmed Ms. Delgado-Teo booked and paid for a single occupancy. The cabin sweep didn’t suggest a second occupant.”

“What about local accommodations?” Izzy asked.

“We stopped looking once we found the cabin Ms. Delgado-Teo was in.” Wahlberg looked like a chastised child. “Deputies are still canvassing popular hiking routes and campsites. So far nothing, but it’s a lot of ground to cover.” Wahlberg tucked his notepad away. “I can start calling around to⁠—”

“Don’t bother,” Scacchi cut him off. She strode to the whiteboard and tapped a printed screenshot. “Our cybercrimes unit has serious doubts this Anna person even exists.” She pulled up a series of social media profiles on the projector. “These accounts allegedly belonging to Anna Groton. Facebook created four months ago, Instagram about the same time. The photos show the same woman, but reverse image searches trace back to stock photo sites.”

The profile pictures showed an athletic woman in her thirties with dark hair, always photographed from flattering angles in outdoor settings. Professional-quality shots that could have come from any outdoor gear catalog.

“The construction is sophisticated.” Scacchi advanced through more screenshots. “Carefully curated posts building a believable identity—an Army veteran-turned-outdoor-enthusiast. But dig deeper, and it falls apart. No tagged locations match up. No interaction with real accounts except Marisol’s.”

Yoshida leaned forward, studying the images. “What about the supposed partner?”

“Partner?” asked Izzy.

Scacchi clicked to another set of profiles. “Meet Thomas Meares, Anna’s climbing partner, according to their social media. More stock photos, more fake engagement. The accounts follow each other, comment on each other’s posts, but it’s all manufactured.”

Izzy examined the intricate web of false identities. “Someone put significant effort into this.”

“Months of groundwork.” Scacchi nodded. “Building trust through shared interests and experiences. The military connection gave instant credibility. Marisol likely felt she was connecting with someone who truly understood her background.”

Wahlberg shifted uncomfortably. “So this whole friendship was fake? Just to lure her here?”

“A sophisticated catfishing operation,” Scacchi confirmed. “The perpetrator clearly had technical skills and patience. They created an entire fictional social circle to validate Anna’s existence.”

The conference room fell silent. Even the usual hum of the building’s ventilation seemed muted as they absorbed the weight of this revelation.

Scacchi nodded, her earlier competitive edge softening. “Cybercrimes is digging deeper. They’re tracking IP addresses, analyzing digital footprints. Whoever created these profiles knew how to cover their tracks, but our guys are good. We’ll keep at it.”

“We’re not dealing with an amateur.” Yoshida set down his pen.

Izzy pointed at the board, tracing her finger along the string of dates marking the first contact between Marisol and ‘Anna.’ “Four months of preparation. Building trust. Creating an entire fictional support network.” She turned to face the agents. “The question is why? Why invest so much time and effort into targeting this woman specifically?”

Yoshida closed his notebook. “In cases like this, the answer usually lies in one of two places—either very close to home in the victim’s present life, or buried somewhere in their past.”

“The military records,” Izzy said. Her fingers tapped against her coffee mug as she remembered her conversation with her army contact.

“Could be.” Yoshida’s eyes met hers. “But someone went to extraordinary lengths to ensure Marisol would come to this specific location, at this specific time. They wanted her here in Darkness.”

As Izzy considered that, her phone buzzed. She answered and put the phone on the table. “Dr. Pickett, you’re on speaker. Special Agents Scacchi and Yoshida are with me.”

“Good. I’m just calling about the drug in Ms. Delgado-Teo’s system. The GC-MS confirmed it was Ketamine.”

Izzy frowned. “So, did the drug kill her?”

“No, cause of death is the blunt force trauma, as in my report. Although ketamine is a dissociative anesthetic, the amount she would have been given would not have put her under, let alone kill her.”

Izzy offered Yoshida a frown, then looked back to her phone. “Self use?”

“Possible, but unlikely. We found a puncture mark in her triceps. That’s not an easy place to give yourself a shot, and there’s no benefit in doing so.”

“So the perpetrator might have injected her?”

“From behind, yes.”

“But not to kill her?”

“It’s possible she reacted and the full amount didn’t make it into her system, but there’s another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“Ketamine induces compliance. If the perpetrator wanted the victim to go into the mountains, a precise amount might make that easier. The victim could walk but not necessarily rationalize what was happening to them.”

Izzy looked to each of the special agents to see if they had further questions, but got head shakes. “Thanks, Dylan. We appreciate the update.”

Izzy killed the call and for a long moment, the three of them sat in silence. Then Yoshida stood.

“We need to chat to our climber friends again.”

Chapter Thirteen

Izzy and Yoshida left Scacchi working in the conference room and again took the highway north. The Harris Motor Inn’s neon sign cast a pale glow across the mostly empty parking lot as Izzy pulled her Explorer in just after eight a.m. She cut the engine, scanning the motel’s layout. Luke’s blue minivan sat exactly where she expected it would be—parked in front of Room 112.

“You take 112.” Yoshida’s voice was low as he checked his weapon. “I’ll do 115.”

Izzy nodded as she verified her own sidearm. “If they summited yesterday, then they probably got back late. Luke said it would be an eighteen hour day. They’ll be dead to the world.”

“Front desk?”

Izzy shook her head. “We know where these guys are.”

They exited the vehicles in sync. Izzy headed for her door, the old adrenaline of approaching unknown subjects flooding back—the heightened awareness, the silent communication through gestures and looks.

Yoshida took position at 112, while Izzy moved to 115. Their eyes met along the walkway. One sharp nod.

“FBI! Open up!”

The words burst from her throat before she could stop them. Wrong agency now, but they felt right, natural, like slipping into an old uniform. The sound of Yoshida’s voice echoed her own as they pounded on both doors simultaneously.

Izzy’s fist connected with the door again, each impact reverberating through the thin wood. The silence that followed felt endless. She shifted her weight, ready to strike the door once more, when shuffling sounds emerged from inside.

The lock clicked. A face appeared in the narrow gap—Martin, his dark hair matted on one side, eyes barely open. The sharp smell of stale beer wafted through the doorway.

“Jesus, what time is it?” He squinted against the morning light.

Down the walkway, Hugh’s equally disheveled face appeared at Yoshida’s door, sporting a two-day beard and wearing only boxer shorts.

“Special Agent Yoshida, FBI.” Yoshida’s voice carried the weight of authority despite its quietness. “Please join your companions in Room 112.”

Hugh’s bleary eyes darted between the two officers before he nodded, disappearing to grab clothes.

Izzy gestured for Martin to move. “Let’s get inside. Now.”

Martin’s brow creased to match his messed hair, but he complied, padding barefoot back across the cheap carpet. Izzy noted two twin beds, Luke in the second of them.

Hugh and Zander moved into the tight space, Zander pulling on a T-shirt. Four climbers, all present and accounted for. Their movements were slow, uncoordinated—the aftermath of what must have been a celebration of their successful summit attempt.

The stale air inside Room 112 carried traces of sweat and mountain gear. Climbing ropes and harnesses lay scattered across the floor, technical equipment piled in corners. The climbers huddled together, expressions ranging from confused to annoyed as they perched on the edges of the beds.

Izzy leaned against the particleboard entertainment center, its ancient TV covered in a layer of dust. Yoshida stood beside her, his stance relaxed but purposeful as he faced the four climbers.

“We understand you were at the Crossroads Bar the night before you went up the mountain the first time.” Yoshida’s tone remained conversational.

Luke shifted on the bed. “Yeah, we stopped for dinner and drinks, but I can’t say I remember the name of the joint.”

“Your credit card receipt confirms it.” Yoshida pulled out his small notebook. “Did you notice anything unusual that evening?”

Hugh and Martin exchanged glances from their perch on the opposite bed. Zander sat apart on the single chair, arms crossed over his North Face T-shirt.

“It was a bar,” Martin said. “Nothing unusual.”

Luke sat up against the bedhead. “Is this one of those small-town shakedown things?”

Yoshida crossed his arms. “Did you hear the part about me being FBI?”

Luke shrugged. “Well, what? We went for a drink. It’s not illegal to go to a bar here, is it?”

“Actually, it is if you sexually harass someone.” Izzy pushed off from the entertainment center, her gaze sweeping across the group.

“Whoa, what?” Luke sat up straighter. “Nobody harassed anyone.”

Martin lifted his hands. “Look, if you’re making accusations⁠—”

“Maybe we need a lawyer here.” Luke’s voice hardened.

Izzy kept her voice even. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Luke.” She turned her attention to Zander, who hadn’t moved from his chair. “But witnesses at the bar described someone in a black jacket like yours getting handsy with a woman that night.”

Zander’s slack posture stiffened. “This is ridiculous. It was nothing.”

“That’s not what we heard,” said Yoshida.

Zander’s fingers dug into his biceps. “I just offered to buy her a drink. She got all uptight about it.”

“That’s not how the witnesses tell it.” Izzy took a step closer. “The waitress remembers you clearly. Says you wouldn’t take no for an answer. That you kept pushing after multiple rejections. Until your victim had to punch you in the balls to make her point clear.”

Color flooded Zander’s face, spreading down his neck. His shoulders hunched forward as the other climbers turned to stare at him.

“That bothered you, didn’t it?” said Izzy. “Made to look like a loser, wearing one where it counts.”

“She overreacted,” said Zander. “That’s all.”

“Nah, that’s not all.” Izzy put her hands on her hips. “It got under your skin, didn’t it, Zander? You don’t handle rejection well, do you?”

Luke swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the worn carpet, face contorted with confusion. “What are you talking about? He offered some chick a drink, she overreacted, we paid and left. Why do you care?” Luke’s eyes darted between Izzy and Yoshida. “No autopsy, no foul, right?”

The words hit Izzy like a rifle round. She straightened, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. “Actually, there was an autopsy.”

Four sets of eyes locked onto her face.

“The woman you allegedly found in the mountains?” Izzy’s gaze swept across their faces, catching each micro-expression. “The same woman from the bar.”

The color drained from Zander’s face. Luke’s mouth fell open, working soundlessly for a moment before he found his voice. Hugh and Martin exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“Wait, what?” Luke pushed himself to his feet. “The dead woman was⁠—”

Izzy kept her hand beside her sidearm. “The same one who defended herself against your friend’s advances.” She crossed her arms. “Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Zander? You harass a woman at a bar, she humiliates you, and then your group just happens to find her body the next day?”

Zander shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “You think I⁠—”

“Sit down.” Yoshida’s quiet command carried enough authority that Zander dropped back into his chair. The comment wasn’t directed at Luke, but he sat on the bed and pulled a pillow into his lap.

Zander’s forehead glistened with sweat in the putrid motel lighting. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his shorts as he leaned forward. “I didn’t kill her. I swear to God, I didn’t even know who that woman was when we found her.”

Luke raised his palms. “Look, Sheriff, you’re making connections that aren’t there. Harris has what, three bars total? And Crossroads is the only decent one. Of course, people from out of town end up there.”

“Two climbers crossing paths at a bar isn’t that strange,” Martin chimed in from his perch on the bed.

Izzy shifted her weight, maintaining her position between the climbers and the door. “There are more than three bars in Harris, but what are the odds that out of all the peaks in these mountains, you just happened to be on the exact same one where she died?” She focused on Zander’s face. “And not just any random encounter at a bar—you specifically targeted her, wouldn’t leave her alone until she had to physically defend herself.”

“That’s not—” Zander’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?” Izzy cocked her head.

“I had a few drinks, okay?” Zander’s words tumbled out. “Made an ass of myself. But that doesn’t make me a murderer.”

Izzy shifted her weight. “No, killing someone makes you a murderer. And if you’re all so innocent, you won’t mind submitting DNA samples.”

The silence in the room grew thick.

Luke’s fingers twisted in the pillow fabric. “Look, even if we did, our DNA might be on her from the bar.” His eyes darted to Zander. “I mean, there was contact.”

“Only Zander’s DNA should be there, if your story is true.” Izzy let her gaze rest on Zander’s pale face. “And not where we’ll be testing for it.”

Zander’s throat worked as he swallowed. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple despite the room’s chill. His fingers hadn’t stopped fidgeting with his shorts, now gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles showed white.

The other climbers shifted away from him on the beds, creating distance without being obvious about it. The movement wasn’t lost on Izzy—the instinctive reaction of men realizing they might be sharing space with a killer.

Izzy watched Hugh ease up from the bed, his eyes on Yoshida. “I’ll do the test. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Martin nodded, following suit. “Same here.”

“I’ll get the kits.” Izzy maintained eye contact with Zander as she backed toward the door. Outside, the morning sun had failed to arrive, the dark sky barely lighting the pavement. She popped the SUV’s rear hatch and retrieved her evidence collection kit.

Back in the room, Hugh and Martin stood waiting while Luke had crawled back against the bedhead, hands clasped between his knees. Zander hadn’t moved from his chair.

Izzy snapped on nitrile gloves and opened the first swab. “Open your mouth, Hugh.”

He complied, and she scraped the inside of his cheek. The swab went into its protective sleeve, sealed with evidence tape. She labeled it with Hugh’s name and the date.

Martin stepped forward next, opening wide without being asked. His swab joined Hugh’s in the evidence bag.

Luke cleared his throat. “Fine.”

Izzy processed his sample, noting the slight tremor in his jaw as she swabbed. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

Only Zander remained, still rigid in his chair.

“Your turn.” Izzy held up a fresh swab.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “And if I refuse?”

“Then we arrest you.” Yoshida leaned against the door jamb, hands in pockets like he was waiting for a bus. “And we take you down to the station for further questioning. Your choice.”

Zander’s jaw worked back and forth before he opened his mouth. Izzy collected his sample, careful to maintain chain of custody procedures despite her racing pulse. His breath came in short bursts through his nose as she labeled his tube.

She sealed all four samples in an evidence bag, initialing across the seal. Izzy tucked the bag into her kit and snapped it closed. “What are your plans now?”

Luke scratched at his stubble. “We were gonna do one more climb, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he glanced at his companions.

“Think we might just head home.” Martin’s eyes darted to Zander.

“Call my office before you leave,” Izzy said.

Luke’s spine straightened. “Are you telling us not to leave town? Because that’s unconstitutional if we haven’t committed any crime.”

“No, you’re free to leave.” Izzy met his gaze. “But if you haven’t committed a crime, you’ll want to make sure all questions are answered before you go.” She paused, letting the weight of her next words settle in the stale air. “Because trust me, you don’t want me to have to hunt you down.”

The silence stretched as Luke’s face paled. He nodded once, sharp and jerky.

Izzy gathered her kit and moved toward the door where Yoshida waited. The musty carpet muffled her footsteps, but she felt four sets of eyes tracking her movement. The tension in the room had shifted—what started as annoyed confusion had crystallized into something harder, more brittle.

Izzy led the way across the cracked pavement. She glanced at Yoshida as they approached her Explorer. “Do you want to try to hold Zander?”

Yoshida shook his head. “Not enough to detain him. DNA results could take a week, assuming we even find anything useful on Ms. Delgado-Teo’s body.” He paused at the passenger door, his expression thoughtful. “My gut says we won’t get a match. Zander’s a juvenile pest with boundary issues, but I don’t see him as our killer.” His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Though I’ve been wrong before.”

“Haven’t we all.” The memory of Mark’s betrayal flashed through her mind as she pulled open the driver’s door.

They climbed into the SUV, and Izzy started the vehicle. As she clicked her seatbelt into place, Yoshida settled back with a soft chuckle.

“Those boys are sure going to have a fun ride home, though.”

Chapter Fourteen

Izzy steered her Explorer into the sheriff’s office parking lot, a paper bag of sandwiches balanced on the center console between her and Yoshida. Yoshida held the front door open, and warm air washed over them as they entered the lobby. Izzy slowed as she made her way across the lobby. Something felt off—the usual buzz of activity replaced by an unsettling quiet.

They found Scacchi in the conference room, pacing like a caged animal. She spun to face them.

“You lied to us.” Scacchi’s voice crackled with barely contained fury.

Izzy set the sandwich bag on the table. “About what, exactly?”

Scacchi stalked forward, invading Izzy’s personal space. “I did some asking around. You used to be with the Bureau.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

“Word is you left under a cloud.” Scacchi’s lip curled. “Something about how you shot your partner.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke. Izzy felt her pulse quicken, but she kept her expression neutral, her voice steady. “That’s not accurate.”

“So you deny being FBI?”

“No. I just didn’t mention it because it wasn’t relevant.” Izzy took a deliberate step back, creating distance. “Tell me, what did you do before the Bureau?”

Scacchi’s eyes narrowed. “I was with the Boston DA’s office.”

“Interesting. You didn’t share that either.” Izzy spread her hands. “Was that a lie by omission?”

“That’s different⁠—”

“Is it?” Izzy met her glare. “My past has no bearing on this investigation.”

“How can we trust you?” Scacchi’s voice rose. “You’re hiding things.”

“I don’t care if you trust me.” Izzy’s tone remained level. “You want to work out of a tiny motel room with no local support? Go ahead. Good luck getting any internet access through your phone out here.”

Yoshida cleared his throat. “Diana. Take a run. Clear your head.”

Scacchi’s jaw clenched. She spun on her heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

Silence settled over the conference room. Izzy released a slow breath, her shoulders dropping as the tension ebbed.

Yoshida’s gaze lingered on Izzy, the weight of his stare pressing against her skin until she fought the urge to fidget. Without a word, he picked up the paper bag of sandwiches from the conference room table.

“Come with me.” His voice carried no judgment.

Izzy followed him out to the parking lot where his sedan waited. The vinyl seats creaked as she slid into the passenger side. Yoshida guided the car through Darkness and onto a dirt road that headed straight across the valley.

The mountains loomed on both sides, their peaks lost in low clouds that formed a gray ceiling over the world. Yoshida pulled off onto a patch of gravel where desert scrub gave way to bare earth. No buildings broke the horizon ahead. No sound of engines or civilization reached them. Only the whisper of wind through the sage.

He killed the engine and rolled down his window. Izzy did the same, letting the cool air wash over her face. The scent of rain hung heavy in the distance. A red-tailed hawk wheeled overhead, its cry echoing across the empty landscape.

Yoshida unwrapped the sandwiches, passing one to Izzy. The paper crinkled in the silence.

“Your past is your business.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “But you have to see Scacchi’s perspective. Finding out someone kept their FBI background quiet—it raises questions.”

Izzy stared out at the valley floor, her sandwich untouched in her lap. The words stuck in her throat before breaking free.

“I didn’t shoot my partner.” Her voice came out rough. “He was my husband. He was a special agent. And he shot at me first.”

The sandwich froze halfway to Yoshida’s mouth.

“Jesus.” Yoshida lowered his sandwich. “I’m sorry, Izzy.”

Izzy picked at the crust of her sandwich, her appetite gone. The vast emptiness of the desert matched the hollow feeling inside. More than a year down the track, and the wound still felt raw whenever someone prodded it.

“Mark was working with an organized crime ring.” The admission tasted bitter. “I had no idea. I missed all the signs.”

A lizard skittered across the gravel, disappearing under a creosote bush. Izzy tracked its movement, focusing on anything but the memories threatening to surface. “I got a tip from inside the Bureau that Mark had been investigated and was about to be brought in. I learned where he was going to be, and I went there to confront him. I found myself staring down the barrel of my husband’s gun.”

The sandwich wrapper crinkled as Yoshida set his lunch aside. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer platitudes. Just waited.

“He fired first.” Izzy’s fingers tightened around the uneaten sandwich. “I was faster. Better shot, too. The inquiry cleared me, but . . .” She swallowed hard. “The whispers started. How could I not know? Was I that blind? That stupid?”

Wind rustled through the sage. Izzy inhaled deeply, letting the desert air fill her lungs. “ I was told no other agent would ever trust me to have their back, so I was given a choice: take voluntary separation or spend the rest of my days in the basement of the Hoover Building removing staples from old documents.” The memory of that conversation still burned. “So I left. I got offered this job, and I took it. I wasn’t swimming in options.”

She finally looked at Yoshida. “That’s why I don’t bring it up. It’s ancient history that has nothing to do with this case or any other, but every time someone learns about it, I get to watch them reassess everything they thought they knew about me. Watch them wonder if I’m compromised or just incompetent.”

Izzy crumpled the sandwich wrapper. “So yeah, I should have mentioned the FBI background, but I’m tired of being defined by my husband’s betrayal.”

Yoshida’s silence stretched as he gazed across the valley. The wind picked up, stirring the creosote bushes until their pungent scent filled the air. A few drops of rain struck the windshield, dark spots that evaporated almost instantly in the dry air.

He finally retrieved his sandwich. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to bring it up.”

Izzy watched another red-tailed hawk join the first, their shapes dark against the pewter clouds.

“But you need to meet Scacchi halfway.” Yoshida took a bite, chewed deliberately. “She’s driven. Talented. Top of her class at Quantico.”

“And she has a chip on her shoulder the size of Mt. Whitney.”

“She has weaknesses she can’t see.” He brushed crumbs from his tie. “Great with the law. Fantastic with data analysis. Behavioral profiling? She could teach the course.”

A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the desert. Izzy’s sandwich remained untouched in her lap.

“But people?” Yoshida’s lips curved in a slight smile. “Not her strong suit. You know anyone like that?”

Heat crept up Izzy’s neck. She remembered her early days at the Bureau—driven, focused, certain she knew better than the local cops. How long had it taken her to learn that expertise came in many forms?

“I might have some experience with that particular blind spot.” The admission brought a tight smile.

“Then help her see it.” Yoshida’s voice remained gentle. “Because right now? She’s you, a few years behind. All ambition and no perspective.”

Yoshida bit into his sandwich, his gaze sweeping across the eastern mountains. “It’s nice out here. Peaceful.”

“Sometimes it’s so quiet it’s deafening.” Izzy stared at her own sandwich, still wrapped in white paper.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of wind through the sage. Finally, she peeled back the wrapper and took a small bite. The simple turkey and cheese tasted better than she expected.

They ate without speaking, letting the vastness of the desert fill the space between them. Dark clouds gathered over the peaks, promising rain that might or might not arrive.

When they were done, Yoshida made a U-turn across the dirt road and headed back into town. Izzy directed Yoshida to the Desert Rose Inn.

They found Scacchi in her room, door open to the fresh air, laptop on the small desk. She looked up as they entered, her expression still tight with anger.

“Get your running gear on,” Izzy said.

“I don’t need⁠—”

“Diana.” Yoshida’s quiet plea carried more weight than a direct order.

Scacchi’s jaw worked back and forth before she slammed her laptop closed. She yanked workout clothes from her suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom.

When she emerged in black leggings and a tech shirt, Izzy gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”

They left Yoshida behind, walking in silence through town, Izzy’s boots leaving muffled thumps against the sidewalk while Scacchi’s running shoes whispered beside her. The few people they passed nodded to Izzy, their curious glances taking in her FBI shadow.

At Joe’s house, Izzy unlocked the door. “Give me two minutes to change.”

Izzy emerged in running shorts and a Georgetown T-shirt, her service weapon secured in the gun safe. She stretched her calves against the porch steps, watching Scacchi bounce impatiently on her toes.

Without a word, Izzy set off at an easy jog toward the highway. They crossed the main drag, and then Izzy headed south until the town ended and she found the dirt track that led east. Scacchi fell into step beside her, their footfalls kicking up small clouds of dust as they left the town behind. The eastern mountains rose before them, their rounded peaks cutting into the gray clouds. The cool breeze still carried the promise of rain, but the storm seemed content to hover over the ridgeline.

Scacchi quickened her pace. Izzy matched it. Another subtle increase. Again, Izzy adjusted. The game continued as they ate up the miles, neither woman acknowledging the silent competition building between them.

Their breathing grew heavier. Sweat darkened their shirts despite the cool air. The high desert opened wide around them, empty save for scattered Joshua trees and patches of scrub.

Scacchi surged ahead. Izzy let her lead for three strides before overtaking her. Back and forth they traded the lead, their easy run transforming into a full sprint across the desert floor.

Lungs burning, legs pumping, they raced neck and neck toward the concrete channel of the aqueduct that cut across the valley like a scar. Neither woman willing to give an inch, neither willing to be the first to break.

The concrete river of the aqueduct loomed before them, and Izzy broke off the frenzied race. As soon as she did, Scacchi slowed as well. Izzy doubled over, hands braced on her knees as she gulped in air. Beside her, Scacchi mirrored her position.

When Izzy could finally breathe without her lungs screaming, she straightened. “I was just like you once. The Bureau was everything.” She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “As it should be.”

Scacchi’s ice-blue eyes fixed on her face. “Did you kill your partner?”

“It’s worse.” The words scraped Izzy’s raw throat. “He was my husband.” She stared at the harsh angles of the aqueduct. “He had a gun to an informant’s head and was going to kill him. I asked him to stop. Drew my weapon.” The memory of that moment crystallized, sharp enough to draw blood. “That’s when I learned my husband was an organized crime enforcer. He turned his gun on me. I shot in self-defense.”

A tumbleweed skittered past, dancing on the desert breeze. “The Bureau cleared me of any wrongdoing, but that was the day my dream job crumbled away.”

“You quit?” Scacchi’s voice held more curiosity than judgment now.

“I was encouraged to leave.” Izzy met her gaze. “Because the Assistant Director knew that your reaction to this news would be what most special agents would feel. There were too many questions.” She shook her head. “An agent can’t function like that, no matter how good they are.”

Scacchi stretched her arms overhead, working out the tension from their run. “So now you’re stuck in this dead-end place.”

“Yes.” Izzy glanced around the landscape. “And it’s grown on me.” She could feel Scacchi’s skeptical gaze boring into her. “I know you think I’m crazy for saying it, but I wouldn’t trade it now.”

“You are crazy.” Scacchi shook her head. “I’d go insane here.”

“I would have said the same thing back in New York.” Izzy adjusted her ponytail, tightening it where the run had loosened strands.

Scacchi’s eyebrows shot up. “You worked New York City? How’d you get that office?”

“I was good at what I did.” Izzy’s lips curved in a half-smile. “Though I tended to expect too much from people.” The memory of Mark’s patient coaching surfaced. “My husband taught me to play nice with others.”

“That’s the husband you killed?”

Izzy nodded but said nothing.

The last rays of light faded behind the eastern Sierra as they turned back toward town. The clouds had thickened, blocking even the faintest starlight, and a complete darkness settled over the desert.

“You have a flashlight?” Scacchi’s voice came from somewhere to Izzy’s left.

“No. Left my phone at home too.” Izzy kept her pace steady on the familiar dirt track. “But this road only goes one place.”

Their footsteps crunched against the packed earth, the sound amplified in the darkness. Without visual cues, Izzy felt hyperaware of every small noise—the whisper of their clothes, their measured breathing, the distant cry of a coyote.

“Look, I get it.” Izzy’s voice cut through the darkness. “People can be stupid and annoying. But if you want more than the Fresno office, you need to play nice with others.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Something in Scacchi’s tone suggested she actually might. “I have no plans to end up like Yoshida.”

“He looks pretty content to me.”

“He’s a widower with a dog and no life.” Scacchi’s voice dripped with disdain. “What’s he going to do when he retires?”

“I don’t know, but maybe he’s got it worked out in a way we don’t.” Izzy picked up her pace to a slow jog, heading toward the distant glow of Darkness.

Chapter Fifteen

Izzy eased into her office chair, wincing as her quads protested the movement. Last night’s competitive run with Scacchi had left its mark. She rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness.

She tapped her computer on and sipped coffee as she waited for it to boot up. She glanced out toward the lobby below, having noted that the FBI had yet to appear. A little part of her hoped Scacchi was hurting as much as she was.

First job was to check emails and overnight updates before the morning briefing. One email jumped out immediately.

From: Major James Cook

Subject: Requested Personnel File - M. Delgado-Teo

Her mouse double-clicked, opening the message. Two attachments waited: a PDF labeled Personnel_File_Delgado-Teo_M and another marked Fingerprints_Intake_Delgado-Teo_M.

Izzy forwarded the fingerprint file to Wahlberg with a quick note: “Compare these against post-mortem prints for final ID confirmation.”

The personnel file opened on her screen, black redaction bars striking through whole paragraphs of text. Izzy scrolled past the privacy notices and administrative headers until she reached the meat of the document.

Marisol had received an honorable discharge in 2022 after achieving the rank of Sergeant First Class. Her role as Civil Affairs Specialist involved extensive work with local populations. Particularly notable was her fluency in Pashto.

Several commendations dotted her file, specifically praising her work with women’s groups in local communities. The recognition spoke to someone who excelled at building bridges between military operations and civilian populations.

Izzy leaned back, her chair creaking. The woman who died on that mountain wasn’t just some PR executive who enjoyed hiking. She’d been a skilled military professional with specialized training in cross-cultural communication.

Izzy’s shoulders tensed as she scrolled through the heavily redacted document, her fingers pressing harder against the mouse when she came to a 2019 incident report buried in the personnel file.

Location details were blacked out, but fragments of text painted a stark picture. Minor contusions. Abrasions to wrists and forearms. Defensive wounds noted.

The next page held a string of reference numbers and department codes. One acronym pierced through the bureaucratic maze—SARC. Sexual Assault Response Coordinator.

Izzy’s breath caught. From her FBI days, she knew exactly what that meant. Her free hand curled into a fist on her desk as the implications sank in.

The scene at the Crossroads Bar replayed in her mind with new clarity. Marisol’s repeated rejections of Zander, the swift violence of her response when he wouldn’t back down. Not just an annoyed woman dealing with a drunk’s advances, but someone who’d been through this before. Someone who’d learned to end threats decisively.

Izzy stared at the monitor, the black redaction bars burning into her vision. Her jaw ached from clenching it. She forced her fingers to relax their death grip on the mouse, focusing on steadying her breathing.

Izzy read through to the final page of the incident report. Near the bottom, a name caught her attention, punching through the administrative jargon like a bolt of lightning.

Reporting Officer: Major Colton Barrow

Her breath hitched sharply. The office air felt thin as she stared at those three words, unable to look away. Cole. Her Cole. The same man who’d examined Marisol’s body on the mountain had known her years ago, had been involved in whatever happened during her service.

Izzy’s elbows hit the desk hard as she leaned forward, one hand rising to cover her mouth.

Izzy stared at the name on her screen, her mind racing to make sense of the connection. Cole had examined the body on that mountain, shown no sign of recognition. How could he have been involved in her case and not known her?

Unless he had known. The thought sliced through her like ice. Could Cole have recognized Marisol, known her death wasn’t accidental? Was that why he’d pointed out the inconsistencies in her injuries?

No. Izzy pressed her palms against her eyes, forcing herself to think clearly. She’d seen Cole’s face when he examined the body. There had been no flash of recognition, no hesitation in his movements.

Izzy’s hands dropped to her desk. The truth was, she didn’t know Cole as well as she might. Five months in a whole lifetime. Eight years in the army, countless deployments, a failed marriage—there were whole chapters of his life she knew little about.

But she did know one thing with absolute certainty: if Cole had known Marisol Delgado-Teo, if he’d been involved in whatever happened to her during her service, there was a damn good reason why he hadn’t mentioned it.

And she needed to know what that reason was.

Izzy shut down her computer, grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. She glanced along the mezzanine toward the darkened conference room, relieved to see no sign of Yoshida or Scacchi yet.

Instead of heading through the lobby, she took the stairs down and cut through the back door to the motor pool. The morning air hit her face as she pushed through the heavy metal door, headed for her Explorer.

Chapter Sixteen

The clinic’s front door resisted Izzy’s pull, still locked this early. She rapped her knuckles against the glass, and Serena’s face appeared in the window. The door clicked open.

“Sheriff?” Serena dropped an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Need to see Cole.” Izzy stepped into the warmth of the waiting room. “Is he in?”

“His office.” Serena gestured down the hall. “He’s catching up on paperwork before hours.”

Izzy strode across the worn hardwood, past the empty chairs. The hallway stretched before her, morning light spilling through frosted windows. Cole’s door stood ajar at the end.

She pushed it closed behind her with a soft click. Cole looked up from his desk, the blue glow of his computer screen washing out his features.

“Hey.” His smile faded as he registered her stance. “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me about Marisol Delgado-Teo.”

Cole’s brow furrowed, and he tilted his head. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“Sergeant Delgado-Teo.”

Something flickered in Cole’s eyes. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly as he leaned back in his chair, but his expression remained neutral, searching. “Should I know that name?”

Izzy pulled her phone from her pocket, swiped through to the personnel photo she’d saved. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she turned it toward Cole.

The image showed Marisol in her fatigues, hair cropped short but stylish, standing at attention against a plain backdrop. The kind of ID photo taken thousands of times at bases across the country.

The color drained from Cole’s face, starting at his forehead and sweeping down to his jaw. His shoulders drew back as if bracing against a blow. The pen in his hand clattered to the desk.

“Mari,” he whispered, the word barely audible.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Cole stared at the photo, completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Izzy watched every expression flit across his features—recognition, pain, something that looked like guilt. Her trained eye caught it all, even as her heart ached at putting that look there.

The wall clock ticked, marking each second of silence that passed between them.

“How do you know her?” Izzy’s voice cut through the tension.

Cole’s gaze snapped from the photo to Izzy. “She was in the army.”

“The woman on that mountain—the one you examined. That was Mari.”

Cole pushed back from his desk, the chair wheels scraping against the floor. His face went a shade paler. “What? No, that’s not . . .” His words trailed off as understanding dawned. “I didn’t recognize her.”

“Really?”

“She looked different.” Cole ran a hand through his hair. “Her face was . . .” He gestured vaguely. “Well, you saw her. The facial injuries. And she wore her hair differently then. Shorter.”

“Pretty big coincidence, though,” Izzy said. “She dies here, on a mountain where you happen to be coroner.”

Cole’s posture stiffened. “I’m the assistant coroner. You’re the coroner.”

“You examined her body.”

“At your request.” His voice took on a defensive edge she’d never heard before. “I performed my duties as required. Nothing more.”

The space between them felt different now, charged with an uneasy tension. Izzy watched Cole’s hands flatten against his desk, steadying himself. She caught the strain around his eyes, the tautness across his cheeks.

“Tell me about her.” Izzy kept her voice steady. “How you knew her.”

Cole rubbed his chin. His gaze dropped to the desk. “We were stationed at the same base in Afghanistan.”

“She was public affairs. You were medical. Not exactly departments that cross paths regularly.”

“It’s complicated.” Cole shifted in his chair, shoulders hunching forward. “There were protocols. You don’t understand.”

“What I understand is that a woman you knew, who was involved in a serious incident you reported, turned up dead on my mountain.” Izzy stepped closer to his desk. “And you didn’t mention knowing her when you examined her body.”

Cole surged to his feet. He paced to the window, hands balling into fists.

Izzy watched the tension ripple across his shoulders. She’d seen that rigid posture before, in survivors, in witnesses carrying heavy burdens.

“Cole.” She softened her tone. “I’m not here as sheriff right now. I’m here as someone who trusts you, who needs to understand.”

He turned, profile illuminated against the window. The struggle played across his features. “What happened to Mari . . .” His voice roughened. “It wasn’t my story to tell. Still isn’t.”

“But it’s part of this story now.”

Cole’s hands unclenched at his sides. He drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a long exhale. He turned back from the window, his expression guarded. “How did you get her record?”

“I have a contact at the Pentagon.” Izzy kept her eyes on him. “From my counter-terrorism days.”

Understanding dawned across Cole’s features, followed by something darker. “So you’ve seen her file.”

Their gazes locked across the desk. In that moment, Izzy saw the weight of knowledge pass between them—all the black bars of redaction that spoke volumes in their silence.

“If you’ve seen her record,” Cole’s voice dropped low, “then you know.”

“I know there are a lot of gaps in that story.” Izzy took a step closer. “The army records have more blacked-out ink than text.”

“Why are you really asking about this, Izzy?” His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t just about letting me know who the victim was. Do you think I was involved?”

The hurt in his voice made Izzy’s stomach churn. “I know you were involved in her life somehow, but no, I don’t think you were involved in her death.” She closed the distance between them, stopping at arm’s length. “There are holes in this story, Cole. The FBI is going to want to fill those holes.” She took a moment, the muscles in her face relaxing. “I need them filled with the truth. I need to hear it from you.”

Chapter Seventeen

2019

Cole settled back in the worn office chair, savoring the cold Pepsi. The quiet felt almost unnatural after weeks of constant activity. Even without active combat, Craig Hospital never truly slept—there were always patients to check, charts to update, emergencies to handle. Bagram Air Force Base was essentially a small town, with all the usual small-town problems and some unique challenges all its own.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Outside his window, concrete barriers and razor wire surrounded the hospital complex. The dull thud of helicopter rotors in the distance had given way to the steady hum of the air conditioning, fighting against Afghanistan’s relentless heat, which kept running despite the cooler night air outside.

His office was spartan—standard-issue metal desk, filing cabinet, and a corkboard covered in duty rosters and reminders to get influenza shots. The room itself was tucked away in a corner of the hospital’s administrative wing, one of the few spaces not dedicated to patient care in the sprawling tan building.

The relative peace wouldn’t last—it never did. But for now, Cole allowed himself to relax, appreciating the rare moment of calm during his overnight shift.

Cole took another sip of his Pepsi. A sharp knock interrupted the quiet, and Captain Sarah Liggett appeared in his doorway. Her Operational Camouflage Pattern uniform was pristine, her auburn hair pulled back in a regulation bun.

“Dr. Barrow, there’s a patient in Exam Three who needs your attention.”

Cole’s brow furrowed. “Not ER?”

“This isn’t an emergency room case.” Liggett’s fingers twisted the hem of her shirt. “It’s. . . something else.”

Cole set down his soda. “Exam Three?”

“Uh-huh.” Liggett’s voice dropped. “If you’ll follow me.”

Cole studied the nurse’s face. In two years of working together, he’d never seen Liggett this hesitant. She usually delivered her reports with candor, yet now she chose each word with care. He knew his way around the facility just fine, but he left his soda on the table and walked out behind her.

Cole followed Liggett down the bright hallway, the antiseptic smell mixing with the ever-present dust that seemed to permeate everything in Afghanistan, even inside the sealed hospital.

At Exam Room Three, Liggett paused with her hand on the door handle. She glanced at Cole, then pushed the door open.

A woman was perched on a plastic chair in the corner of the small room. Her OCP uniform was wrinkled, as if she’d been sleeping in it. Dark bruises bloomed across her left cheekbone, and her eyes were red and swollen. She had the lean build of someone who took PT seriously, but now her shoulders curved inward, protective, like she making herself as small a target as possible.

Her name tape read Delgado. Mixed heritage showed in her features—high cheekbones, golden-brown skin, and almond-shaped eyes. Her military-cut brown hair was lighter than her dark eyebrows, the ends curling slightly where they brushed her collar.

The moment Cole stepped into the room, Sergeant Delgado’s spine stiffened. She pushed up off the chair, wincing as she caught herself with her right wrist.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Her voice was hoarse. “This was a mistake.”

“Sergeant, please.” Liggett moved between her and the door. “Your wrist needs⁠—”

“I’m fine.” Delgado backed away from both of them, cradling her arm against her chest. “Nothing happened. I just . . . I fell during PT.”

“Dr. Barrow is one of the good guys,” Liggett said softly. “You can trust him.”

Delgado’s eyes darted between them, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

Liggett pleaded, “I promise you, Sergeant. Let us just take care of you.”

Cole lowered himself into the spare chair, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, and his expression neutral. He was a good deal taller than either of the women, so he wanted to take his obvious physical advantage out of the sergeant’s mind.

“Sergeant Delgado, my name is Major Barrow. I’m a doctor.” He pitched his voice low. “I’d like Captain Liggett to stay if that’s alright with you.”

Delgado’s gaze fixed on the linoleum floor, her jaw working. After a long moment, she gave a short nod.

“Would you like to sit?” Cole gestured to the chair she’d vacated. “We can start with that wrist.”

Another hesitation, then the sergeant sank back into the chair. Her right arm remained tucked against her chest, protective.

“I’m going to ask you some basic medical questions first.” Cole pulled a fresh chart from the nearby counter. “Standard procedure. Nothing complicated.” He clicked his pen. “Can you tell me when the injury occurred?”

“This evening.” Delgado’s amber-colored eyes avoided Cole. “During PT.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” Cole made a note. “And the wrist—did you hear or feel anything snap when it happened?”

“No.” Delgado shifted in her chair. “Just . . . hurts when I move it.”

“May I examine it?” Cole kept his hands visible on the chart. “I’ll need to check the range of motion, but we’ll go slowly.”

Sergeant Delgado’s eyes darted to Liggett, who gave an encouraging nod. Slowly, she extended her arm toward Cole, though her other hand remained clenched in her lap.

Cole noticed a fine shower of sand and dirt falling from Delgado’s uniform sleeve as she extended her arm.

“Sergeant, I’ll need to roll up your sleeve in order to properly examine the wrist. Is that alright?”

Delgado nodded, but when she tried to push up the fabric herself, she inhaled sharply.

Liggett stepped forward. “Let me help you with that, Sergeant.”

Cole watched as Captain Liggett rolled the sleeve, revealing more bruising along Delgado’s forearm. The marks formed distinct patterns—finger-shaped impressions that no fall could create. His stomach clenched, but he kept his expression neutral as he examined the wrist.

“There’s significant inflammation here.” He pressed gently along the bones, noting her reactions. “I’d like to get an X-ray to rule out any fractures. Better safe than sorry.”

The sergeant’s free hand gripped the edge of her chair. “That’s not necessary.”

“If we don’t get it right, you could be out of action for a lot longer.” Cole released her arm. “I can go prepare the imaging room while Captain Liggett completes the rest of your exam. It shouldn’t take long.”

As he stood, Cole caught Liggett’s eye. He kept his voice low as they stepped out into the corridor. “Captain, please document everything thoroughly. I suspect there’s injury beneath her uniform. Ribs, maybe. If the sergeant consents, photographs of any contusions would be helpful.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “And determine if additional . . . specific examinations might be warranted.”

Liggett’s slight nod told him she understood his meaning. She’d know how to broach the subject of a rape kit with more sensitivity than he could manage.

“Bring the sergeant to imaging when you’re ready,” Cole said, louder this time. He poked his head back into the room. “Captain Liggett will take good care of you, Sergeant.”

Cole walked to the imaging room and busied himself with the X-ray equipment, finding comfort in the routine of preparing the imaging equipment. The work helped steady his hands, gave him something concrete to focus on beyond the rage building inside.

Twenty minutes later, Captain Liggett guided Sergeant Delgado into the room, now dressed in a thin hospital gown. Her movements were stiff, guarded.

“I need to position your wrist just right for the image.” Cole kept his voice gentle. “But first, may I ask your first name?”

“Mari.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Do you mind if I call you that? Or would you prefer Sergeant Delgado?”

“Mari is fine, I guess.”

“I’m Cole.” He adjusted the machine’s height. “This won’t take long.”

Liggett helped position Mari’s arm on the imaging plate, then stepped out with Cole while the X-ray captured the image.

In the control room, Cole turned to Liggett, keeping his voice low. “What else did you find?”

“Extensive bruising across her torso and arms. Possible rib damage.” Liggett’s professional demeanor cracked. “And . . . there’s vaginal bruising.”

Cole’s jaw clenched. “Did she agree to a rape kit?”

“No.” Liggett shook her head. “She refused.”

Cole drew a steadying breath. “Let’s get an X-ray of those ribs too. Make sure nothing’s broken.”

They returned to the imaging room where Mari sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Mari,” Cole said softly, “I’d like to check your ribs as well, make sure nothing’s fractured. Would that be okay?”

Mari offered a tired nod. Cole could see the adrenaline of her assault was fading away, replaced by an intense fatigue.

They completed the chest X-ray, and Captain Liggett walked Mari back to the exam room. Cole remained behind to review the digital images.

The wrist showed a hairline fracture along the radius, but her ribs appeared intact despite the bruising. He returned to the exam room where Mari sat rigid in her chair, Captain Liggett standing nearby.

Cole took the other chair. “Good news about your ribs—just bruising, though I’m sure it hurts like hell.” He relaxed his expression. “The wrist has a minor fracture. We’ll need to immobilize it with a splint and ice to reduce the inflammation. If the swelling doesn’t improve, you may need a cast.”

Mari nodded without meeting his eyes.

Cole pulled his chair closer, maintaining a respectful distance. “Mari, we both know this wasn’t a PT accident.”

Her shoulders tensed.

“As an army doctor, I have a duty to report cases of sexual assault⁠—”

“It’s not that.” Mari’s voice cracked. “Nothing happened.”

“There are two types of reporting options,” Cole continued. “Restricted reporting keeps everything confidential. Your command won’t be notified. Or there’s unrestricted reporting, which triggers an investigation.”

“Restricted,” Mari said immediately.

Cole sighed. He wanted to push for an investigation, but he knew forcing the issue would only drive her away. “With restricted reporting, you’ll still have access to support services—SARC, Victim’s Advocate. But you should know that choosing this means no investigation will be conducted.”

“I understand.”

“If you change your mind, you can talk to SARC directly, or to Captain Liggett or myself. The MPs are also⁠—”

“No MPs.” Mari’s breathing quickened. “I won’t change my mind.”

They worked in silence as Cole and Liggett demonstrated how to apply the ice pack and splint. He prescribed pain medication and outlined a physical therapy plan for her wrist.

Cole leaned back in his chair. “What’s your MOS, Mari?”

“I’m a 38G. Civil Affairs.” Mari’s fingers traced the edge of her splint. “I work with local women in the villages. Help them report Taliban activity, document abuse cases.”

“That must be challenging work.”

“Someone has to do it.” Her voice strengthened. “They have no voice. The Taliban—” She stopped, swallowed hard. “These women need someone to listen.”

The irony of her words twisted in Cole. “You’ll need to be office-bound for a few weeks. At least until that wrist heals.”

Mari’s head snapped up. “I can’t. I have village visits scheduled⁠—”

“If your CO gives you trouble, I’ll write whatever medical documentation you need.” Cole softened his expression. “Your wrist needs time to heal properly.”

Captain Liggett stepped forward. “It’s late. Why don’t you stay here tonight? We have beds available.”

“No.” Mari pushed herself up from the chair. “I’ll be fine.”

Cole exchanged a glance with Liggett. “Let me call the duty ambulance. They can drive you back to your billet.”

Mari started to protest, but Cole was already reaching for the phone. Within minutes, the ambulance crew arrived to escort her.

Cole and Liggett watched from the hospital entrance as the ambulance’s taillights disappeared into the darkness. The night air carried the ever-present scent of dust and diesel fuel.

“Sometimes,” Cole murmured, “I hate this job.”

Liggett’s shoulders slumped. “Me too, sir. Me too.”

* * *

The base gym’s industrial fans churned the hot morning air, their steady drone mixing with the rhythmic clank of weights against metal. Cole focused on his breathing as he moved through his third set of bench presses, the burn in his shoulders a welcome distraction from the memories of last night’s shift.

Military bases rose early, and Cole preferred the quiet hour after his shift, so he got his workout in before the main duty change. A few men occupied the far corners—two marines spotting each other on squats, an airman running on the treadmill.

Cole racked the bar and sat up, rolling his shoulders. His muscles protested after the long night in the emergency department, but the session would help him sleep, the physical exertion quietening his mind, pushing back against the anger that had built since treating Mari.

He left a sheen of moisture on the bench’s vinyl covering as he shifted his weight, reaching for his water bottle. Sweat darkened his standard-issue PT shirt, the fabric clinging to his back.

A loud laugh echoed from the gym entrance. Cole’s hands tightened around the water bottle as a group of soldiers strode in, their voices carrying across the space. As with such groups, there was always a natural leader, the man’s cocky swagger unmistakable even at this distance.

Cole added more weight to the bar and lay back on the bench, gripping the cold metal, forcing himself to maintain his regular breathing pattern. The weights provided their own kind of relief—each rep an exercise in restraint, each set a lesson in patience. Cole had learned long ago that medicine required both. But as the soldiers spread out around him, their early morning banter tested every ounce of that hard-won discipline.

“. . . tell you, man, there’s some fine specimens on base . . .” A deep voice cut through the ambient noise.

Cole’s grip tightened on the bar. The speaker stood at the dumbbell rack, infantry tattoo, maybe thirty, with the sharp edges of someone who spent too much time honing his body into a weapon. His stance broadcast authority, feet planted shoulder-width apart as he curled a heavy weight, biceps flexing under his PT shirt.

“Thought I gotta say, those camos do nothing for them,” the man continued, “but underneath, oh boy . . .” He let the sentence hang, drawing appreciative chuckles from his companions.

Cole pushed the bar up, muscles burning. The soldier’s voice carried that particular tone of assumed superiority that set Cole’s teeth on edge—the kind that came from having rank without wisdom.

“Speaking of which . . .” The man racked his weights with a clang. “You should’ve seen this one last night.”

“What happened, Captain?” asked one of the other men.

Cole kept his eyes fixed on the bar above him, but his ears caught every word as the captain launched into what he clearly thought was an entertaining story. The other men gathered closer, their own workouts forgotten as their leader held court.

“So there’s this little piece of ass in PR, right? Real firecracker . . .” The captain’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial level, though it still carried in the open space. “Been playing hard to get, but last night . . .”

Cole’s jaw clenched as he completed another rep, the metal cold against his palms. He recognized the predatory undertone in the captain’s words, had heard it too many times in his years of service. The kind of talk that started as locker room stories and ended in his emergency room.

The captain leaned against the weight rack. “Let’s just say she finally came around to seeing things my way.”

Cole’s knuckles whitened around the bar as the captain continued, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.

“That blond chick?”

“Nah, the other one—half Asian, half whatever. The one who goes into the villages telling the local women they can do whatever they want, putting all those stupid ideas into their heads. All proper and professional in her tight uniform.” The captain mimed an hourglass figure with his hands. “But get her alone . . .”

A few of the gathered men shifted their weight, gazes dropping to the floor. One cleared his throat and grabbed a set of dumbbells, creating space between himself and the group.

“Sir, maybe we shouldn’t⁠—”

“What? Share war stories?” The captain’s laugh echoed off the concrete walls. “Come on, she was asking for it. Walking around base like she owns the place, acting too good for everyone.”

Cole’s chest burned as he held the bar steady. The weights felt lighter, adrenaline coursing through his veins as rage built in his gut.

“That attitude changed real quick when I caught her alone last night.” The captain’s voice dripped with satisfaction. “Amazing what a little rank can do to adjust someone’s perspective.”

The bar trembled in Cole’s grip. He forced himself to complete another rep, muscles straining as he pictured Mari’s bruised face in the infirmary, her eyes hollow with shock.

“Bet she won’t be so quick to turn down drinks next time.” The captain slapped one of his men on the shoulder. “Right?”

Some of the men offered weak chuckles. Others found sudden interest in their shoes or water bottles. But none challenged their superior officer, their silence feeding his swagger.

Cole racked the barbell and slowly sat up. He wiped his face with a towel, muscles still burning from the last set.

The captain’s gaze landed on him, then swept to the bench press station. “My turn.”

Cole stood, drawing himself to his full height. At six-two, he towered over the infantry officer. The captain’s compact frame was built for mountain warfare—dense muscle designed for climbing and long-range patrols.

Cole kept his voice level. “You can have it when I’m done.”

The gathered soldiers shifted, their attention drawn to the pushback. A few exchanged glances, while others drifted further away from the confrontation.

The captain stepped closer, tilting his head back to meet Cole’s gaze. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the doctor’s build, the breadth of his shoulders.

“Maybe I’ll just take it.” The words came out soft, almost playful, but carried an edge of steel.

“What’s your name, Captain?” Cole’s question cut through the tension.

“What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to you, Major?”

The captain’s mouth curved into an ugly smile, revealing too many teeth. “Raven. But my friends call me JJ.”

Cole held the man’s stare. “Is that right, Captain Raven?”

“Being a predator doesn’t make you Don Juan, Captain. It makes you something else entirely.”

Raven’s smile faltered. “You’re one of those guys, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Cole crossed his arms. “And with some luck and another million years of evolution, you might be too.”

The air thickened between them. The other soldiers edged backward, creating a wider circle around the two men. Metal clanked as someone racked their weights and moved toward the door.

Cole let out a long, quiet breath as Raven eyeballed him. Cole wanted nothing more than to call the MPs, but he had made a promise to Mari to keep her visit confidential.

“Let me make this very clear, Captain. I’m watching you. Every move. Every word. Every breath you take on this base.” His brown eyes never wavered from Raven’s face, studying the expressions that flickered across the man’s features like shadows.

Raven’s cocky demeanor slipped, his gaze faltering for just a second.

“Step out of line on parade, I go to base security.” Cole leaned forward, his voice dropping. “One inappropriate comment in the mess, one suggestion of misconduct, and I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure every superior officer knows exactly what kind of man serves under them.”

A muscle twitched in Raven’s jaw. The bravado drained from his stance as understanding dawned in his eyes.

“Do we understand each other, Captain?”

The captain took half a step back, his shoulders tensing as if preparing for a fight, but the threat in Cole’s words had landed—Raven’s earlier swagger evaporated.

“You’re not infantry.” Raven’s voice carried a tremor of uncertainty beneath the attempted bravado. “If it were up to guys like you, we’d have lost this war.”

Cole suppressed the urge to suggest they weren’t exactly winning it with Raven as the spear tip, letting the silence stretch between them. One by one, the other soldiers drifted away, their morning workouts forgotten in the wake of the confrontation. The sound of the gym door opening and closing punctuated their hasty exits.

Raven’s jaw worked as he glanced around, finding himself increasingly alone. With a final glare, he grabbed his water bottle and stalked toward the exit.

Cole returned to the bench, adding more weight to the bar. His hands shook as he secured the plates. The metal rang out as he slammed each clip into place.

The officer in him knew he should report what he’d heard. The soldier understood the chain of command. But the doctor who’d treated Mari’s injuries wanted justice that regulations couldn’t provide.

Cole pushed through another set, his breath coming in controlled bursts. The weight seemed to multiply with each rep, carrying the burden of his silence, the weight of his promise to Mari, and the knowledge that sometimes doing the right thing meant walking a razor’s edge between duty and protection.

* * *

TWO MONTHS LATER

The Hindu Kush mountains carved deep shadows against the setting sun, their jagged peaks framing FOB Bostick. The Kunar River snaked through the valley beside the base, its waters hidden by the concrete blast walls that constituted the base perimeter. Cole nursed his coffee beneath the camo netting, watching four enlisted men play two-on-two basketball.

To his right, the American sentry post perched on the hilltop, a reassuring presence. The opposite ridge remained exposed—a constant source of tension whenever shots rang out from that direction. Cole had learned to walk around the base on the riverside, in the shadow of the walls, to avoid the occasional potshots from insurgents.

His thoughts drifted to tomorrow’s patrol. Another sixteen-man convoy, four up-armored Humvees crawling through mountain passes to reach remote villages. The goodwill mission felt like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound, but Cole couldn’t deny the villagers’ desperate need for medical care. The unit was under the command of Captain JJ Raven, so Cole kept his eyes on the man—retribution for his comments in the gym was always possible. But Raven, for all his faults, knew how to keep his men alive in these treacherous conditions.

The distinctive whomp-whomp of rotor blades drew Cole’s attention skyward. A Black Hawk descended through the valley haze, kicking up clouds of fine dust as it settled onto the landing zone. Cole’s coffee cup froze halfway to his lips as a familiar figure emerged from the aircraft. Mari Delgado’s slight frame was unmistakable among the disembarking soldiers, her gear hanging loose on her shoulders as she headed toward the wooden mess hall.

Cole set down his cup and strode to the post commander’s office. Inside, he learned that Mari would be conducting outreach missions to local villages, focusing on a newly established girls’ school in territory nominally free from Taliban control.

His stomach knotted. The urge to warn the commander about Raven was overwhelming, but Mari’s confidentiality held him back. Instead, he decided to find her, to let her know he was there if she needed support or wanted different security arrangements for her missions.

After his shift, Cole took a detour across the dark base via the B-hut that the handful of female soldiers were using as barracks. He approached and knocked on the wooden door. When no answer came, he pushed it open.

Cole froze in the doorway. The sounds hit him first—a muffled struggle, choked whimpers. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior, where a single desk lamp lit the cramped space.

Mari lay pinned to her army cot, her uniform top ripped open. Captain Raven loomed over her, his pants bunched around his combat boots. His hand pressed against her mouth, fingers digging into her cheeks.

“Should’ve kept quiet the first time.” Raven’s whisper carried in the stillness. “Now we finish what we started.”

Cole fought the urge to rush in as he cataloged details. Mari’s eyes wide with terror. The bruising already forming on her exposed forearms. The way her body trembled beneath Raven’s weight.

An M4 carbine lay carelessly tossed on the adjacent cot—Raven’s weapon, within the captain’s reach. Cole’s hand instinctively moved to his empty hip. As base medical staff, he didn’t carry inside the wire.

The radio clipped to his belt offered his only recourse. Cole stepped back into the shadows, keeping his movements silent. His thumb found the transmit button.

“MP Base, this is Major Barrow, medical.” Cole kept his voice low. “Code Red in Female B-hut Three. Sexual assault in progress. Perpetrator is armed. Requesting immediate response.”

“Copy that, Major. MPs en route. Hold position.”

Cole pressed against the doorframe, muscles coiled with tension as he kept watch. Every instinct screamed to intervene, but engaging an armed assailant without backup could make things worse.

Mari’s voice cut through the darkness. “Get off me, you piece of shit.”

“Shut up.” Raven’s fist drew back.

Cole stepped into the lamplight. “Captain.”

Raven’s head snapped around, his arm frozen mid-strike. His eyes darted to the M4 on the adjacent bunk.

“Don’t.” Cole’s voice carried the full weight of his rank.

Mari lay rigid beneath Raven, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Her uniform top hung in tatters, revealing angry red marks across her collarbone.

Cole positioned himself between Raven and the door, blocking the only exit, watching Raven’s hands for any sudden moves toward the weapon.

Heavy boots thundered outside. Cole stepped aside as three MPs burst through the door, weapons raised.

“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”

Raven complied, his face a mask of cold fury as the MPs secured Raven’s weapon.

“Captain Raven, you’re under arrest.” The lead MP hauled him to his feet. “Get your pants up.”

Cole watched them lead Raven out of the barracks.

An MP crouched beside Mari’s cot. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

Mari didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on some distant point. The MP looked to Cole, uncertainty clear in his expression.

“She’s in shock.” Cole kept his voice low, professional. “We need to get her to the infirmary.”

He moved toward her, his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. “Let me help you.”

Mari flinched away, pressing herself against the wall. Her fingers clutched the remnants of her torn uniform to her chest.

Cole kept his distance. “Let me⁠—”

“Don’t touch me.” Mari’s words came out raw, ragged. “You promised. You said no MPs.”

“He was assaulting you. I had to⁠—”

“Had to what?” Mari’s voice rose, sharp with betrayal. “Had to destroy my career? The whole base will talk. Everyone will know now.”

“You were being attacked. I couldn’t⁠—”

“You promised.” Rage was etched across Mari’s face. “Stay away from me.”

Cole turned to the MP, hovering uncertainly beside the cot. “Take her to the infirmary. I’ll send a field medic to examine her.”

The MP nodded, turning his back as Mari straightened her uniform with trembling hands. She pushed herself up, refusing any offered help.

At the door, Mari paused. She turned back to Cole, her eyes burning with an intensity that made him step back. The hatred in her gaze cut deeper than any wound he’d treated in his years of service.

Without a word, she followed the MP into the darkness, leaving Cole alone in the wreckage of his good intentions.

* * *

PRESENT DAY

Cole slumped back in his office chair, the weight of memory exhausting him. Across the desk, Izzy watched him with careful eyes, her expression a mix of professional interest and personal concern.

“The CID conducted a full investigation.” Cole sighed heavily. “Standard protocol for sexual assault cases. But once they started digging, other victims came to light. Three more women Raven had assaulted at different posts.” He rubbed his jaw, fighting to maintain composure. “Raven was transferred back to Bagram within twenty-four hours. Mari stayed at Bostick for a while, but word travels fast on a forward operating base.”

He clasped his fingers together. “By the time she reached Bagram, everyone knew. Not the details, but enough. The whispers started. The sideways looks. Some blamed her for bringing down a decorated officer.” Cole shook his head. “Two weeks later, she was stateside. The army fast-tracked her transfer to protect her, they said, but we all knew they were protecting themselves. Easier to move her than deal with the fallout.”

He shifted in his chair. “Her career was effectively over. Public Affairs requires trust, relationships. We were preparing to withdraw from Afghanistan anyway, so the brass saw a convenient opportunity.” Cole leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I never saw her again after she left Bostick. She wouldn’t speak to me during those last days.”

He traced a finger along the edge of his desk calendar, remembering the crisp mountain air of Afghanistan, so similar to the landscape outside his window now. “I actually had a general tell me I should have looked the other way. Let her handle it herself.” He lifted his gaze to meet Izzy’s. “But I took an oath—first do no harm. That includes harm by inaction.”

He let out a long slow breath. “In the military, there’s this chain of command, this structure that’s supposed to protect people, but sometimes that same structure becomes the thing you have to protect them from.”

He pushed back from his desk, standing to pace the small space behind his chair. “Mari wanted to fight her own battles. I get that. She’d worked twice as hard as anyone else to prove herself.” His hand gripped the back of the chair. “But watching someone suffer when you have the power to help? That’s not protection—that’s cowardice.”

The muscles in his jaw worked as he struggled to maintain composure. “I’d make the same choice today. Even knowing how it ended her career. Even knowing she’d hate me for it.” He released his grip on the chair, flexing his fingers. “Because the alternative was leaving her alone with a predator.” His voice dropped low, almost a whisper. “Sometimes doing the right thing means living with people hating you for it.”

Cole watched Izzy’s posture shift as she absorbed his words. She’d remained motionless throughout his story, her eyes never leaving his face, cataloging every detail with the attention of a trained investigator.

Now she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You protected someone who needed it. That’s what we’re supposed to do.”

The corner of her mouth tightened—a tell Cole had learned meant she was wrestling with difficult memories.

“When I found out about Mark’s corruption, I had choices too.” Her fingers traced the edge of his desk. “I could have looked the other way. Maybe even helped him cover it up.”

Cole felt the raw honesty in her voice. This wasn’t Sheriff Llewellyn speaking—this was just Izzy, sharing her own wounds.

She drew a slow breath. “I understand why Mari blamed you. Sometimes it’s easier to blame the person who exposed the truth than face how broken the system is.”

Cole saw the careful guard drop from her features, just for a moment. In that window, he glimpsed the deep well of shared experience between them.

“This isn’t over for Mari.” She straightened in her chair. “I’ll have to show the FBI the report.” Izzy’s voice softened. “They’ll want to interview you.”

“Good.” Cole planted his hands on the desk. “Because I want answers too. Mari deserved better than dying alone on that mountain.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Serena poked her head in. “Dr. Barrow? Your first patient is here.”

“Thank you, Serena.” Cole glanced at his watch, surprised by how much time had passed.

Izzy rose from her chair. “I should let you get back to work.”

They faced each other across his desk. Cole’s fingers itched to reach for her, to draw strength from her touch, but this wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she gave him that small, private smile that always made his heart skip, then slipped out the door.

Chapter Eighteen

Izzy pushed through the glass doors of the sheriff’s office, the early morning quiet broken only by the murmur of deputies at work. Light spilled from the conference room, so she took the stairs to brief the special agents.

Scacchi’s spine stiffened as Izzy entered. Papers and laptops covered the long table. Yoshida offered a slight nod of acknowledgment.

“Sheriff.” Scacchi’s voice carried an edge. “Our cyber team made some interesting discoveries.”

Izzy pulled out a chair. “What did they find?”

“Marisol was active in several online therapy groups.” Scacchi tapped her tablet screen. “Specifically focused on military sexual trauma and PTSD.”

“I see,” Izzy said.

“What’s interesting is the content.” Scacchi’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t seem to discuss her assault in detail, but there is detail on how it derailed her career. How the reporting officer betrayed her trust.”

Izzy’s stomach clenched, but she kept her expression neutral. “And?”

“She mentioned him by name.” Scacchi’s finger jabbed at the screen. “Major Colton Barrow. Your town doctor.”

Izzy said nothing, waiting for the FBI agent to finish.

“Marisol’s posts paint quite a picture.” Scacchi’s voice dripped with satisfaction. “She blamed him for destroying her career. Called him a self-righteous bastard who couldn’t mind his own business.”

“Diana.” Yoshida’s quiet voice carried a warning.

“What?” Scacchi turned to her partner. “Don’t you find it suspicious that she ends up dead in his backyard?”

Yoshida shrugged, and Scacchi turned back to Izzy. “You don’t seem too surprised, Sheriff.”

“I’m not, because I know all that.” Izzy tapped her finger on the manila folder on the table in front of her containing Mari’s redacted army report. Without comment, she slid it across the conference table to Scacchi.

The FBI agent flipped open the cover. She scanned the pages, eyes narrowing as she reached the incident report. Izzy watched the slight twitch in Scacchi’s jaw as she found Cole’s name among the blackened text.

Scacchi’s fingers tightened on the paper. “When did you get this?”

“This morning.” Izzy kept her voice steady. “My contact at Army CID sent it over.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this connection immediately?” Scacchi’s tone sharpened.

“I didn’t sit on anything.” Izzy leaned back in her chair, maintaining eye contact. “I told you, I just got this.”

“You just came in from outside,” said Scacchi. “Did you print this report in the parking lot?”

Izzy met Scacchi’s hostile stare. “No, I went to question Dr. Barrow about what’s behind those black bars.”

“You questioned a potential suspect without us?” Scacchi pushed up from her chair, palms flat on the conference table.

“Dr. Barrow isn’t a suspect.” Izzy remained seated, maintaining her calm. “The redacted sections hide the perpetrator’s name, not his.”

“That’s not your call to make.” Scacchi leaned forward like she might jump across the conference table. “You’re interfering with a federal investigation.”

Izzy sat forward as she faced the FBI agent. “Do you want to know what he said or not?”

Yoshida put his hands up. “Ladies, please.” He turned to Izzy. “Tell us what he said.”

Izzy took a steadying breath, focusing on the facts rather than Scacchi’s hostility. “Dr. Barrow treated Marisol after her first assault. She requested confidential reporting to access trauma services without notifying her command. He honored that request.”

“Her first assault?” Yoshida’s calm voice cut through the tension.

“He found the officer responsible assaulting her again at a forward operating base a couple of months later. In the act. He called the MPs.” Izzy watched Scacchi’s expression shift. “The investigation revealed other victims, but once it became public, Marisol’s career effectively ended.”

Scacchi tapped the report. “Most of this is redacted. How do we know Barrow wasn’t the perpetrator?”

“Because I know Dr. Barrow.” Izzy met Scacchi’s skeptical stare. “And because the report shows him as the reporting officer, not the perpetrator.”

“It hides the perpetrator. It doesn’t clear him.” Scacchi held up her tablet. “And how do you explain her messages? She hated him.”

“Yes, she blamed him.” Izzy’s voice hardened. “Because he called in the MPs to stop the second assault, but blaming the person who exposed the truth doesn’t make them guilty of a crime. Sometimes we shoot the messenger.”

“That’s your interpretation.” Scacchi’s eyes narrowed. “We only have Barrow’s word for what happened.” She jutted out her chin. “In fact, all we have is your word. We haven’t even spoken to the good doctor. We need to talk to him. Now.”

Izzy settled deeper into her chair, deliberately relaxed despite the hostility radiating from the FBI agent. “Cole has office hours until two. After that, he’ll come here.”

“You’ve already arranged that?” Scacchi’s voice pitched higher.

“No. But he will.”

“And you know him so well.” Scacchi crossed her arms. “Well enough to warn him what’s coming?”

“Special Agent.” Izzy lifted her gaze to meet Scacchi’s ice-blue stare. “I’m not warning anyone of anything, but I am the sheriff of this county, and I know my people.”

“Your people?” Scacchi’s lip curled. “Including your boyfriend?”

Izzy remained impassive despite the barb.

“Yes, we know all about it.” Scacchi raised an eyebrow. “Deputy Hawkins informed us of your relationship with Dr. Barrow.”

Izzy’s pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral. Of course, Hawkins had gone running to the FBI with personal information.

“Undersheriff Hawkins,” Izzy corrected. “And my personal life isn’t relevant to this investigation.”

Scacchi smoothed her tailored blazer. “Everything’s relevant when evaluating potential conflicts of interest.”

“Is that so?” Izzy tracked the agent’s restless movements around the conference room. “Tell me, Agent Scacchi, if we needed to question one of your fellow agents, would you storm their workplace and drag them out mid-shift? Or would you extend them the professional courtesy of arranging an interview?”

“That’s different.” Scacchi’s perfect posture stiffened further. “We have protocols⁠—”

“As do we.” Izzy leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Dr. Barrow is the only doctor serving this community. He has patients who need him. Unless you have probable cause to arrest him, we do this properly.”

“We’re up to our necks in probable cause.”

Izzy shook her head. “Dr. Barrow has no motive.”

“How about he’s infatuated with the victim? How about he assaulted her in Afghanistan, covered it up, and now he’s lured her here to finish the job?”

“You have no evidence of that.”

Scacchi waved her arms. “You just gave us a report with his name in it.”

“As the admitting doctor. A witness. Nothing more.”

“And the coincidence that she died in his backyard doesn’t worry you?”

“It worries me very much,” said Izzy. “That is why Dr. Barrow will explain it to us.”

“And you expect us to trust your judgment on this?” Scacchi’s manicured nails drummed against her tablet.

“I expect you to trust that I know how to do my job.” Izzy let out a long breath. “Just like I trust that you know how to do yours.” She stood and removed her cellphone, hit the contact for Darkness Medical Clinic, then put the phone on speaker and placed it on the table.

Serena answered.

“Serena, it’s Sheriff Llewellyn. Can you ask Dr. Barrow to call me when he gets a moment?”

“He’s just walking Mr. Connelly out. If you’ll hold.”

“Thank you.”

There was a long pause, then Cole came on the line. Izzy knew Serena had understood the use of their official titles when he said, “Dr. Barrow here.”

Izzy leaned on the table. “Dr. Barrow, this is Sheriff Llewellyn. I’m here with Special Agents Yoshida and Scacchi. They have some questions regarding the victim, Ms. Delgado-Teo.”

“I have patients right now, Sheriff.”

“I have explained that to them. They would appreciate it if you could come here to the sheriff’s office when you’re finished with your appointments.”

“Of course. No problem at all. Anything I can do to help catch Mari’s killer.”

“Thank you. When can we expect you?”

“I should be done with patients by two. I can be there by two-fifteen.”

“Appreciate it.”

Izzy killed the call and glanced up at Special Agent Scacchi.

“Dr. Barrow.” The corner of Scacchi’s mouth lifted. “Is that what you call him at home?”

“What I call him at home is none of your concern. But professionalism is something you should try.”

Scacchi made to retort, but Yoshida spoke first.

“Thank you, Sheriff. We’ll continue working until Dr. Barrow arrives.”

Scacchi flopped into her chair. “If he arrives.”

Izzy retreated to her office, leaving the FBI agents to their work. Through her window, she watched Scacchi pace the mezzanine like a caged tiger. Every thirty minutes, the agent disappeared down the stairs, returning with a fresh mug of coffee that she surely didn’t need.

Izzy’s heartbeat gave a rhythm to the digital clock on her wall as she shuffled reports on her desk. She knew Cole would arrive exactly when he said—his military timing hadn’t faded with civilian life—but watching Scacchi’s agitation made her stomach knot.

Deputies filtered in and out of the squad room below, their usual banter muted by the FBI presence.

Izzy’s phone buzzed with texts about dinner from Tamara. She responded with noncommittal answers, her mind fixed on Cole’s upcoming interview. Her fingers traced the edge of Mari’s redacted report, studying the black bars that hid half the story.

The digital clock crept toward two. Scacchi made another coffee run, this time lingering in the break room long enough that Yoshida went to find her. Their hushed voices carried up the stairs as they returned, too low to make out the words but sharp enough to convey tension.

Izzy stood and followed the FBI agents back to the conference room. She wanted to be there when they questioned Cole, and she wasn’t going to debate it with Scacchi or anyone else. The special agents were both staring at the whiteboard as if they had no other leads and Cole’s interview was going to break the case open.

When she stepped into the room and took a seat, Scacchi focused harder on the whiteboard, as if refusing to acknowledge her presence. Clearly Yoshida had told her that they should let Izzy sit in.

At 1:55, Wahlberg burst through the conference room door, his face flushed. Izzy spun around, startled.

“Boss.” Wahlberg’s chest heaved as if he’d sprinted up the stairs. His usually composed demeanor had cracked, revealing an urgency that made Izzy’s skin prickle.

Scacchi turned from the whiteboard. “This is a closed meeting.”

Izzy held up her hand to silence the FBI agent. “What is it, Deputy?”

“Martinez just called in.” Wahlberg’s eyes darted between Izzy and the agents. “He thinks he found where the victim was killed.”

The air seemed to thicken in the room.

Izzy straightened in her chair. “Where?”

“Here.” Wahlberg shifted his weight. “In Darkness.”

“Where exactly?” Izzy kept her voice steady despite the surge of adrenaline.

Wahlberg’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re not going to like it, boss.”

Chapter Nineteen

Izzy’s SUV led the small convoy down the access road to the airfield. The FBI sedan and Wahlberg’s patrol car followed close behind. Gray clouds hung low, casting a cold, flat light across the small airfield.

She guided them toward a cluster of hangars at the far end of the tarmac. Cole’s hangar stood at the end—a utilitarian structure with large sliding doors that housed his Robinson R22 helicopter.

Martinez stood at attention outside the hangar. He nodded as they approached, his face tight with tension.

“What happened?” Izzy asked, scanning the quiet airfield.

“Another pilot landed about thirty minutes ago.” Martinez gestured to a man standing by a small Cessna across the tarmac. “He noticed Dr. Barrow’s hangar door was slightly open. Said he went to close it for him, make sure no one had broken in.”

Izzy studied the pilot in the distance. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets against the chill. She recognized him as one of the fly-in/fly-out part-time residents.

“Show us what you found,” Izzy said to Martinez.

Martinez pulled up the hangar door with gloved hands, metal groaning against metal in the stillness. The hangar’s interior stretched before them, dimly lit by the gray daylight filtering through the open door. Cole’s white Robinson R22 sat in its usual spot, but something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

A dark stain spread across the concrete floor, roughly four feet square. Izzy’s breath caught as her eyes tracked upward to the helicopter’s pristine white fuselage. Blood splatter marked the side in a distinctive pattern, each droplet telling its own story of violence.

The metallic scent hit her—old blood mixed with aviation fuel and cold concrete. She breathed through her mouth to avoid the scent, which only served to make her taste it.

“Martinez.” Her voice remained steady. “Did you process anything?”

“No, Sheriff. Secured the scene and called it in immediately.”

Izzy snapped on her nitrile gloves. Scacchi and Yoshida followed suit.

She turned to Wahlberg, who stood rigid in the hangar entrance. “Elliott, I need you to extend the perimeter. Just cordon off the entrance. There’s only one way in or out.” She paused, considering. “And get a statement from our witness pilot. Find out exactly what he touched, where he walked.”

Wahlberg nodded sharply and strode away, leaving Izzy to face the stark reality before her. The Robinson’s white surface seemed to mock her with its violent decoration, each crimson droplet a reminder of what had happened here—in Cole’s hangar, with his helicopter.

Izzy hit the light switch by the door. Fluorescent tubes flickered to life overhead. The bloodstain appeared even darker under the artificial light.

Izzy glanced at Yoshida, deferring to him before moving in.

“Let’s spread out,” he said. “Document everything.”

The hangar walls housed neat rows of tool benches, each surface organized with care. Aviation maintenance equipment hung on pegboards—wrenches, pliers, specialized tools Izzy couldn’t name. A mini fridge hummed in the corner next to a coffee maker, its pot clean and cold.

Cole’s presence permeated the space—from the carefully labeled tool drawers to the medical kit mounted on the wall. Everything had its place. Everything served a purpose.

Yoshida’s voice cut through her observations. “Sheriff.” He stood by the main workbench, pointing to a large pipe wrench. Dark stains marked its metal surface.

Izzy moved closer, studying the tool without touching it. The size and shape aligned with Pickett’s description of the wound pattern on Mari’s skull.

“You want evidence collection sent to Harris for testing?” she asked Yoshida. “Pickett can process it immediately.”

Yoshida nodded. “Faster than FBI labs.”

“I can have a deputy take anything we collect straight there.”

“The blood pool suggests this was where she died,” Scacchi said, crouching over the large stain.

“Agreed.” Yoshida studied the spatter pattern on the helicopter. “Impact occurred here. The patterns indicate she was struck while standing. Body was moved afterward.”

Izzy watched Scacchi crouch with her flashlight, sweeping the beam beneath the workbenches that lined the hangar walls. The special agent moved slowly, checking each dark recess.

The beam caught something under the far bench. Scacchi reached beneath with a gloved hand and extracted a smartphone in a plain black case.

“Got something.” Scacchi held up the phone.

Scacchi pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, revealing a lock screen photo of Mari Delgado-Teo smiling at the camera, mountains visible in the background.

The tension in the hangar thickened. Scacchi rose, her ice-blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she held up the phone. Her lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.

“Well.” Scacchi’s gaze fixed on Izzy. “I think we can be sure whose blood this is.” She gestured at the dark stains across the concrete floor. “And we know whose hangar it is.”

Izzy forced herself to maintain eye contact with the agent, even as her breathing shallowed. The evidence was mounting, piece by damning piece. Mari’s car in Cole’s clinic lot. Her blood in his hangar. Her phone hidden under his workbench.

Scacchi checked her watch. “Dr. Barrow should be at the sheriff’s office by now.” She strode toward the hangar door. “That will make the arrest nice and easy.”

“You won’t be arresting anyone.” Izzy’s voice cut through the hangar.

Scacchi spun around. “Excuse me?”

“You just said it yourself. This is the primary crime scene.” Izzy gestured to the bloodstained concrete. “Which means Mari Delgado-Teo was killed here, in Darkness. That puts this squarely under county jurisdiction.”

“You can’t be serious.” Scacchi’s face flushed. “This is a federal investigation⁠—”

“It was federal when we thought she died on federal land. But she didn’t.” Izzy stepped closer to Scacchi. “She was murdered here, in my jurisdiction. The FBI no longer has authority.”

“Your jurisdiction?” Scacchi’s laugh held no humor. “You mean your boyfriend’s hangar?”

“The law is clear on this, Agent Scacchi.” Izzy kept her voice level. “The crime occurred in Mirage County. That makes it my case.”

“This is absurd.” Scacchi’s hands clenched into fists. “You’re protecting him.”

“No.” Izzy’s tone hardened. “I’m following the law. My deputies will process this scene. We’ll coordinate with Dr. Pickett’s office for forensics. The FBI is welcome to observe and assist, but this is now a county investigation.”

Scacchi opened her mouth to argue, but Yoshida stepped toward Izzy. “The FBI has the right to step in if we believe local law enforcement isn’t following procedure.”

Izzy put her hands on her hips. “Which procedure have we failed to follow, Special Agent?”

“I’m just saying we want to solve this case.” Yoshida’s face tightened. “Jurisdictional fights don’t help anyone.”

“Couldn’t agree more. So don’t fight me.”

The power shift was palpable as Izzy turned away. “Martinez, call in some backup to process this scene. Wahlberg will maintain the perimeter. Nobody enters without my authorization.”

Martinez nodded. “Yes, boss.”

“Bag the wrench, take a blood sample, and get it all to Dr. Pickett ASAP. Then prints. The hangar door, the switches, the chopper. I want this place to look like a dust storm came through. You got me?”

“On it.”

Martinez marched toward his SUV to radio in for help, and Izzy turned back to the special agents.

Scacchi looked ready to go five rounds. “So you’re just going to do nothing about your boyfriend?”

“Oh, I’m going to do plenty.” Izzy moved toward the door. “We need to talk to Cole Barrow, and we need to do it right now.”

Chapter Twenty

The SUV’s engine cut off as Izzy pulled into her spot at the sheriff’s office. Her phone call was on hands-free as she watched the FBI sedan slide in beside her.

“Is Dr. Barrow there?” Izzy kept her voice neutral as she spoke to Adrianne.

“He arrived ten minutes ago, Sheriff.”

“Put him in Interview One. Tell him we’ll be right there.” Izzy paused. “And Adrianne? Make sure he’s comfortable.”

Scacchi’s car door slammed as Izzy got out. “This is a mistake, Sheriff. You’re compromising a federal investigation.”

Izzy headed for the front door, the FBI agent marching impatiently beside her. “We already had this conversation.”

Scacchi’s voice rose. “The victim crossed state lines. That alone gives us jurisdiction.”

“The victim crossed state lines alive.”

Behind them, Yoshida maintained a careful distance, as he watched the two women square off.

Izzy stopped before the glass door and looked at him. “You haven’t got much to say, Special Agent.”

“I’m processing.”

Izzy nodded. That was a good answer, and one she planned to use in the future when she didn’t want to say anything.

They pushed through the glass doors into the lobby. Adrianne looked up from her desk, her usual smile replaced with concern as she tracked their progress. Her gaze shifted between Izzy and the FBI agents, fingers frozen over her keyboard.

“Sheriff,” Adrianne called out. “Dr. Barrow is waiting as requested.”

Izzy nodded, leading the group past the front desk. Scacchi’s protests echoed off the walls, but Izzy kept moving forward. She led the way up the stairs to the mezzanine level, her boots echoing against each step. The tension from downstairs followed them, thick and heavy in the air.

She pushed open her office door, crossing to her desk as Scacchi and Yoshida filed in behind her. The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a stark desert landscape, cold and monochrome under the clouded sky. Izzy leaned back against her desk, arms crossed, while the FBI agents settled into chairs at the meeting table.

“Here’s how this goes.” Izzy said. “Mirage County Sheriff’s Office takes lead. You’re welcome to stay and assist, or you can head back to Fresno. Your choice.”

Yoshida’s eyebrows rose. “You want us to leave?”

“I said it’s your choice. My preference? You stay. Three heads are better than one, and you have resources I don’t.”

“This is ridiculous,” Scacchi spat. “You’re compromised. Your relationship with the primary suspect⁠—”

“I may be compromised, but the office of sheriff isn’t.”

“That’s semantics and you know it.”

Izzy reached for her desk phone, pressing the intercom button. “Adrianne?”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“Could you get Undersheriff Hawkins up here?”

“Right away.”

Izzy released the button, meeting Scacchi’s glare.

Izzy watched Hawkins enter her office, his eyes darting between the FBI agents before settling on her. “You wanted to see me, Sheriff?”

“Yes. We need to discuss the Delgado-Teo case.” Izzy straightened from her desk. “Deputy Martinez has discovered that the victim was most likely killed in Cole Barrow’s hangar at the airfield. Blood evidence, murder weapon, her phone—all found there. Cole knew her from Afghanistan. He was the reporting officer on a sexual assault case involving her.”

Hawkins’ eyebrows rose. “Dr. Barrow is a suspect?”

“At this point in time, he’s a person of interest.” Izzy met his gaze. “Which is why I’m handing lead on this investigation to you.”

The undersheriff’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face.

“Given my relationship with Cole, I’ll stay involved in interviews and meetings, but you’ll make the calls.” Izzy kept her voice steady. “All decisions go through you.”

“That’s not enough,” Scacchi cut in. “You shouldn’t be involved at all.”

“I disagree.” Izzy turned to the agent. “So that’s how it’s going to be. You’re welcome to participate in interviews, but Undersheriff Hawkins will take point.”

Hawkins shifted his weight, hands clasped behind his back. Izzy could almost see the wheels turning as he searched for the catch.

“And the FBI’s role?” Hawkins asked carefully.

“MCSO focuses on Cole and the physical evidence. FBI continues working the victim’s background and the catfishing angle through their cybercrimes unit.” Izzy glanced at Yoshida. “That work for you?”

Yoshida nodded. “We’ll coordinate with our digital team, but one of us has to be in the interview with Dr. Barrow.”

Izzy nodded her affirmation. “Martinez is taking the evidence to the forensic pathologist now.” She turned her gaze back on Hawkins. “I will ask Dr. Pickett to report his findings directly to you, Undersheriff.”

Hawkins drew himself up to his full height, a subtle shift in posture that Izzy recognized all too well. His neutral expression couldn’t quite mask the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “I appreciate your trust in my abilities, Sheriff.” His emphasis on her title carried an edge. “But I want to be clear—if I’m running this investigation, I’m running it. I won’t kowtow.”

Izzy kept her face impassive. “Understood.”

“And I’ll need complete access to all case files and evidence.” Hawkins glanced at the FBI agents. “Including anything shared by our federal colleagues.”

Yoshida nodded. “We’ll coordinate through you, Undersheriff. Our cyber team is already working the catfishing angle. We’ll keep you updated on any developments.”

“Good.” Hawkins smoothed his mustache with one finger. “Now, about Dr. Barrow. He’s been waiting downstairs for twenty minutes. We should proceed with the interview as soon as I’ve spoken to Martinez.”

“Agreed.” Izzy forced herself to maintain eye contact with Hawkins. “How do you want to handle it?”

“I’ll take lead. Agent Yoshida will observe.” Hawkins paused deliberately. “Sheriff, given your . . . personal connection perhaps you should wait here for a report.”

The political move was as transparent as it was calculated. Izzy saw Scacchi’s approving nod from the corner of her eye.

“No, I’ll be in the room,” said Izzy. “But as an observer.”

Hawkins turned toward the door. “Give me fifteen minutes to review the case notes before we start the interview.”

Scacchi stood. “I’m going to see where cybercrimes are with the therapy group messages.” She followed Hawkins out without a backward glance.

As the door closed behind Scacchi, silence settled over Izzy’s office. She remained perched against her desk, watching Yoshida, who hadn’t moved from his chair.

“So.” Yoshida’s calm voice broke the quiet. “That’s the same Hawkins whose yard signs I’ve been seeing all over town?”

“The one and only.”

“You just handed your election opponent control of a high-profile murder investigation.”

Izzy pushed off from her desk and walked to the window. The desert stretched endlessly before her. “If you know a better way to handle this, I’m all ears.”

“There isn’t one.” Yoshida’s reflection nodded in the glass. “Not for the case, anyway. But the election campaign? That’s a different matter entirely.”

Izzy turned from the window. “Right now, finding Mari’s killer is all I care about.”

“Even if it costs you your job?”

“Especially then.” Izzy met his steady gaze. “Because if I compromise this investigation to keep my job, I don’t deserve to wear this badge.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Cole shifted in the metal chair, its unyielding surface a reminder of the stainless-steel exam table he used for autopsies in his clinic. The interview room’s blank walls offered no visual distractions, so his mind wandered.

Memories of Afghanistan flickered to life. Mari doing exercises in the base hospital with Captain Liggett as she worked through the pain in her wrist. She’d refused painkillers, insisted on pushing through it.

The last time he’d seen her alive played on loop in his thoughts. Leaving with the MPs at Bostick, her eyes cutting through him with such venom, it had stopped him mid-stride. The contempt in her expression had been visceral, raw. Now that hatred twisted into something darker as he remembered her body sprawled in the snow, all that fire extinguished.

Cole started rubbing his hands together as if cleaning them before surgery, catching himself halfway through the nervous gesture. The urge to pace the small room gnawed at him. He’d learned early that a doctor’s calm demeanor could settle even the most agitated patient. Now he turned that practiced steadiness inward, forcing his breathing to stay even despite the storm building inside.

His medical instincts warred with his emotional turmoil—one side cataloging his elevated heart rate and tension headache, while the other grappled with the reality that Mari was dead. That somehow their paths had crossed again, here of all places, with such devastating consequences.

The door opened with a metallic click. Cole’s eyes tracked Izzy as she entered first, her mouth set firm. Hawkins followed with barely concealed satisfaction. The FBI agent, Yoshida, brought up the rear, his expression unreadable behind wire-rimmed glasses.

Hawkins claimed the primary interrogator’s chair, spreading his notes across the metal table. Yoshida settled into the second chair.

Cole watched as Izzy grabbed the chair he imagined was typically reserved for defense attorneys. The legs scraped against concrete as she carried it around the table, positioning it behind the others but where Cole could still see her face.

“Dr. Barrow.” Izzy’s voice was all business, stripped of the warmth he’d grown accustomed to. “Given our personal relationship, Undersheriff Hawkins will be leading this interview. I want to be clear that you’re not under arrest, but you have the right to counsel at any time. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” The words felt hollow.

Cole’s fingers interlaced on the table, steadying themselves against a tremor that threatened to emerge. Hawkins leaned forward, but Cole kept finding his gaze drawn to Izzy. She sat ramrod straight, her expression neutral, but he caught the slight tension in her jaw that betrayed her concern.

Cole studied Hawkins’ face as the undersheriff shuffled papers. The politician in uniform was enjoying this moment far too much.

“Tell me about Sergeant Delgado-Teo.” Hawkins’ tone carried an edge. “Your relationship in Afghanistan.”

“I was her attending physician.” Cole’s tone was clinical. “She came to the infirmary with injuries.” The memories threatened to surface—Mari’s bruised face, her torn uniform, the way her hands had trembled. He pushed them down, maintaining his professional demeanor.

“What kind of injuries?”

“Multiple contusions, possible broken ribs—which we ruled out with X-ray—and a wrist injury, which turned out to be a simple fracture.”

“Did you ascertain how she came about these injuries?”

Cole breathed in slowly. “She was assaulted.”

“And you reported the assault.” Hawkins leaned forward. “Against her wishes.”

“No. I followed protocol for such cases.” The words felt mechanical in Cole’s mouth, distancing himself from the raw emotion of that night. “The army has a process that allows for reporting while respecting patient confidentiality, so they have access to resources while maintaining privacy.”

“Until you exposed everything.” Hawkins’ pen tapped against his notepad. “Made it public.”

“No. I witnessed a second assault in the act and called the MPs.” Cole’s hands remained clasped on the table, knuckles white with tension. “That’s when the investigation became public.”

Yoshida cleared his throat. “We’ve accessed some of the victim’s therapy group messages.” His casual tone set Cole’s nerves on edge. “She blamed you for destroying her career. Said she hated you for it.”

“She shot the messenger. I understand why.” Cole drew another slow breath, searching the agent’s face for hidden meaning. “Sometimes doing the right thing comes at a price.”

“And what price was that, exactly?” Hawkins asked.

“Her career. Her privacy. Her choice in how to handle it,” Cole said. “But the alternative was letting an attack continue.”

Cole shifted his focus as Hawkins changed direction, the undersheriff’s demeanor sharpening. “When was your last contact with Sergeant Delgado-Teo?”

“None since Afghanistan.” Cole kept his voice steady. “Not since we both left Forward Operating Base Bostick.”

“The assault hearing?” Hawkins flipped through his notes. “You didn’t see her there?”

“No. They scheduled us on different days.” Cole remembered the sterile conference room, the panel of officers. “I gave my testimony and left.”

“Did you testify as a witness or the accused?”

Cole’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Hawkins narrowed his eyes. “We have no evidence that it wasn’t you that committed the assault.”

“You have the incident report.”

“And it’s largely redacted. To protect the army, perhaps, and therefore protecting the perpetrator of this crime.”

“But my name is not redacted. The army doesn’t redact a name in one part of a report and then not in another. It defeats the purpose.”

Hawkins leaned back. “Let’s talk about your hangar. How often do you fly?”

The abrupt change threw Cole off balance. “Maintenance flights on weekends, usually. Occasional patient visits. Medical transport as needed.”

“When were you last there?”

“About a week ago.” Cole’s brow furrowed at the question’s relevance. “Why are we discussing my helicopter?”

Hawkins ignored the question. “You’re certain about that timeline?”

“Yes. I’ve been busy with patients.” Cole gestured toward the window. “I spent an entire day on the recovery operation in the mountains.”

“And Ms. Delgado-Teo’s car?” Hawkins’ eyes narrowed. “In your clinic lot?”

“As I told Agent Yoshida, I have no idea how it got there.” Cole fought the urge to rub his temples. “Since I got back from the mountain, it has been wall-to-wall patients. I didn’t notice any unfamiliar vehicles when I left, and the following morning was dark when I arrived.”

The pieces started falling into place—the questions about his hangar, the car, his schedule. They were building a case against him. Cole considered asking for a lawyer, but the thought vanished as quickly as it formed. He had nothing to hide.

“Okay.” Hawkins moved his papers, and Cole could see him looking at a photograph from the scene in the mountains. Mari’s body. “You inspected the body on the mountain when it was recovered?”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to believe that you didn’t recognize the victim at all? Someone you knew so well?”

“For starters, I didn’t know her well. She was a patient. The night I initially treated her was the first time I had seen her on base. I saw her a couple of times in the base hospital when she came for physical therapy, but I didn’t assist with that. Then I saw her when she was being assaulted the second time. And that all happened five years ago.”

Hawkins said nothing, and Cole watched him blink slowly.

“You’ve got the photo right in front of you, Undersheriff.” Cole gestured at the pages on the table. “You tell me what you recognize there? I see a victim with massive facial injuries. So bad, I bet facial recognition wasn’t even an option to ID her.”

Hawkins shuffled his pages. “No, we couldn’t ID her. She was beat up pretty bad, with something like a pipe wrench.”

“I know,” said Cole.

“You got any tools like that?”

“Everyone in the county has tools like that.”

Hawkins held Cole’s gaze. “I’m not worried about everyone in the county.”

“Then you’re not doing your job.”

Hawkins slid a photo around so Cole could see it properly. His stomach dropped as he recognized his hangar. Blood spatter across the concrete floor, his Robinson’s skids, the side of the helo itself.

“We found blood in your hangar, Dr. Barrow. And what appears to be the murder weapon. A large wrench with blood residue.” Hawkins spread more photos across the table. “Care to explain?”

Cole’s head snapped toward Izzy, searching her face. “Are you serious?”

“I’m conducting this interview,” said Hawkins, drawing Cole’s attention back to him. “The evidence suggests that you killed Sergeant Delgado-Teo in your hangar, then transported her body to the mountain to dispose of it. Unfortunately, those ice climbers complicated your plan by finding it.”

Cole fought the urge to react. He took a long, slow breath through his nose to calm down. “Did Dr. Pickett confirm time of death?”

“He did.” Hawkins’ mouth twitched.

“I saw the body’s condition myself.” Cole leaned forward. “She hadn’t been there long—likely the previous night. So, explain how I supposedly got from my hangar to that mountaintop and back—in the dark—in time to join Sheriff Llewellyn and Ranger Mal for recovery?”

“Four hours up, four hours down,” said Hawkins. “More than possible.”

Cole said nothing.

“So, if you weren’t in the mountains, where were you last night?”

“When exactly?”

“Start after work.”

“I left my office at about seven-thirty. Went to the Masonic Hall.”

“Why?”

“To give Joe Etxebarria a ride home.”

“This is the sheriff’s grandfather?” asked Hawkins.

“You know who Joe is, Dab.”

“For the record, Doctor.”

Cole sighed. “Yes, the sheriff’s grandfather.”

“Why did you need to give Mr. Etxebarria a ride? Isn’t that his granddaughter’s job?”

“It’s not anyone’s job, Dab. But I knew he was playing cards there with a few of the old timers, and I offered him a ride since I would be passing by.”

Hawkins made a note. “So, what time did you leave Mr. Etxebarria?”

Cole shrugged. “Not sure exactly, but around 8:20, maybe 8:25.”

“And where did you go?”

“Home. For the rest of the night.”

Hawkins raised an eyebrow. “So you have no alibi for after 8:30 p.m.?”

“Like I say, I was home.”

“What I’m asking, Dr. Barrow, is were you alone?”

Cole shot a glance Izzy’s way. “No, Dab, I wasn’t alone. My dog was there too.”

“Your dog. Right.”

“Come on, Dab. You know I didn’t do this.”

Hawkins’ expression shifted, taking on an almost predatory gleam. “If you didn’t do it, Dr. Barrow, someone’s going to an awful lot of trouble to make it look like you did.”

“I help people.” Cole’s voice hardened. “That’s my job. That’s who I am. I’ve spent my entire career saving lives, not taking them.”

“According to Ms. Delgado-Teo’s therapy messages,” Yoshida interjected quietly, “she had a very different opinion of your helpful nature.”

“I know that,” said Cole. “But like I said, not every patient is happy. That was a particularly complicated situation. I’m sorry it went the way it did, but I helped her the best I could, and I wished her no harm.”

Hawkins collected the photos and stacked his papers together, slipping them into a file folder. “That’s all we have right now. There’s every likelihood that we’ll need to speak with you again.”

“You know where to find me.”

“We do. And I would suggest you restrict your movements to Darkness township.”

“Are you telling me not to leave town?”

Hawkins pushed his chair back, and it grated against the concrete. “We’re not restricting you, but we need you to report any travel outside Darkness. Especially house calls.”

Cole straightened. “I have patients who depend on me. You know that.”

“No legal obligation.” Hawkins shrugged. “But it’ll look better if you cooperate. Just call the office if you’re heading to Harris Regional or out to a farm. And your hangar is off limits. It’s an active crime scene.”

Cole caught Izzy’s eye. Her slight nod carried clear meaning: comply for now.

He exhaled. “Fine.”

Hawkins stood. Yoshida followed. Cole remained sitting while Izzy did.

Hawkins ran his thumbnail along his mustache. “You’re free to go.”

Cole nodded, but didn’t get up. He looked at Hawkins standing over him. “Find the person who did this. Don’t take your eyes off the ball.”

Hawkins’ stern expression didn’t change, but he gave a small nod and stepped to the door. It opened before he got there. The other FBI agent, Scacchi, appeared in the doorway. Her face was set hard.

“The truck.” Scacchi’s voice cut through the tension. “We should check Dr. Barrow’s truck for blood evidence. If the body was transported, there might be trace elements.”

Cole’s stomach turned at her tone, the way she reduced Mari to the body.

“Yes, I was getting to that.” Hawkins’ professional mask couldn’t quite hide his annoyance at the special agent’s interruption. “We’ll need your keys, Dr. Barrow. I’ll arrange for a deputy to take you back to your clinic.”

Cole recognized the trap closing around him. Fighting it would only make him appear guilty. He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers closing around his key ring. He removed the fob from the ring and placed it on the table.

Hawkins picked up the fob with a tissue from his pocket, handling it like a crucial piece of evidence. The undersheriff stepped to the door, scanning the lobby before calling out, “Johnson? Got a minute?”

Deputy Johnson appeared in the doorway beside Scacchi.

“Need you to find someone to drive Dr. Barrow back to his clinic.” Hawkins held up the key fob. “Then I want every inch of his truck checked with a blue light. Thoroughly.”

Cole watched his keys pass from Hawkins to Johnson, the simple act transforming his truck from transportation into evidence. His independence stripped away with a casual exchange.

Hawkins gave Cole one final glance before walking out, leaving him with the growing weight of suspicion settling across his shoulders.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cole sliced an onion, the knife’s rhythmic tap against the cutting board echoing through his quiet kitchen. The soapstone counter absorbed the last rays of sunlight streaming through the windows. In the corner, Nanook lifted his head from his bed, dark eyes tracking Cole’s movements.

His phone sat silent on the counter. No messages from Izzy since he’d left the sheriff’s office. The onion’s pungent scent stung his eyes as he scraped the pieces into a cast-iron pan. Or maybe it wasn’t the onion at all. Cole paused, gripping the edge of the counter. The kitchen felt too big, too empty. Even with Nanook’s companionship, Izzy’s absence left a vacuum.

He understood why she stayed so often at Joe’s. Her grandfather needed her, and that devotion was part of what drew Cole to her. But tonight, the solitude pressed in.

Nanook padded over, pressing his warm bulk against Cole’s leg.

Cole scratched behind the dog’s ears, grateful for the simple comfort. “Just you and me tonight, bud.”

Cole gazed out the back sliding door at the dark base of the mountain, which triggered a flash of memory—The Hindu Kush as the background, Mari Delgado’s face contorted with rage as the MPs led her away. Her eyes still clear in his memory after five years.

Cole abandoned the half-prepared meal and moved to the living room windows. The setting sun painted the valley below a parched gold, but he barely registered the view. Instead, he saw the dark corners of FOB Bostick, heard the muffled cries from the women’s barracks. The captain’s pants around his ankles. Mari tossed back on the army cot.

He’d made the right call. He knew that. But the cost to Mari had been steep—her career derailed, her trust shattered. The therapy messages Yoshida spoke of proved how deeply that betrayal had cut.

Nanook whined softly, drawing Cole back to the present. He’d been standing motionless, lost in the past. The dog’s concerned eyes studied his face.

“I know, boy.” Cole ran a hand through his hair. “I keep wondering that too. Why here? Why now?”

The wind stirred the pinyon pines outside, their branches casting shifting shadows across the deck. The scent of burning onions pulled him back to the kitchen. Cole switched off the burner, staring at the blackened mess in the pan. His appetite had vanished, replaced by a gnawing unease. Someone had killed Mari, apparently in his hangar. The question was, who knew enough about their shared past to make him a convincing suspect?

The sound of his front door opening jolted Cole from his dark thoughts. Nanook’s head snapped up at Izzy’s voice calling through the void.

“Hey, boy, you in there?”

The malamute launched across the room, nearly bowling Cole over in excitement. Cole steadied himself against the counter as Nanook charged toward the front of the house.

“Easy, buddy,” he said.

Cole listened to the sounds of dog and woman bounce down the hallway. Nanook danced around her legs as they stepped into the kitchen, Izzy producing another treat from her jacket pocket.

“Spoiling my dog again?” Cole leaned against the counter, watching as Nanook delicately took the offering from her fingers. “Shouldn’t you be keeping your distance? Given the circumstances?”

“I handed the case to Hawkins for a reason.” Izzy wiped her hands and looked at him. “He has the wheel.”

“That’s quite a political gift.”

“I don’t care about politics.” She shrugged off her jacket. “I care about you.” She stepped forward and kissed him, and the vacuum that had consumed his house was filled.

“Even with evidence pointing at me?”

“I know you, Cole.” Izzy pushed in beside him to wash her hands. “I choose you. The rest will sort itself out.”

Cole felt his tension ease, though concern still gnawed at his gut. “Hawkins will use this. The timing couldn’t be better for his campaign.”

“Let him try.” Izzy’s jaw set in that familiar stubborn line.

Cole reached past Izzy to grab a fresh onion from the basket, his other hand resting on her hip. “Since you’re here, might as well help me salvage dinner.” He nodded toward the burnt pan soaking in the sink. “The first attempt didn’t survive my introspection.”

Izzy pulled two wineglasses from the cabinet while Cole started chopping fresh vegetables. The familiar choreography of sharing his kitchen space settled his nerves. Nanook sprawled between them on the cool tile, tail thumping occasionally when one of them stepped over him.

“I gotta tell you,” Cole kept his eyes on the cutting board, “the fact that you believe in me, even with everything pointing my way. After what happened with Mark⁠—”

“Stop.” Izzy poured them each a glass of red wine. “Mark fooled everyone, including the FBI’s best. But you? Your actions speak for themselves. The way you handled Mari’s assault, protecting her even when she hated you for it. That tells me everything I need to know about your character.”

Cole set down his knife, turning to face her. “Scacchi doesn’t see it that way.”

“Scacchi’s young and ambitious.” Izzy took a sip of wine. “She sees everything in black and white. To her, your connection to Mari makes you the perfect suspect. She’ll dig through your past, interview everyone who knows you, trying to build a case.”

“Let her dig.” Cole resumed chopping. “There’s nothing to find.”

“The FBI is thorough. They’ll scrutinize every detail of your life, looking for inconsistencies.” Izzy leaned against the counter. “Scacchi especially—she’s got something to prove.”

“Like someone else I know?” Cole gave her a sidelong glance.

“Takes one to know one.” Izzy smiled over her wine glass. “But I’m not trying to prove myself anymore. Just trying to find justice.”

The sharp scent of garlic mingled with sautéing onions as Cole stirred the pan, his mind churning over the events of the day. “I’ve been thinking about what Hawkins said.” Cole added diced tomatoes to the pan. “About someone trying to make it look like I did it.”

Izzy set down her wineglass. “You have a theory?”

“More than a theory.” Steam rose as Cole deglazed the pan with red wine. “Remember I told you about the captain? The one who assaulted Mari?”

“The mountain infantry officer. His name was redacted in the report I got.”

“Captain John Jay Raven. Distinguished Service Cross recipient.” Cole stirred the pan. “Everyone called him JJ. He led specialized mountain warfare operations—high-altitude combat in the Hindu Kush. The kind of missions that earned him that medal from the Vice President himself.” Cole added fresh herbs, their fragrance filling the kitchen. “After I caught him assaulting Mari that second time, the MPs took him to the stockade, but then things got . . . complicated.”

“How so?” Izzy asked.

“Other women came forward, but quietly. No one wanted to risk their career by going public. And Raven—he was this decorated war hero. The army had paraded him around like their poster boy for what we were doing over there.” Cole stirred the sauce with more force than necessary. “It became this political nightmare. The brass just wanted it to go away. So they offered the women deals—promotions, transfers, settlements. Whatever it took to keep it quiet.”

“So why did Mari leave?”

“I don’t know. I never heard anything about that, but I do know that there was a difference between the army saying you could stay and your fellow soldiers accepting you.” Cole’s expression dropped. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

Izzy nodded. “And Raven?”

“Voluntary separation. Honorable discharge.” Cole’s voice hardened. “He was furious about it, but it was that or face charges. The army got their cover-up, the women got their careers preserved—maybe, and I got to watch the whole thing turn into this perversion of justice.”

Izzy took a sip of wine. “Is that why you left the service?”

“It was the start.” Cole tested the sauce, adding a pinch of salt. “The whole thing left a bad taste. Made me question what we were really fighting for.”

“What happened to Raven after?”

“Last I heard, he went into private security. Mercenary work in the Middle East—wherever the oil companies needed muscle.” Cole glanced at Izzy. “Spud would know more. Spud flew Raven’s unit in and out of the mountains before I met either of them.”

“Spud knew him?”

Cole nodded. “Mountain infantry’s a small world. Spud never liked him—said Raven had this way of making everything about his own glory.”

The sauce bubbled, releasing waves of aromatic steam. Cole reduced the heat and sipped his wine. “After the hearing, I saw Raven at Fort Drum. He said infantrymen never forget.” Cole’s hand tightened on the wooden spoon. “Told me I’d pay for what I’d done. I told him he’d already cost me enough—Mari’s trust, my faith in the system. But now . . .”

“You think he followed through on that threat?”

“It fits, doesn’t it? My hangar, my clinic.” Cole set the spoon down. “He knew enough about my connection to Mari to make me look guilty.”

Izzy straightened. “What was his full name again?”

“John Jay Raven. But if you’re looking into him, be careful.” Cole turned to face her. “He’s not just some washed-up soldier with a grudge. He’s trained, decorated, and he’s spent years doing private security work in war zones.”

“The kind of guy who’d know how to plan something like this?”

“Exactly the kind.” Cole reached for the spoon. “And he’s had five years to think about it.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The stars glittered overhead as Izzy’s patrol SUV wound through the empty roads leading away from Cole’s cabin. Her civilian clothes felt strange against the faux-leather—no uniform, no badge, just her and the quiet hum of the engine as she headed south toward Mojave.

Early morning runs had become a ritual during her first months as sheriff, a time to gather her thoughts before the weight of the day pressed in, but as the job took its toll and Izzy felt drawn to spend more time at Cole’s, she had let the morning exercise drop from her schedule. As the road stretched endlessly ahead, a black ribbon cutting through the desert valley, she vowed to get back to her running, even if it meant dragging Cole and Nanook along with her.

Cool air rushed through her open window, carrying the sharp scent of sage and sulfur. To her left, the eastern horizon began to soften from black to deep purple. Out here, between the looming Sierras and the vast desert, the transition from night to day played out like a slow symphony.

The sky lightened degree by degree as she drove, stars fading one by one into the growing dawn. By the time she reached the Mojave Air & Space Port, the eastern horizon had transformed into a band of pale gold.

Izzy followed Spud’s texted directions, driving past rows of massive aircraft in various states of storage and dismantling. The scale hit her first—dozens of commercial jets lined up like the forgotten toys of giants. Morning light crept across the metal surfaces, creating an otherworldly gleam. Modern passenger jets sat next to stripped cargo planes, their windows dark and empty. Some had missing engines or panels, mechanical organs exposed to the elements. Others looked as ready to fly as if they were at a gate at LAX. The desert pressed in around them, patient and eternal, already beginning to reclaim these monuments to human ambition.

The dirt road snaked through a landscape of twisted Joshua trees, their spiky silhouettes stark against the brightening sky. Izzy slowed her SUV, scanning for landmarks. A small cairn, weathered and crumbling, marked the turn toward Spud’s property.

The landscape opened into miles of scrub and sand. A pueblo-style house sat low against the desert backdrop, its adobe walls the same sandy color as the surrounding earth. To the left, a dirt runway stretched into the distance, little more than a strip of earth scraped clean of vegetation. A Cessna 172 sat outside the house, its white and blue paint pristine despite the harsh environment.

Izzy pulled up beside the house, dust settling around her vehicle.

Before she could step out, Spud emerged from inside. His cargo pants and T-shirt seemed inadequate against the morning chill, but he showed no sign of discomfort. Time in the desert had weathered his complexion, and gray streaked through his sandy-brown hair. He moved with laconic ease, his lean frame speaking to hours spent in cockpits rather than gyms. His piercing blue eyes fixed on her as she approached, showing recognition from their brief encounter months ago when he’d flown her to San Francisco for a case.

“Sheriff.” He nodded, voice quiet but not unwelcoming.

“Thanks for seeing me this early, Spud.”

He gestured toward the house. “I’m an early riser.” His words were measured, carrying the weight of someone who chose them carefully. Despite his guarded demeanor, there was an underlying acceptance in his stance—any friend of Cole’s warranted at least that much trust.

Izzy followed Spud to his back porch, where two Adirondack chairs faced the endless expanse of desert. The sun had cleared the horizon now, leaving the landscape in dry shades of tan and yellow. Unlike Darkness, where the Sierra Nevada dominated every view, here the mountains were mere suggestions on the distant horizon.

Spud handed her a ceramic mug, steam curling from coffee so dark it could have been midnight distilled. The rich aroma promised a caffeine punch that would make her usual morning brew taste like dishwater.

Izzy settled into one of the chairs, its wooden slats creaking softly. “Quite a spread you’ve got here.”

“It’s quiet.” Spud’s mouth quirked. “Folks keep to themselves.”

“I can see the appeal.” The isolation felt peaceful rather than oppressive. No traffic noise, no radio chatter, just the whisper of wind through desert scrub. Izzy couldn’t see another home. “Though I prefer having the hills close enough to touch.”

“Some folks need that.” Spud took a slow sip of coffee. “The mountains watching over them. Out here, it’s just you and whatever’s in your head.”

Izzy let the silence stretch, comfortable and unhurried. The coffee scalded her tongue, but the bitter warmth helped center her thoughts. “So, Cole tells me you knew JJ Raven.”

Spud’s shoulders tensed. “Flew his unit around. Before I knew Cole.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Good soldier.”

Izzy blew on her coffee. “That’s a good non-answer, Spud.”

“Yeah.” Spud’s gaze remained fixed on the desert. “Captain Raven was brave. Cared about his men. Would’ve died for any of them.”

Spud stood and wandered inside, returning with a faded photograph in a cheap frame. It was a unit shot, well armed men in desert fatigues standing in front of a helicopter, mountains in the background. Izzy spotted Spud leaning against the cockpit door.

Spud pointed. “That’s the captain there.”

Izzy immediately registered the rigid military bearing in Raven’s stance—shoulders squared, chin slightly elevated, hand resting easily on his rifle, projecting authority even among equals. His dark eyes held an unsettling intensity, almost predatory in their focus, and unlike the others in the shot, his mouth was a firm line, making no attempt to soften his angular features. Despite being part of a unit, there was something distinctly isolated about him in the frame—as if he stood apart while standing among.

“I heard he had a dark side.”

A muscle twitched in Spud’s jaw. “Best soldiers don’t always make the best citizens.” He set his coffee down, the mug scraping against the wooden arm of his chair. “He enjoyed the power too much.”

“How so?”

“Had this savior complex. Saw himself as better than the locals, treated them that way.” Spud’s voice took on a distant quality. “But in the mountains? Man knew terrain like nobody I ever saw.”

The sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of morning chill. Spud leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Those Afghanis, they’ve beaten all comers over the centuries because they work that terrain better than anyone. Better than the Soviets, better than us. Hell, better than Alexander the Great.” He shook his head. “But Raven? He knew how to navigate the Hindu Kush and not get shot or die of exposure. Could live up there. The conditions didn’t faze him. Might’ve preferred it, actually.”

Izzy waited as Spud gathered his thoughts. The desert stretched flat and endless before them, but she could tell his mind was somewhere else—in steep valleys and on rocky peaks half a world away.

“That’s how he won his Distinguished Service Cross.” Spud’s voice dropped lower. “His unit was up in the high country. Taliban ambushed them. Lost two men that day. Rest of the unit barely made it out.” He paused, taking a long pull of coffee. “But Raven was still up there. One of his men got shot up bad. So Raven carried him. Taliban knew he hadn’t come down with the others. They hunted him.”

Izzy felt the tension building in Spud’s narrative. “What did he do?”

“Didn’t go for base. Did the opposite—went up. Right up where most people can’t go, let alone stay. Carried his man the whole way.” Spud’s eyes had taken on a haunted look. “Taliban searched for days, figured he must’ve died and fallen into some ravine. Once he knew they’d moved on, Raven carried his man all the way back to the FOB.”

Izzy set her coffee down, ceramic scraping against wood. “What about the assault allegations?”

Spud’s expression hardened. “Heard things. Some men like to brag about their conquests.”

“And you never reported what you heard?”

“I was just a pilot.” Spud’s voice carried a defensive edge. “Wasn’t my place to⁠—”

“Wasn’t your place?” Izzy forced herself to breathe, to remember her own experiences with institutional silence. “Sorry. I understand how it works. The system protects itself.”

“Unit cohesion matters in combat.” Spud wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You start questioning things, people die.”

“And that gives cover to predators.” Izzy watched the sun climb higher, casting harsh shadows across the desert floor. “But Raven’s not in that world anymore. He’s in mine.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t have to worry about unit cohesion or mission success. I just have to worry about justice.”

The desert wind picked up, forming a dust devil that they watched spin across the airstrip.

Izzy studied Spud’s profile as he stared out at the dust devil. “What happened to Raven after he left the army?”

“He did what guys like him do.” Spud shifted in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. “Got himself into the mercenary game. Like I said—good soldier, poor citizen. He was made for the fight.” His voice took on a contemplative tone. “Would’ve wilted if he wasn’t in it.”

“You mean like a private army?” The concept wasn’t foreign to Izzy. During her FBI days, she’d encountered several private military contractors, some more legitimate than others.

“Don’t know what they call it exactly.” Spud took another sip of his cooling coffee. “Keeps the oil fields safe out there in the Middle East. Not quite war, but there’s enough insurgency to make it interesting once in a while.” His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “Raven and his pals can pretend they’re still fighting for something more than just cash.”

A tumbleweed rolled across the desert floor as Izzy absorbed this information. “Did you ever think about getting into that line of work?”

“Thought about it.” Spud’s voice carried no emotion. “Didn’t care for the fake military thing, though. They think they’re still wrapped in the stars and stripes when they’re actually mall cops.” He shrugged, the motion barely perceptible. “Course, flying is flying, and that’s what I love. But I like being stateside. Enjoy my time in Alaska. It’s quiet up there. People mind their own business.”

“Ever think about living there full-time?”

“Hell no.” Spud’s gaze swept across the stark landscape before them, taking in the harsh beauty of the high desert. “Summer is tolerable, but those winters . . .” He settled deeper into his chair, a hint of contentment softening his features. “I like these winters.”

From her perch on Spud’s porch, Izzy understood the appeal of his remote property. The air held a pleasant crispness that made the vast expanse feel welcoming rather than hostile, unlike the brutal summer months when even breathing became an act of endurance, but that was when Spud headed for Alaska. Not the dumbest move.

Izzy drained the last of her coffee. No wonder Cole spoke highly of Spud’s brew—it put her usual morning fuel to shame. “Thanks for this. And for the intel.”

“Not like I had pressing appointments.” Spud’s face remained impassive, but something in his tone suggested self-deprecation rather than dismissal. He collected her empty mug, then gestured toward the Cessna gleaming in the morning sun. “Could fly you back if you want. Weather’s perfect for it.”

The offer surprised her. From what Cole had shared, Spud rarely invited anyone into his sanctuary, let alone offered rides. She studied him, noting how his eyes kept darting between her and the horizon, as if torn between hope and the comfort of solitude.

“Thanks, but I’ve got my SUV.” Izzy stood, brushing desert dust from her jeans.

Spud’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. She recognized something familiar in his demeanor—the careful balance between wanting connection and fearing too much of it. Like a wild animal that occasionally ventured close to civilization, drawn by the promise of companionship but ready to retreat at the first sign of demands or expectations.

Izzy walked out to her vehicle while Spud watched by the front door. “I’ll see you round, Spud,” she said with a wave.

“I’m off to Alaska in a few weeks. Drop by for a coffee in September.”

Izzy smiled. “I’ll do that. Fly safe.”

She got in and felt the AC blow hot and cold, unsure about what its job was in the middling temperature. Izzy rolled down the window and waved again as she pulled away. Spud stood with his hands in his pockets and watched her go.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Izzy stopped at Joe’s and changed, then headed for the office. Her freshly pressed uniform was more than a different wardrobe from the casual clothes she’d worn to Mojave. Everything took on more weight. The information from Spud churned in her mind. Better to hold that card close until she knew how to play it.

She paused at the conference room door, taking in the scene. Scacchi sat rigid in her chair, fingers tapping against a stack of papers. Yoshida maintained his usual calm demeanor, but tension lined his mouth. Hawkins lounged back, arms crossed.

The room felt smaller than usual. Izzy chose to remain by the door, one shoulder against the frame.The room had transformed overnight into contested territory, where every word and gesture carried hidden meaning. Coffee cups sat abandoned, gone cold during whatever discussion she’d interrupted.

Scacchi’s eyes tracked her, sharp with suspicion. Yoshida offered a slight nod of acknowledgment. Hawkins barely glanced away from the whiteboard, his studious indifference a statement in itself.

Izzy let the silence stretch, content to wait them out.

Scacchi broke first, tapping a key on her laptop. “Cybercrimes confirmed it. The user ‘Anna’ who contacted Marisol doesn’t exist. They used sophisticated VPN routing through multiple countries—Singapore, Ukraine, Brazil. The IP addresses bounce around like a ping pong ball.”

Izzy noted that Hawkins watched Scacchi speak rather than turn to gauge her reaction.

“Whoever created this profile knew exactly what to say to gain Mari’s trust.” Scacchi laid out printed chat logs. “They shared specific details about serving in Afghanistan but ensured that their paths never met in the field. They knew about dealing with harassment from superior officers.” Her voice took on an edge. “The kind of details only someone who knew Mari’s story intimately would know.”

Izzy’s fingers pressed against her thigh, using the pressure to stay centered as Scacchi continued connecting dots that all led to Cole.

Hawkins cleared his throat, drawing attention from Scacchi’s presentation. “I’ve called in the state forensics lab. They’ll do a thorough sweep of the hangar.” His eyes flicked to Izzy. “No offense to our local resources, but we need the best people for this.”

Izzy suppressed a grin, knowing that in questioning their office’s ability to investigate a crime scene, he was actually calling into question his own practices of twenty years. Practices Izzy was working to improve within the confines of a small-town budget.

“Dr. Pickett confirmed the blood on the wrench matches Ms. Delgado’s DNA profile,” Hawkins continued. “The shape and weight of the tool aligns with the fatal wound.”

Something nagged at Izzy’s thoughts. The wrench had been left in plain sight on the workbench. An experienced killer wouldn’t be so careless. And Cole certainly wasn’t careless.

“The question remains,” Yoshida said. “Why move the body? And how did the killer transport her up that mountain in winter conditions?”

“It wasn’t a blizzard up there,” said Hawkins. “Weather’s been decent enough.”

“It’s still high altitude and tough terrain.”

Izzy’s mind churned through the evidence. The blood spatter in the hangar suggested Mari died there, but the scene felt too obvious. Like someone had studied crime scenes in movies rather than having actual experience. The wrench left conspicuously visible. Mari’s phone conveniently discovered under the workbench.

The mountain location also bothered her. Why risk moving the body at all? The hangar was remote enough. Unless the killer wanted to make a statement.

“We’ll need tire tracks, footprints, anything that shows how the body was transported,” Hawkins said. “State forensics can handle that better than our local team.”

Scacchi stood, her posture shifting into what Izzy recognized as a power stance. “It’s obvious what happened. Dr. Barrow couldn’t lure Marisol to the mountains without revealing his identity, so he ambushed her at the hangar. Then he had to hide the body.”

The words hung in the air. Izzy watched the room’s dynamics shift as Scacchi spoke. The agent had positioned herself near the whiteboard, commanding attention.

Yoshida pointed at a photo of the alpine scene. “But why hide her on a known mountain trail? It’s difficult to access, yes, but still somewhere she could be discovered.” He spread his hands. “And it’s not exactly easy to transport a body up there.”

Hawkins’ eyes met Izzy’s now, and his mouth curved in what might have been mistaken for a friendly smile. “Sheriff,” Hawkins said, drawing out her title. “You have something to say?”

The invitation wasn’t casual. Hawkins was testing her objectivity. Scacchi waited to pounce on any defense of Cole. Yoshida’s quiet attention assessed how she’d handle the pressure.

Izzy straightened from her position by the door. It was time to play one of her cards. “The man who assaulted Mari in Afghanistan was a mountain infantry captain. He led teams through the Hindu Kush. The Eastern Sierra would be child’s play to someone with that experience.”

Scacchi’s expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face before she masked it. “You’re just looking for a scapegoat to protect your boyfriend.”

“No.” Izzy said. “I’m looking at facts. Cole Barrow is a board-certified physician and an army veteran. He’s clearly not stupid.” She let that sink in before continuing. “So how did he suddenly become so incompetent that he’d go to all the trouble of catfishing a woman to protect his identity, but then lead her to his hangar—a location obviously linked to him?”

The question hung in the air. Izzy watched Scacchi’s certainty waver further.

“And then,” Izzy continued, “having killed her, he leaves the hangar open in a way guaranteed to attract attention? Leaves the murder weapon right there for us to find?” She turned to face Hawkins directly. “After hauling the victim’s body all the way into the mountains, he doesn’t think to take the weapon?”

Hawkins lifted his chin, his earlier smugness fading. She held his eyes, knowing her next question would force him to acknowledge the holes in their theory.

“Do you think Dr. Barrow is that stupid, Undersheriff?”

Hawkins shifted in his chair. “No, I do not.” His admission carried reluctant respect. “But people do strange things under pressure.”

“Dr. Barrow is a battlefield medic.” Izzy’s words cut through the room. “How much more used to pressure can a person get?”

The impact of her logic settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Yoshida nodded slightly, while Scacchi’s fingers had stopped their restless tapping. Hawkins leaned back, his expression thoughtful rather than dismissive.

Izzy remained standing, her posture straight but not rigid. She waited, letting them process the implications of what she’d said.

“We can’t know if these events are linked,” said Yoshida.

“Agreed,” Izzy replied. “But if we agree that Dr. Barrow is a suspect because of a past connection, then any past connection is suspect. I’ll reach out to my army contact again. See what else I can learn about this captain.” She met Hawkins’s eyes. “Everything will go into the case file.”

Hawkins leaned back in his chair, his attempted authority faltering. “Make it does.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “That’ll be all.”

The corners of Izzy’s mouth lifted. The gesture was so transparent—Hawkins trying to establish dominance, to remind everyone that he held temporary command of the investigation. As if a few days of leadership could erase her position as sheriff.

She took her time glancing at each of the three people seated before her. Her gaze lingered on Hawkins. No need to challenge him directly. The investigation would reveal the truth, and Hawkins’s political games wouldn’t change that.

Don’t get too comfortable in that chair, she thought, turning out the door and heading for her office.

The sheriff’s office.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Izzy sat at her desk, studying the redacted report on her monitor. Black bars obscured crucial details, but the pattern was becoming clear. Each blocked section seemed to pulse with hidden meaning, like a code she was finally beginning to crack.

The case had shifted. Not just the jurisdiction, but the entire shape of it. Mari’s death wasn’t about Cole at all. Someone had crafted an elaborate trap, using her trauma to lure her here, then framing Cole with almost theatrical flair. The staged crime scene in the hangar was too perfect, too obvious.

A former mountain warfare specialist who’d threatened revenge. A body placed in terrain that would challenge most climbers but would be simple for someone with his training. The careful manipulation of Mari through months of online contact, building trust by exploiting her worst memories.

Izzy’s fingers traced the edge of her keyboard. Raven’s threat to Cole years ago hadn’t been idle talk. He’d waited, planned, created an intricate web designed to destroy both Mari and Cole. The kind of revenge that required patience and resources.

Izzy punched in the number, hit the button for the speaker, and sat back in her chair.

“Major Cook.”

“It’s Izzy Llewellyn,” she said. “I appreciate the report you sent over.”

“I hope it helped.”

“It told me some things. And it didn’t tell me others.” She leaned over the speaker. “I need to ask you about Captain John Jay Raven.”

The silence stretched across the line. When Cook spoke again, his voice had lost its casual edge. “That name wasn’t in the report I sent you.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Izzy let the statement hang between them, refusing to elaborate.

“How did you—” Cook caught himself. “Never mind. What exactly are you looking for?”

“I know Raven assaulted Sergeant Delgado-Teo at Bagram Air Base.” Izzy’s words were calm. “I know other women came forward after the investigation began.”

A sharp intake of breath carried across the line. “Those records are sealed.”

“I also know the victims didn’t want their careers derailed by a public court martial.” Each word landed like a stone in still water. “So the army found a quiet solution. They cut Raven loose with an honorable discharge.”

The silence from Cook’s end spoke volumes. Izzy could almost see him weighing his responses, calculating what she already knew against what he could safely confirm.

“That’s quite a detailed understanding of a classified situation.” Cook’s voice had grown careful, probing.

“I need to know what happened to him after discharge.” Izzy kept her tone flat, stating rather than asking. “His movements. His connections.”

“Sheriff—”

“Mari Delgado-Teo is dead.” Izzy cut through his protest.

Another weighted pause.

“I know.” The word came out barely above a whisper.

Izzy waited.

“Look.” Cook’s voice had dropped lower. “What happened in Afghanistan, it was complicated. Politics got involved. I can’t confirm or deny anything.”

“I don’t care about the politics, Jim,” Izzy said. “I care about now. About Mari.”

The line crackled with Cook’s heavy sigh. “You understand I can’t officially⁠—”

“I’m not asking you to confirm anything,” Izzy said. “I’m telling you what I know. What I need is Raven’s current location.”

“We don’t track personnel after separation.”

“Come on, Jim. You and I both know how these situations work.” Izzy shifted in her chair, picturing the mountain of paperwork that followed even routine separations. “When the organization wants someone gone quietly, they grease the wheels. There’s always money involved.”

“Izzy—”

“Jim, you know what happened to me. I’ve been through this. So I figure Raven gets his pension, right? Those VA checks have to go somewhere.”

“The VA doesn’t handle military pensions,” Cook said. “That’s a common misconception.”

Izzy pressed her fingers against her temple. “I don’t care which alphabet soup agency cuts the checks.” She kept her voice steady despite the growing frustration. “The point is, someone knows where to find him.”

“Look, even if I could access those records⁠—”

“Jim.” Izzy cut through his excuse. “A woman is dead. Someone lured her here, killed her, and staged the scene to frame the officer who stopped her assault back then.” She paused, letting that sink in. “I don’t care about internal politics or proper channels. I need to know where those payments go.”

The silence stretched between them. Izzy could hear breathing on Cook’s end of the line. She waited, knowing that pushing harder now might only make him retreat further into official procedures and denials. The FBI might be masters at covering their backsides, but the military wrote the book.

“You think Raven’s connected to her death?” Cook’s voice had shifted from defensive to sharp interest.

“Maybe.” She let out a long, slow breath, weighing how much to share. “I’ve got a link to the victim, threats made against the reporting officer, and a body in the mountains, which happens to be Captain Raven’s operational specialty.”

“Listen,” Cook said, “if you’re suggesting a former soldier targeted her because of what happened at Bagram . . .” He left the implications hanging.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Izzy said. “I’m investigating a murder. Following the evidence.”

Cook’s breath hitched. “You understand I need to tread carefully here.”

“I do.” Izzy leaned forward. “But consider this: if Raven did kill Mari, and the army stonewalls the investigation, how’s that going to play in the press? That’s worse PR than a former soldier committing a crime.”

The silence stretched as Cook processed her words. Izzy could almost see him running scenarios, weighing options, considering angles. This was the delicate dance she remembered from her FBI days—the careful navigation between justice and institutional self-preservation.

“Let me make some calls,” Cook said finally.

Izzy killed the call from her end and sat back in her chair. She steepled her fingers to her lips. Cook might call back soon, or tomorrow, or maybe never.

The phone rang five minutes later. She grabbed it on the first ring.

“Got something for you.” Cook’s voice had lost its earlier hesitation. “Raven moved to Reno after discharge.”

Izzy’s pen flew across her notepad as Cook rattled off the address. Her heart rate picked up—a real lead, finally.

“Your intel is good. He’s working private security with an outfit called Blackpool Logistics,” Cook continued. “They’re one of those companies that provides strategic solutions in high-risk areas.” His tone dripped with disdain. “Mostly oil field protection in Iraq.”

“But based in the US?” Izzy’s internal radar pinged.

“Corporate headquarters are here. Operational centers scattered across the Middle East.” Cook paused. “Listen, if this pans out⁠—”

“You want a heads up before it hits the news.” Izzy set down her pen.

“The brass would appreciate some . . . advance notice.”

Izzy traced the address she’d written. “Here’s my suggestion: get your story straight now. Because if Raven killed Mari, reporters will dig into why he got that honorable discharge.” She tapped her pen against the notepad. “And why the army helped cover up multiple assaults.”

“We didn’t⁠—”

“Save it for the press conference.” Izzy’s voice hardened. “You know what happened. Now you get to decide how to explain it.”

The line went quiet. When Cook spoke again, his voice was resigned. “Fair enough.”

Izzy ended the call and stared at the address. Reno. Close enough to drive, but it would be dark by the time she got there, and driving back through unmaintained mountain passes at night wasn’t her idea of fun.

Plus, she wanted to go in prepared. She needed to know more about Captain John Jay Raven.

Izzy picked up the phone and called downstairs.

“You busy?” Izzy asked.

Trainee Deputy Wahlberg didn’t hesitate. “No, ma’am.”

“Come to my office. Bring your laptop.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Izzy pulled a fresh legal pad from her drawer and stepped over to the small meeting table, closing the blinds. She sat and wrote “Raven Investigation” at the top of her pad, underlining it twice. She wrote down a summation of her conversation with Major Cook. As promised, she’d give Hawkins copies of everything she found—every interview transcript, every record request, every scrap of intel. She just hadn’t said when.

Her pen moved across the paper, mapping out the investigation she’d run parallel to Hawkins’. She knew it wasn’t her job to be Cole’s defense counsel, but it was her office’s job to chase down every lead.

The memory of Mari’s body in the snow drove her forward. Someone had orchestrated this elaborate frame job, counting on law enforcement to take the easy path. Izzy had taken the only path available in becoming sheriff in her old hometown, but nothing about it had been easy since her return. The hard road had become her new normal.

The rapid tap on Izzy’s door announced Jenny’s arrival.

“Come,” said Izzy.

Trainee Deputy Wahlberg entered Izzy’s office with a laptop and a notepad tucked under one arm. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, but a few wisps had escaped, softening her look. She offered an uncertain drop of the eyebrows at the closed blinds and Izzy not sitting behind her desk.

“Have a seat.” Izzy gestured to another seat at the meeting table.

Jenny settled into one of the chairs, opening her laptop. The table dominated the corner of Izzy’s office, positioned to catch the artificial light from the mezzanine outside the window. Now, with the blinds drawn, this corner of the office felt darker and conspiratorial.

Over the past months, Izzy had gotten a handle on who she could trust and who could handle the job, and Jenny Wahlberg had proven herself invaluable. Where some might see inexperience in her youth, Izzy recognized her sharp intelligence. Jenny absorbed information like a sponge and had proven to be like a dog with a bone when it came to research. Plus, she had just started on the job, so she wasn’t tainted by old alliances.

“What do you need, Sheriff?” Jenny asked.

“You know we’re investigating a homicide.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Izzy pursed her lips. “And you’re probably aware Dr. Barrow was brought in for questioning.”

“It was hard to miss.” Jenny glanced at her laptop and then back at Izzy.

“Right. Well, because of Dr. Barrow’s potential involvement, I have given Undersheriff Hawkins lead on the case.”

A tight grin edged onto Jenny’s face. “Yes, he did mention it.”

“I’ll bet he did. Well, our FBI friends have a working theory that I think is suspect, but I need someone to bounce ideas off, to see whether the evidence I have suggests they’re wrong.”

“Bounce away.” Jenny wriggled in her chair to get comfortable and then gave Izzy her full attention.

“Let’s review what we know.” Izzy looked at her notepad. “Mari Delgado-Teo was found dead on Mt. Mollison. That’s federal land, and why the FBI got involved. But we have subsequently discovered that the murder actually occurred in Dr. Barrow’s hangar at the airfield. Evidence suggests Mari was lured here through months of online communication with someone posing as a fellow veteran. The FBI’s cyber team has been analyzing the digital trail.”

Jenny sat forward in her chair, pen poised over her notepad, absorbing every detail with the fresh intensity of someone new to the case. Her eyes widened at the mention of Cole’s hangar.

“Right. Now, backstory.” Izzy tapped her pen on her notepad before continuing. “Both Dr. Barrow and Mari were in the army. We learned that Dr. Barrow reported an assault on Mari back in Afghanistan. The perpetrator was Captain John Jay Raven. After other victims came forward, the army gave him a quiet discharge rather than court martial him.”

“So Dr. Barrow knew the victim?” Jenny asked, scribbling rapidly in her notebook. The trainee’s face showed a mix of surprise and concern as she struggled to connect these new pieces of information. “That’s why he’s a suspect.”

“Correct.”

Jenny frowned and put her pen to her lips. “They actually think Dr. Barrow would kill someone?”

“They don’t know him the way we do.”

“Undersheriff Hawkins does.”

Izzy felt her face go tight. “Let’s just say there are certain benefits for him if Dr. Barrow is implicated.”

“As in his sheriff’s campaign.”

“Among others. So, we know that Dr. Barrow knew the victim, as did this Captain Raven. But I learned from an army contact that Raven has a history of assault, and unlike Cole—sorry, Dr. Barrow⁠—”

“Boss, you can call him Cole with me.” Jenny’s expression softened. “I know what he means to you. And I know he didn’t do this.”

Izzy allowed herself an appreciative smile, but it only lasted a second. “We can’t be seen favoring our friends in an investigation, Jenny.”

“Of course not. But when we have salient information about a suspect, we can use it to find the truth. Cole is a doctor and a good man. One doesn’t mean the other, but in his case, he’s both. So, does the evidence prove he murdered the victim?”

“No. It’s suspicious, is all. His link, his hangar.”

“The working theory is a smart guy like Cole killed someone in his own hangar? If it was a crime of passion, you could make the argument, but you’re saying this was planned over many months. Surely, he would plan better than that.”

“I did make that point.”

“But you’re saying this other soldier . . .” Jenny glanced at her notes. “Captain Raven, he also has a link to the victim and a history of assault?”

“He does. And after Cole called MPs to prevent Raven assaulting Mari a second time, the captain made threats against him. No one took them seriously, not even Cole.”

“Until now.”

Izzy nodded. “In addition, Captain Raven was the commander of an elite mountain infantry unit.”

“Huh,” said Jenny, sitting back in her chair.

“It doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything, but there are questions we need to answer. And I need you to check me if my thinking is off. If I’m being clouded by my relationship with Cole.”

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you need.”

“Let’s start with Captain Raven.” Izzy tapped her pen on her notebook again. “I need you to track down his employment record. My army contact confirmed he now works for Blackpool Logistics, but I want to know if he’s even in the country. These private security contractors do most of their work overseas.”

Jenny opened her laptop and started working the keyboard. Izzy watched her work for a moment, then continued with her own notes. After a few minutes, Jenny began speaking in a detached voice, making Izzy think she was talking to herself.

“Not much public presence . . . LinkedIn shows minimal activity. Their website is pretty bare bones—lots of stock photos and vague mission statements about strategic solutions, whatever that is.”

Jenny stopped and looked up from the screen to ensure Izzy was paying attention. “Got something.” She turned her screen. “Blackpool Logistics. Headquarters in Alexandria, Virginia. They specialize in oil field and personnel security in the Middle East.” She scrolled further. “But their corporate office handles all the logistics and personnel management stateside. There are no contact details.”

“Really?”

“I guess if you need their services, you already know who to talk to.”

“Can you find any mention of Raven specifically?”

Jenny shook her head. “I don’t think they’re going to list their playing roster, so to speak. But . . .”

“But?”

“They’re a business. I’m guessing incorporated, which means they have to file a business statement in Virginia.” Jenny tapped her keyboard. “Huh, okay.”

“What?” asked Izzy.

“They’re registered with the State Corporation Commission in Virginia, but as a foreign corporation, incorporated in Delaware. So . . .” Jenny worked her keyboard again. “The Delaware Division of Corporations has their incorporation details here. They use a registered agent, so that won’t help. But they have to list directors.”

Izzy leaned back in her chair and broke into a grin as she watched her new trainee in action.

“President. No, the top guy always has cover. Let’s try the treasurer . . . Lionel Teague. Okay, now, we can use LinkedIn again . . . Yep, here’s old Lionel. Oh, he’s not that old. Forty-two. And he’s a member of a few associations, and some clubs. Let’s look at this one. Golf club . . .” Jenny clicked and tapped. “There we are, and the officers of the golf club.” Jenny smiled. “Of course, you’re the treasurer of your golf club, aren’t you, Lionel? And would you look at that? A cell phone number.”

Jenny glanced up at Izzy’s smile. “What?”

Izzy shook her head. “You’re unstoppable.”

Jenny blushed. “Do you mind if I use your desk phone? If it’s identified, he’s more likely to answer a call from law enforcement than unknown.”

“Go at it.”

Jenny settled into Izzy’s chair behind the desk, positioning herself in front of the phone. She glanced at Izzy for confirmation before dialing the number she’d found and putting it on speaker.

The phone rang twice before a clipped male voice answered. “Teague.”

“Mr. Teague, this is Deputy Wahlberg with the Mirage County Sheriff’s Office in California. I’m conducting a background check and hoping you could help me.”

A pause stretched across the line. “Background checks go through HR.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been trying their number, but no one’s picking up. I was hoping you might have a better contact number for them?” Jenny’s voice carried just the right mix of professional authority and mild frustration.

“That’s not my department.” Teague’s tone grew more distant.

“I understand, sir. But since I have you on the line, could you provide me with the correct person?”

Teague sighed. “Fine. Write this down.” He recited a number. “Ask for Helen Hamley.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Teague. Have a great day.” Jenny ended the call and looked up at Izzy with a satisfied smile.

Izzy nodded her approval. “Nice work.”

Jenny dialed the new number.

“Blackpool Logistics, how may I direct your call?”

“Helen Hamley, please.”

“One moment.”

A long minute of hold music later, a woman’s voice came through the speaker. “Helen Hamley.”

“Ms. Hamley, this is Deputy Wahlberg with the Mirage County Sheriff’s Office in California. Mr. Teague gave me your number regarding a background check.”

“Mirage County?” Hamley’s voice carried a note of confusion. “Never heard of it.”

“We’re in eastern California, ma’am. I’m calling about one of your contractors, John Jay Raven.”

“I can’t release any personnel information without a subpoena.” Hamley’s tone shifted from confused to clipped.

Jenny leaned forward. “Under which statute? We regularly conduct employment verification with other companies.”

“That’s our policy.”

“So you don’t provide references for former employees?”

“We don’t discuss our personnel matters with outside parties.” Hamley’s voice grew harder. “If you need information, you’ll need a subpoena.”

Izzy watched Jenny’s face tighten at the stonewalling. The trainee’s earlier confidence wavered in the face of such rigid resistance.

Jenny straightened in the chair, her voice taking on a casual tone. “Of course, Ms. Hamley. Could you spell your name for the subpoena?”

“H-A-M-L-E-Y.”

“Thank you.” Jenny’s pen scratched across her notepad. “Special Agent Yoshida from the FBI is here with me. He’ll be handling the federal warrant portion of our investigation.”

“Deputy.” Hamley’s voice dripped with condescension. “You clearly don’t understand legal procedure. What you need is a subpoena duces tecum to compel production of documents, not a warrant.”

Jenny’s eyes met Izzy’s, a spark of triumph lighting them. “Actually, Ms. Hamley, I’m well aware of the difference. But given your company’s potential involvement in a murder on U.S. soil, we won’t be asking you to produce documents.” Jenny’s voice hardened. “We’ll be executing a search warrant. Every office, every hard drive, every record.”

Izzy watched Jenny lean forward, her confidence growing with each word. “So, I just want to confirm—it’s Hamley with an ‘M’, correct?”

The silence on the other end of the line stretched out. Izzy could almost hear Hamley’s mental calculations shifting. Jenny had transformed from an inexperienced deputy to a serious threat in the space of thirty seconds.

Izzy watched Jenny’s face as Hamley asked them to hold. The tinny Muzak filled her office once again. Jenny’s earlier confidence remained, but Izzy could see the slight tremor in her hand as she made notes.

The minutes stretched out. Izzy leaned back with her hands behind her head. She’d seen this dance before—someone running to check with superiors, weighing liability against the threat of federal involvement.

The music cut off. “Deputy Wahlberg?” Hamley’s voice had lost its edge.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“John Jay Raven, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I can confirm that Mr. Raven has been employed with us for twenty-nine months. He leads a security detail for the Middle Eastern operations of one of our US energy clients.” Hamley’s words came measured and careful. “I’m afraid I can’t provide more details about that deployment. I don’t have access to that information.”

Jenny glanced up at Izzy, who gave an encouraging nod.

“Our records show Mr. Raven maintains a residence in Reno?” Jenny asked.

“That’s correct.”

“What’s his deployment schedule like?”

“Twenty-eight days on, twenty-eight off.”

“And is he currently deployed?”

The pause stretched into uncomfortable territory. “No. He’s currently rotated home. Due to deploy again in approximately a week.”

Izzy’s heart rate picked up. Raven was in Reno. Close enough to have orchestrated Mari’s murder. Close enough to reach.

Jenny thanked Hamley and ended the call, then looked up at Izzy with wide eyes, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just done.

Izzy raised an eyebrow. “Federal warrant?”

Jenny’s cheeks flushed, but her eyes sparkled. “Well, it’s a crime to impersonate a federal agent, but there’s no law against implying we might get a warrant.”

“I like your style.”

“Just for future reference, what would you do if she played hardball and refused to give us the information?”

“More or less what you said. I’d have taken the intel to the conference room, and Yoshida would have gotten a subpoena.”

“But not a search warrant.”

“A judge is unlikely to issue a warrant unless we can provide evidence that the company was complicit in a federal crime, which we can’t. We can’t even prove yet that Raven did anything, let alone acted on behalf of Blackpool.”

Jenny scribbled in her notebook. “Got it.”

Izzy nodded. “Where’s Elliot?”

“Out on patrol.”

“When you see him, let him know I need him tomorrow.” Izzy stood and stretched, her mind already mapping out the next steps. “We’re going to Reno.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The bell above the door chimed as Izzy followed Cole and Joe into Coyote Flats Café. Maria Ramos waved from behind the counter, gesturing to their usual booth by the window. The rich aroma of roasted turkey and sage gravy filled the air.

Cole slid into the booth first, followed by Joe, who eased himself in slowly. Izzy took her spot across from them, savoring the comfort of their new weekly ritual.

“Here comes trouble,” Maria said, approaching with three glasses of ice water. “You three ready for some turkey?”

“Always,” Joe said, his tanned face brightening. “Nobody makes gravy like Jaime.”

These weekly dinners had started two months ago when Joe mentioned missing his wife’s traditional Sunday roasts. The following week, Maria had announced a new weekly special—roast turkey with all the trimmings. Now it felt like a piece of home, carved out in the heart of Darkness.

“Remember when your Ane would make that special stuffing?” Joe asked, smoothing his napkin across his lap. “With the chestnuts?”

“And cranberries,” Izzy said.

“Two kinds of potatoes,” Joe continued, his eyes distant with memory. “She’d say one wasn’t enough for a proper feast.”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a gentle smile that made Izzy’s heart ache. These dinners seemed to fill some of the empty spaces that her grandmother’s passing had left behind. Izzy wondered if her own presence in Darkness had lifted some of that weight, too. Which, in turn, made her conscious of all the time she spent at Cole’s, no matter how much Joe suggested he enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Izzy spotted Tamara through the window, hurrying across the street in a bright yellow twinset that seemed to capture the last rays of evening sun. The door chimed as she entered.

“Hey, sweetie! Your usual spot’s taken by your old friend here.” Maria gestured toward their booth.

Tamara’s face lit up. “Even better.” She slid into the booth next to Izzy, bumping shoulders like family. “I was going to eat at the counter.”

Cole cleared his throat. “Actually, we were just talking about you.”

“Should I be worried?” Tamara’s eyes danced between them.

“Cole thinks I need a campaign manager,” Izzy said. The words felt strange in her mouth, like speaking a foreign language.

“He’s right.” Tamara nodded emphatically. “Have you seen how many Hawkins signs are popping up? It’s like mushrooms after rain.”

Izzy frowned. She’d been trying to ignore the signs, but they seemed to multiply daily. Each one felt like a personal rebuke.

“Would you . . .” Izzy paused, studying her friend’s eager face. “Would you consider being my campaign manager?”

“Yes!” Tamara practically bounced in her seat. “Oh my god, yes! We need to get started right away. I have so many ideas⁠—”

“Hold on,” Izzy raised her hands in surrender. “I haven’t even decided if I’m running a campaign.”

“Of course you are,” Joe said, pulling napkins from a stainless steel holder. “Can’t let Hawkins win by default.”

Cole leaned forward. “How do these elections usually work? I mean, this isn’t exactly LA.”

“They don’t, normally,” Tamara said. “Most sheriffs run unopposed. Right, Mom?”

Maria approached with iced teas, setting them down and wiping her hands on her apron. “That’s right. Hugh—your father,”—she nodded to Izzy—“only had one challenger in twenty years. Some hothead protesting marijuana laws, if I remember right.”

“We’ll come up with something different,” Tamara said, her enthusiasm undimmed. “Something that’s pure Izzy.”

Izzy couldn’t suppress a cringe. “That sounds terrifying.”

She watched Tamara pull a small notebook from her purse, flipping it open. The teacher’s organizational skills were already kicking in. “First, we need yard signs. Something that pops, but isn’t garish.”

“I don’t like yard signs,” said Izzy. “The election is a secret ballet. People shouldn’t have to wear their choice on their sleeve.”

“But it’s visibility, Izzy. If people only see Hawkins, that’s all they can think.”

“Let’s see if we can come up with something else. I want my job performance to be the reason I keep this job, not politics.”

“Well, we should do meet-and-greets. Coffee mornings at the café⁠—”

“I don’t do coffee mornings,” Izzy said, pushing her napkin back and forth on the table.

“Fine. Afternoon sessions then. The point is to get you in front of the people.”

Cole caught Izzy’s eye across the table, his expression sympathetic but amused. She’d rather face down an armed suspect than schmooze with voters.

“And we need a slogan.” Tamara tapped her pen against her chin. “Something about experience. ‘FBI to local roots’ maybe?”

“No.” Izzy’s fork clattered against her glass. “Nothing about the FBI.”

“But it shows your qualifications⁠—”

“It shows I left.”

Joe patted her hand. “Izar’s right. Focus on who she is now, not who she was.”

“Okay, what about Protecting Mirage, Preserving Our Values?”

Izzy’s stomach churned. The bell above the door chimed, and she glanced up to see Yoshida and Scacchi enter. The growing tension at their table doubled.

Scacchi’s gaze locked onto their booth, her lips pressing into a thin line. She strode over, Yoshida following with an apologetic expression.

“Sheriff.” Scacchi’s voice carried across the café. “Is it appropriate to be dining with our chief suspect?”

Conversations at nearby tables hushed. Izzy felt Cole tense across from her, saw Joe’s hand curl into a fist on the table.

“Agent Scacchi.” Izzy kept her voice level. “Dr. Barrow isn’t a suspect in my view, but rather a potential victim of frame-up. If you have evidence proving otherwise, I suggest you present it to Undersheriff Hawkins. Otherwise, you’re welcome to join us for dinner. Maria’s turkey is excellent.”

Tamara shifted closer to Izzy, her earlier enthusiasm dampened by the confrontation. Joe’s face had hardened into granite.

“Your judgment is compromised,” Scacchi said. “Your personal relationship⁠—”

“Is why I handed the investigation to Undersheriff Hawkins,” Izzy cut her off. “Now, would you like to join us or continue making accusations in public?”

Scacchi’s jaw worked. “I need to go for a run.” She turned on her heel and marched out the door.

Yoshida lingered, offering an awkward nod. “I’ll leave you to your dinner.”

“No,” said Izzy. “You should join us. What are you going to do, eat in your hotel room?”

Yoshida wrinkled his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug and pulled a chair from a nearby four-top. He settled into the chair, offering an apologetic smile to Maria as she approached. “I heard something about a weekly turkey dinner?”

“Like Thanksgiving, but without the family drama,” Maria said, looking around the booth. “Scratch that—with the family drama is also available.”

“Then I’ll have the turkey without the drama, please.” Yoshida glanced around the table. “I’m not interrupting anything sensitive, I hope?”

Cole shook his head. “Not the case. We’re discussing Izzy’s campaign.”

“Or lack thereof,” Izzy said. The thought of yard signs and slogans made her stomach clench.

Yoshida accepted a glass of iced tea from Maria. “Must be strange, running for election. I always wondered about that aspect of law enforcement. Not sure I like the idea.”

“It has advantages and disadvantages,” Izzy said. “The sheriff answers directly to the people, not a political appointee. But . . .” She traced a water ring on the table. “I didn’t become a cop to glad-hand voters or make campaign speeches.”

“Then don’t.” Yoshida’s response was immediate. “People can smell BS a mile away. Just do your job.”

The simplicity of his words cut through the tangle of campaign strategies in Izzy’s mind. Before she could respond, Tamara slid out of the booth.

“Let me help, Mom.” She hurried to the counter where Maria was balancing plates of steaming turkey and potatoes.

Together, mother and daughter distributed five plates piled high with sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing, all swimming in rich brown gravy. Steam rose from the plates, carrying the scent of sage and thyme.

“Extra gravy for you, Joe,” Maria said, setting down a small pitcher. “Just how you like it.”

Joe sniffed the meal with a theatrical flair. “Mmm, mmm. Thank you, Maria.” Joe took a bite of the turkey with gravy and chewed with his eyes closed, then he waved toward the kitchen. “It gets better every time, Jaime.”

Tam’s father nodded with a broad smile from his domain behind the service counter, then turned to focus on the next order.

Izzy pushed her mashed potatoes around her plate, considering Yoshida’s straightforward advice about the campaign. His practical approach surprised her, especially given what he must have heard about her FBI career imploding.

“I would have thought my history with the Bureau would make you more . . . cautious,” she said.

Yoshida cut into his turkey, steam rising from the meat. “I did my own checks. Spoke to some people who worked with you in Baltimore. People I trust.” He met her eyes. “They spoke highly of you. That tells me more than rumors.”

The simple validation caught Izzy off guard. She’d grown so used to defending herself, to seeing suspicion in other agents’ eyes, that his matter-of-fact acceptance felt almost foreign.

“Same applies to being sheriff,” Yoshida continued, reaching for the gravy. “Don’t deal in rumor. Do your job and do it well. The rest takes care of itself.”

Joe’s wrinkled hand settled on the table next to his plate. “The man talks sense, Izar.”

Tamara nodded eagerly. “He’s right. We don’t need fancy slogans. Just show people who you really are.”

“And that you get them,” said Cole. “This place is part of you. Show them that.”

Izzy sighed. Since taking the sheriff’s position, she’d been trying to fit herself into what she thought the town wanted—following in her father’s footsteps while carrying the weight of her FBI past. But maybe the answer was simpler than that.

“Though I wouldn’t say no to a few yard signs,” Tamara added with a grin. “What about this: instead of those boring professional signs, what if we do a letter drop inviting families to come into the campaign headquarters and hand-paint a sign for themselves? Get the kids involved.”

Izzy frowned. “Campaign headquarters?”

Tam beamed. “The old video rental place hasn’t had a tenant in a decade. I’m sure we could lease it for next to nothing.”

Izzy rolled her eyes, but her smile felt genuine. For the first time since the special election was announced, she felt like she could breathe.

The conversation lulled as they ate, but Izzy noticed Yoshida studying Cole between bites. The FBI agent set his fork down and leaned back. “Dr. Barrow, what’s your take on this Captain Raven? If he did kill Marisol, wouldn’t he be long gone by now? Maybe overseas, hiding out in the Middle East?”

Izzy dabbed her napkin on her lips. “His employer claims he isn’t deployed right now.”

Yoshida’s eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t know we had that information.”

“Just learned it today. The details will be in the file by morning.”

“So where might he go? Back home?”

Izzy pushed her half-empty plate aside, choosing not to mention that she already had Raven’s Reno address. She trusted Yoshida, but Scacchi’s hostility made her cautious about sharing everything.

Cole set down his fork, his expression darkening. “Raven is a mission-driven guy. I don’t think he’s gone anywhere.”

“The woman is dead.” Yoshida wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair. “Mission complete, isn’t it?”

“No,” Cole said. “If Mari was the whole mission, he could have killed her near her home. But he set her up, brought her all the way here.” Cole glanced at Izzy. “Why? To frame me for murder. And that hasn’t worked yet.”

The café’s warmth seemed to drain away as Cole continued. “Raven’s mountain infantry. He can live hard. Probably prefers it. He’ll stay until I’m dealt with—arrested or worse.”

Joe grunted his displeasure. Tamara’s earlier enthusiasm had completely evaporated, her face pale as she processed Cole’s words.

“And that means no one around me is safe.” Cole’s gaze swept the table, lingering on Izzy.

Yoshida absorbed this analysis in silence, his expression thoughtful. “You’re saying he won’t stop until the objective is complete?”

“That’s how he operates,” Cole said. “In Afghanistan, he’d spend weeks planning operations, mapping every contingency. This isn’t impulse—it’s calculated.”

Izzy felt the shift around the table as Cole’s words sank in. This wasn’t just about solving Mari’s murder anymore. They were dealing with a trained killer who might be watching them right now, waiting to strike.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The morning sun blazed across the windshield of Elliot’s patrol SUV, forcing Izzy to adjust the visor every few minutes as they wound their way along the highway that followed the eastern face of the Sierra Nevada. The mountains loomed to their left, still capped with snow.

Elliot handled the curves with ease, keeping the SUV steady as they climbed and descended through the remote passes. Izzy stared out the window, not consciously thinking about the case but knowing her subconscious was busy connecting dots.

“You ever been to Reno, boss?” Elliot asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

“A few times.” Izzy watched a cluster of wild horses grazing in the distance, their shapes wavering in the morning shimmer despite the cool air. “But never as a sheriff.”

They bypassed the turnoff for Lake Tahoe, avoiding the crush of tourist traffic that would be building even at this early hour. Instead, they cut east into Nevada, where the landscape opened up into vast expanses.

The long drive gave Izzy time to think, something she’d been avoiding lately. The case had taken so many turns—from a body in the mountains to Cole’s connection to Mari, and now this lead on Raven. She pulled out her phone, scrolling to find the number for Reno PD that Jenny had prepared.

The dispatch connected her to Detective Sergeant Ashcroft. His voice carried the measured tone of a veteran investigator.

“Detective Sergeant Ashcroft.”

“Detective, this is Sheriff Llewellyn from Mirage County. We’re heading your way to interview a person of interest in a homicide case.”

“Mirage County—this about the body found in the mountains?”

“Yes, sir. We have reason to believe a suspect lives in your jurisdiction. John Jay Raven. Former army captain.”

She heard keyboard clicks in the background. “Let me check our system. . . No current cases with that name. You said he’s a suspect?”

“Let’s say person of interest for now. We’d appreciate your assistance when we speak with him.”

“Of course. What’s your ETA?”

Izzy glanced at the GPS. “About two hours if traffic holds.”

“Text me when you’re thirty minutes out.”

Izzy ended the call, watching the endless ribbon of highway stretching ahead. The contrast between the mountain shadows and the bright desert beyond seemed to mirror the case itself—sharp lines between light and dark, with deep shadows where anything could hide.

As they rolled into Reno, the casinos’ neon signs struggled against the harsh midday sun, their desperate flashing reduced to dim flickers above the cracked pavement. Wahlberg pulled into a venue that Ashcroft had suggested. Izzy stepped out of the patrol SUV into the mild urban air, scanning the nearly empty parking lot and noting the constant hum of traffic from Virginia Street. Paint lines had faded to ghostly suggestions on the weathered asphalt, matching the tired facade of the casino rising behind them.

A dusty SUV pulled up beside them, and a man emerged with the labored movements of someone who’d spent too many hours behind a desk. His practical navy suit showed wear at the elbows, and his salt-and-pepper hair needed a trim, but his hazel eyes carried the sharp awareness Izzy recognized.

“Sheriff Llewellyn?” He extended his hand. “Daryl Ashcroft. Welcome to the biggest little city.”

“Thank you for meeting us.” Izzy shook his hand, then gestured to her deputy. “This is Deputy Wahlberg.”

Ashcroft nodded to Elliot. “Let’s take my car. Easier to blend in where we’re headed.”

As they settled into the SUV, Ashcroft pulled up a map on his phone. “Your guy bought in Sierra Vista about eighteen months ago. New development out on the edge of town.”

The SUV wound through Reno’s sprawl, past tired strip malls and budget motels until the city dissolved into fresh construction. Sierra Vista rose from the desert like a planned community fever dream—identical stucco homes in carefully regulated earth tones, their sharp angles softened only by precise arrangements of decorative rock and drought-resistant plants. Wide, unmarked streets curved between houses distinguished mainly by their house numbers. Three-car garages dominated the facades, leaving minimal space for windows. What few trees existed were newly planted saplings, offering no protection from the relentless sun.

“Neighborhood’s about sixty percent occupied,” Ashcroft said, turning onto a street labeled Desert Sage Drive in crisp, new lettering. “Mostly young families and some retirees from California.” Ashcroft glanced at Izzy. “How do you want to play this?”

“Direct approach,” Izzy said. “He’s former military. He’ll spot extended surveillance in a heartbeat.”

“And if he runs?”

“We let him run.” Izzy turned to Elliot in the backseat. “Unless we can stop him by non-lethal means. I don’t want to be discharging a weapon out of our jurisdiction.”

“Roger that,” said Ashcroft.

Number 384 sat back from the street. A cinderblock ranch stuccoed a warm terracotta. Desert landscaping filled the front yard—carefully arranged rocks surrounding drought-resistant plants and cacti. Someone had created an artful arrangement of agave and barrel cactus near the driveway, their shapes complementing rather than competing.

Izzy studied the house through Ashcroft’s windshield. No lights visible through the windows. No movement inside. The detective had parked three houses down, giving them a clear view while maintaining distance.

“What’s he driving?” Izzy asked.

“DMV shows a black Ram registered to the address.” Ashcroft checked his notes. “Crew cab. Might be in the garage.”

The neighborhood stretched silent around them, most residents at work or school. A few houses showed signs of life—cars in driveways, children’s toys scattered across lawns. But 384 appeared frozen in time, pristine yet lifeless.

“I can do a door knock,” Ashcroft offered.

Izzy nodded. “You want backup?”

“Let’s keep the uniforms in the car for now. But keep your eyes open.”

“Will do.”

The detective walked up the concrete path, his measured stride that of someone who’d done this thousands of times. He knocked, waited, knocked again. After a minute, he circled to peer through a side window before returning to the SUV via the mailbox.

“No answer,” he said, settling back behind the wheel. “Blinds are drawn. There’s mail, but not a heap. Maybe a week’s worth.”

Izzy scanned the property again. The xeriscaping showed recent maintenance—no stray weeds or dead plants. “If you’re away for a month, you get USPS to hold your mail. For a week, maybe not.”

“Someone’s keeping the yard maintained,” Elliot noted from the back seat.

“It’s low-maintenance, anyway, but he could have a service,” Ashcroft said. “Most houses here do. Keeps the homeowners association happy.”

The garage door gleamed with fresh paint, its seams tight against the concrete. No oil stains marked the driveway. Everything about the property spoke of precision and order—a military man’s attention to detail taken to an extreme.

Izzy nodded to Ashcroft. “Let’s try next door.”

They crossed the same xeriscape yard to 382, where a basketball hoop hung over the driveway and colorful chalk drawings decorated the concrete. A tricycle lay on its side near the garage.

Ashcroft knocked on the door.

After a moment, a man in his late thirties appeared, wearing cargo shorts and a faded University of Nevada T-shirt. His eyes darted between the three of them but lingered on Izzy’s uniform. “Can I help you?”

Ashcroft held up his badge. “Detective Ashcroft, Reno PD. This is Sheriff Llewellyn and Deputy Wahlberg from California. We’re looking into your neighbor, John Jay Raven. Do you know him?”

The man shifted his weight. “JJ? Yeah, to say hi. He’s military or something like that.” He glanced at the house next door.

“And you are?”

“I’m Tom Morris.”

“Mind if we ask you a few questions?” Izzy kept her voice casual.

“Sure, come in.” Morris stepped back, revealing a living room scattered with toys. He cleared space on the sofa. “Sorry about the mess. Kids, you know?”

They settled into the living room. Morris perched on the edge of an armchair.

“You want iced tea or something?” Morris asked.

“We’re good, thanks. How long have you lived here?” Izzy asked.

“Almost two years. JJ moved in maybe six months after us.”

“What can you tell us about him?” asked Ashcroft.

Morris chose his words carefully. “Like I say, military. He’s gone a lot. Maybe half the time. One of those really serious types—takes everything to heart. I suppose you have to be in the army, right? Not an easy job.”

Izzy heard Wahlberg’s pen scratching on his notepad as she spoke. “Does he have family? Visitors?”

“No wife that I’ve seen. Definitely no kids. No visitors either.” Morris shook his head. “But if you’re looking for him, he’s on deployment.”

Izzy leaned forward. “How do you know that?”

“Well, he must be. Haven’t seen him around.”

“Do you look after his place while he’s gone?” asked Ashcroft.

“Oh no.” Morris’s eyes widened. “JJ doesn’t like people on his property. Made that pretty clear when he moved in.”

Izzy frowned. “So, how do you know he’s away?”

Morris glanced toward his backyard. “When he’s home, you can’t miss it. He’s got this whole gym set up in his backyard. He’s at it all hours, lunchtime or midnight. Even in summer when it’s a hundred degrees, or the middle of winter, he’s out there working out. We try to enjoy our pool with the kids, but all we hear is weights clanging and banging.” He gestured toward the garage. “He could put it inside like everyone else, but no. Has to be outside.”

“Have you talked to him about the noise?” she asked.

Morris’s laugh held no humor. “Like I said, he takes everything pretty seriously. And he’s a big guy. Not exactly . . .” He trailed off, but his meaning was clear—Morris feared confrontation with his neighbor.

“When was the last time you heard him working out?”

Morris thought for a moment. “Not in a couple weeks, I suppose.”

Izzy looked to Ashcroft, who thanked Morris for his time. Wahlberg closed his notebook, and they all stood. The man walked them out and stood in the doorway as they returned to Ashcroft’s car. Izzy watched Sierra Vista recede in the side mirror as Ashcroft guided them back toward the city center. The pristine neighborhood felt like a stage set—all facade with nothing genuine behind it.

“Looks like you wasted a trip,” Ashcroft said, merging onto the highway. “Next time, maybe call ahead?”

“Not a waste.” Izzy shifted in her seat, considering how to explain. “His employer confirmed he’s not deployed right now. He’s supposed to be home.”

Ashcroft’s eyebrows lifted. “So where is he?”

“That’s the question.” Izzy stared at the mountains rising beyond the city limits. The same range that stretched all the way to Darkness, providing endless places for someone with mountain infantry training to hide.

The implications churned inside her. If Raven wasn’t overseas and wasn’t at home, he had to be somewhere. And given Cole’s warning about the man’s mission-driven nature, that somewhere was likely much closer to Darkness than Reno.

“You think he’s in the wind?” Ashcroft asked.

Izzy watched a hawk circle overhead, riding the thermals. Like Raven, it was a predator that knew its territory. “No,” she said. “I think he’s exactly where he wants to be.”

“Where’s that?”

The loaded question hung in the air between them. Izzy didn’t answer, but her mind was already racing through the implications of a trained mountain warfare expert loose in her county with a score to settle.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cole finished wrapping Mrs. Hall’s sprained wrist, securing the bandage with a clip. “Ice it for twenty minutes, four times a day. And no more climbing ladders to clean gutters.”

“But who else will do it?” The elderly woman’s chin jutted out.

“I’ll send someone.”

A soft knock preceded Serena’s entrance. She hovered in the doorway, tablet in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Barrow.”

Cole helped Mrs. Hall down from the exam table. “We’re just finishing up. What’s going on?”

“Mr. Rossetti called from their farm. Bad connection, but they’ve had a small fire. It’s out, but he said he suffered burns on his arms.”

“Burns? How serious?”

“He says minor, but you know how he downplays everything.” Serena’s fingers moved across the tablet. “Your last appointment is at two. I told him you could be out there by four.”

Cole walked Mrs. Hall to the front desk while considering the situation. The Rossetti farm sat deep in the valley where cell service barely reached. Cole usually flew his chopper out there, but his hangar was a crime scene, and any burn serious enough to make the stoic farmer call needed proper evaluation.

Cole walked Mrs. Hall out to the reception. “He should go to Harris Regional,” he said to Serena, watching his patient shuffle toward the exit.

“I suggested that.” Serena’s expression told him how well that recommendation had been received. “Their truck’s having brake problems, so he can’t drive in. He said, and I quote, ‘Just need the doc to take a look, nothing fancy.’”

Cole rubbed his neck. The hospital had better facilities for burn treatment, but he knew these farmers. Their independence ran bone-deep. Push too hard, and they’d avoid medical care entirely.

“Did he say what caused the fire?” he asked.

“No.” Serena adjusted her chair, pulling up the Rossetti family records. “What do you think?”

Cole sighed. He had better things to do than drive for two hours. “Tell them I’ll come out this afternoon.”

“Already did.” Serena’s smile carried a hint of pride.

Cole returned to the exam room, his mind already mapping the dusty roads to the Rossetti farm. These house calls ate into his schedule, but they were part of the bargain he’d made with himself when choosing Darkness. Here, being a doctor meant meeting people where they were—sometimes literally.

After finishing up with his last patient of the day, Cole went out to his truck. The sheriff’s office had run a black light over the interior and fingerprint dust still cover the door handles, but they had found nothing but Cole and Izzy’s prints and Nanook’s fur.

He collected his medical backpack from the backseat and took it back into the clinic, where he did a final inventory check. The supplies brought back memories of field medic kits in Afghanistan. He’d added extra burn dressings, sterile gauze, and antiseptic solutions, arranging them in separate compartments the way he’d learned in combat medicine.

He double-checked the specialized burn care items. Silver sulfadiazine cream, non-adherent dressings, sterile saline for cleaning. His fingers traced each item, marking their locations by touch, a habit from nights treating casualties by headlamp.

Serena appeared in the doorway.

“I’m heading out.” Cole hefted the pack onto his shoulder. “Hold down the fort.”

“I got it. Drive safe.” She smiled, already turning back to her desk.

The drive home took minutes, Nanook leaping up on him as he opened the door to the mudroom. The malamute’s tail wagged at the prospect of an adventure, even as Cole’s thoughts drifted to Undersheriff Hawkins’ demand for Cole to report his movements. His hand hovered over the pocket holding his cell phone. The undersheriff would love nothing more than to track Cole’s every move, using the investigation as an excuse to flex his temporary authority.

Cole left the phone in his pocket without calling. He was doing his job, not running for the hills. He grabbed a ball cap from a hook, pulled it on, and walked out.

Nanook leapt into the back seat, settling into his usual spot as Cole stowed the medical gear. The truck’s engine rumbled to life, tires crunching as they pulled away from the cabin.

The spring desert stretched endless before them, sagebrush dotting the valley floor while snow still capped distant peaks. Cole thought about calling Izzy, wanting to hear her voice, to know she was safe. But he knew better. Cell service died less than ten miles out of town. The valley was a web of dead zones between remote communities, places where profit margins didn’t justify infrastructure investment.

Nanook’s head appeared between the seats, seeking attention. Cole scratched behind the dog’s ears, smiling as they bounced along the washboard dirt road. Just vast empty miles where help could be hours away.

The truck jolted over another washout, suspension creaking. Cole picked his line between deeper ruts carved by winter rains. Nanook swayed with the motion, completely at ease. They’d done this dance countless times, man and dog traversing the back roads of Mirage County. Cole cracked Nanook’s window, letting in the dry desert air as they pressed deeper into the valley’s remoteness.

Cole was about halfway to the Rossetti farm when the truck’s engine died with a sharp bang that echoed around the cabin. Cole coasted to a stop, the steering heavy in his hands. He hit the start button but got nothing in response.

“Perfect.” He popped the hood release and climbed out into the late afternoon sun. Nanook followed, stretching his legs and marking territory.

Cole propped open the hood, scanning the maze of sealed components and plastic covers that defined modern engines. Gone were the days when a driver could diagnose problems by sound and sight alone. Now everything ran through computers and sensors, requiring specialized diagnostic equipment to even begin troubleshooting.

He checked the obvious points—battery connections, visible wires, fluid levels. Nothing stood out. The engine wasn’t overheated, no smoke or burning smell. Just dead.

Back in the cab, Cole tried the ignition again. Nothing. He pulled out his phone, already knowing what he’d see. No bars. No data. No help.

The sun hung well above the western mountains, the spring air crisp but not cold. Cole assessed his situation. He was roughly twelve miles from town. The Rossetti farm lay another fifteen miles ahead. Walking back would take three to four hours at a steady pace.

He opened the center console, retrieving his backup water bottle. Combined with the one in his medical pack, he had about two liters. More than enough for a few hours’ walk, even sharing with Nanook.

The malamute paced near the truck, tail wagging. To him, this was just another adventure. Cole envied the dog’s simple enthusiasm.

“Looks like we’re hoofing it, buddy.”

Cole shouldered his medical pack, settling the weight against his back, then adjusted his ball cap. He’d have to call the hospital once he got back into cell range, see if they could send someone out to the Rossettis’.

Cole established a steady walking rhythm. Nanook trotted ahead, nose working the desert air. The dog seemed to grin back at Cole, completely unbothered by their predicament.

“Some help we are,” Cole muttered. Here he was, headed out to treat burns, and now he’d need someone to rescue his truck. The irony wasn’t lost on him. At least the weather was cooperative. A few months earlier or later, and this would be a dangerous situation instead of merely an inconvenience.

As he settled into the walk, his frustration gave way to a peace in the majestic solitude. This was one of the reasons he had taken to the area so readily, and it was something that he had lost focus on in the past months. There were reasons for that. Good reasons. But he was glad for the reminder.

The sun tracked west as man and dog made their way back toward town, two tiny figures in the vast emptiness of Mirage County.

Chapter Thirty

Izzy and Wahlberg rode in comfortable silence, both drained from eight hours of driving. The spring evening had turned mild, and the streetlights had come on along the highway through town.

“That neighbor was interesting,” Wahlberg said. “The way he described Raven.”

“People who work out in their backyard at midnight aren’t usually well-adjusted.” Izzy tried Cole’s number again. Straight to voicemail.

“Think he’s really deployed?”

“No. His company confirmed he’s stateside.” Izzy lowered her window, letting the cool air wash over her face. “But where he actually is? That’s what worries me.” She glanced out at the homes and stores of Darkness, wondering if Raven was watching.

They pulled into the sheriff’s office motor pool as the sun dipped behind the mountains. The lot sat empty except for a couple of patrol vehicles, the day shift already cleared out.

“I’ll go fuel up,” Wahlberg said. “Need anything else?”

Izzy shook her head, gathering her notes and phone. “I’m good. Thanks for splitting that drive with me.”

Inside, the lobby was quiet. Jenny stood by the front desk, pulling on her jacket as Izzy entered.

“How was Reno?” Jenny asked.

“Long drive for an empty house.” Izzy leaned against the counter, wondering if Elliot felt as drained as she did. “Say, who cooks at home when you both pull a long shift?”

“We meal prep on Sundays. Makes the work week easier.”

“Smart. You two do that together?”

“Yeah. Elliot’s actually pretty good at it. Though he mostly handles the grilling part.” Jenny smiled. “What about you and Cole?”

“It’s a lot more impromptu. There’s a fair bit of Ramos cooking involved.” Izzy returned the smile. “Enjoy your leftovers.”

“Actually, I’m out tonight. Meeting Serena for drinks.”

“Poor Elliot’s all alone.”

“I think he’ll be okay.” Jenny waved goodbye as Izzy headed deeper into the building.

The squad room sat empty, computer screens dark. Wahlberg appeared in the doorway a few minutes later.

“All fueled up. Heading home?” he asked.

“Soon. What’s for dinner with Jenny out?”

“Probably grab takeout. The A’s are playing the Angels—don’t want to miss first pitch.” He shrugged. “You?”

“Haven’t decided.” Izzy glanced at her silent phone again.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.” Wahlberg waved.

“Enjoy the game.”

As she turned toward the stairs, she ran into Thompson as he ambled out from the break room sipping coffee from his World’s Okayest Deputy mug.

“Night shift?” Izzy asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Anything happening?”

Thompson shook his head. “Quiet afternoon. Couple of noise complaints, one domestic that resolved itself before Wilson got there.”

“Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. Wahlberg says the A’s are playing.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Deputy.” Izzy climbed the stairs to her office, the effort drawing a yawn from her.

The LED lights clicked on as she entered, illuminating the modern space that still felt more like a magazine spread than her actual office. She dropped into her chair and let out a long, loud sigh.

The thought of cooking made her want to crawl under her desk. Maybe she needed to get organized like Jenny and Elliot with their meal prep Sundays, but Joe would probably stare at containers of pre-portioned food like they were alien artifacts. The old shepherd preferred his meals fresh and simple, or microwaved beyond recognition. There was no in-between with him.

She smiled, picturing Joe’s face if she tried to serve him quinoa bowls or whatever trendy meal prep influencers pushed these days. He’d sooner eat his boots. Still, she needed to do better than takeout and frozen dinners. Joe deserved proper meals, even if he claimed not to care.

Izzy spent a half hour writing up a report on the Raven visit for the case file. She was rubbing the bridge of her nose when movement in her doorway drew her attention. Scacchi stood there, wriggling into her jacket.

“Heading out for the day,” Scacchi said. “You’ve been gone most of it. Any particular reason?”

“Following up on some leads.” Izzy kept her voice neutral. “Nothing earth-shattering. I’ll update everyone in the morning.”

Scacchi’s eyes narrowed. “Looking forward to it.”

The desk phone buzzed. Thompson’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Sheriff? I’ve got Jenny Wahlberg on the line. Says it’s urgent.”

Izzy watched Scacchi’s expression shift from skepticism to sharp interest.

Izzy hit the speaker button as Scacchi lingered in the doorway. “Jenny?”

“I was supposed to meet Serena at the Horseshoe.” Jenny’s voice carried a tremor that made Izzy’s spine stiffen. “She never showed up.”

“Maybe she’s late?”

“I waited half an hour, tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. So I drove over to the clinic to check on her.”

Izzy caught Scacchi stepping fully into the office, her earlier departure forgotten.

“Her car’s still in the lot,” Jenny continued. “The back door was standing open when I got here. I cleared the building, but there’s no one inside. No sign of struggle, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Her purse is on her desk. Keys, phone, everything’s still here.”

Scacchi moved closer to the desk. “Another woman connected to Dr. Barrow disappears. What a coincidence.”

“Special Agent—” Izzy started.

“First his assault victim from Afghanistan shows up dead, now his employee vanishes?” Scacchi’s voice dripped with accusation. “Have you looked into his relationship with his receptionist? Maybe she rejected his advances too.”

“That’s enough.” Izzy kept her voice level despite the anger coiling inside. “Jenny, secure the scene. I’m on my way.” She killed the speaker and stood, gathering her jacket. “If you’re implying Dr. Barrow assaulted his employee⁠—”

“I’m implying nothing. I’m stating facts. Two women, both connected to him, both⁠—”

“Both nothing.” Izzy rounded her desk. “You don’t have a single piece of evidence linking him to either incident.”

“Because you’re refusing to see what’s right in front of you.” Scacchi blocked the doorway. “I told you. Your judgment is compromised.”

“My judgment tells me you’re trying to force facts to fit your theory.” Izzy stepped closer. “Now, I need to go.”

Scacchi held her ground for a moment before moving out of the way. “I’m coming.”

“You do that.” Izzy strode past her. “Just remember whose jurisdiction this is.”

Scacchi rushed to the conference room to get Yoshida. Izzy didn’t slow down. She rushed down the stairs two at a time and then strode through the darkened parking lot, key fob already in hand.

The drive to Cole’s clinic took minutes, her SUV’s headlights cutting through the evening shadows. In her rearview mirror, the FBI sedan followed close behind. Two vehicles sat in the clinic’s rear lot—Jenny’s Honda Civic and Serena’s Mazda 3.

Inside, Jenny hunched over the reception computer, the screen’s glow lighting her face. She glanced up as they entered. “Got the security footage pulled up. Password still worked from back when I covered a few shifts for her.”

Izzy moved behind the desk while Scacchi and Yoshida crowded around. The video showed the parking lot, empty but for Serena’s car, timestamp marking 5:47 p.m. A black Ram pickup rolled into view.

“Can you zoom in?” Yoshida asked.

Jenny adjusted the view. A figure in a tan jacket and blue baseball cap emerged from the driver’s side, head tilted down.

“Is that Cole?” Jenny asked, squinting at the grainy footage.

“Can’t tell,” Yoshida said. “Face is hidden.”

Scacchi glanced at Izzy. “Is he a Dodgers fan?”

“No.” Izzy didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “Cubs.”

The video continued. Minutes later, the man reappeared with Serena. Her movements were stiff, almost robotic as she walked to the truck.

“She’s being controlled somehow,” Izzy said, noting how Serena’s usual fluid grace was absent.

They watched as Serena climbed into the driver’s seat. The man in the cap got into the back, and the truck pulled away.

“Go back,” Scacchi ordered. “Before they exit.”

Jenny rewound the footage.

Scacchi pointed at the screen. “Pause there.”

The man’s face remained hidden, but the red “C” on his cap stood out clearly.

“That’s a Chicago Cubs cap,” Scacchi said, her voice sharp with accusation.

“Get the plate number,” Yoshida said.

Jenny forwarded to the truck’s departure. Izzy’s stomach dropped as the numbers came into focus. Scacchi grabbed a notepad from the desk and began scribbling the plate down.

“Don’t bother,” Izzy said. “It’s Cole’s plate.”

Scacchi spun toward her. “You still going to defend him?” She pulled out her phone. “And look at this—his phone’s gone dark.”

“You’re tracking his phone?” Izzy’s jaw clenched. “That’s illegal without⁠—”

“We got a warrant.” Scacchi’s smile held no warmth. “The evidence is piling up, Sheriff. We need to find him.”

Izzy forced herself to breathe, fighting back the urge to grab Scacchi by her pristine lapels. “Let’s check his cabin.”

“Finally seeing reason?” Scacchi asked.

Izzy didn’t respond, already heading for the door. Her mind raced through possibilities, none of them good. The evidence looked damning, but something felt wrong. Cole wouldn’t be this sloppy.

Unless that was exactly what someone wanted them to think.

Chapter Thirty-One

The stars pierced through the desert darkness, scattered across the vast sky like broken glass. Izzy gripped the steering wheel, her headlights cutting through the night as she drove along the empty highway. In her rearview mirror, the FBI sedan’s lights tracked her movement.

The turnoff to Cole’s cabin lay ahead. Izzy’s stomach churned at the thought of searching his home. She’d been there countless times, shared meals and laughter, found peace in his presence. Now she’d have to watch Scacchi tear through his belongings, hunting for evidence that didn’t exist.

The cool night air seeped through a crack in her window. Spring evenings in the high desert always carried that bite, a reminder that winter hadn’t fully released its grip.

Movement caught her eye at the edge of her headlights’ reach. A figure walked along the shoulder, hunched over and hands in pockets. Izzy leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. The silhouette grew clearer as she approached—a tall man in a familiar Cubs cap.

Cole.

Beside him, Nanook plodded along, head hanging low, tongue lolling. The big malamute’s usual bouncing energy had been replaced by exhausted steps. Both man and dog were coated in a fine layer of desert dust, their shadows stretching long across the asphalt in her headlights.

Izzy slammed her brakes and yanked the wheel, bringing her SUV to an angled stop. The emergency lights cast alternating red and blue shadows across Cole’s dust-covered form. Behind her, the FBI sedan’s headlights flooded the scene with harsh white light.

She called as she got out, “Cole?”

Nanook’s tail gave a half-hearted wag of recognition.

Cole stopped walking, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. “Hey.” His voice came out rough, parched from the long trek.

“What happened? Why are you out here?” Izzy fought to keep her voice neutral, aware of Scacchi and Yoshida emerging from their vehicle.

“Got a call from the Rossetti farm.” Cole shifted his shoulders to adjust the weight of his backpack. “Mr. Rossetti burned himself, needed me to come check it out.” He gestured vaguely eastward. “About three hours ago, my truck’s electrical system just died. Bang, complete shutdown. Couldn’t even get the hazards to work.”

Nanook pressed against Izzy’s leg, seeking attention despite his obvious exhaustion. She scratched behind his ears.

“You’ve been walking this whole time?”

“No cell service out there.” Cole wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

“Where exactly is your truck?”

“About twelve miles east. Middle of nowhere.” Cole’s eyes flickered to the FBI agents approaching. “Nanook’s done better than me, but we’re both ready to call it a day.”

The malamute’s ears perked up at his name, but he dropped his head just as quickly.

Scacchi stormed up from her vehicle. Her hand hovered near her weapon. “Sheriff, arrest him. Now.”

Nanook’s hackles rose, a low growl rumbling from him. Cole placed a steadying hand on the dog’s collar.

“For what?” Izzy kept her voice level. “Walking his dog?”

“You damn well know what for.” Scacchi turned on Cole. “Where is she?”

Cole glanced at Izzy. “Where’s who?”

“Don’t play coy,” spat Scacchi. “What are you doing out here, Doctor?”

“My truck’s electrical system died.” Cole’s expression hardened.

“Why didn’t you call for help?” Izzy asked.

“I told you. No service out there.” Cole pulled his phone from his pocket, screen dark. “Still don’t have any.”

“That’s impossible. I just called you five minutes ago.” Izzy reached for her own phone, frowning at the display. No bars. No service.

Scacchi snatched her own phone from her jacket. Her face fell as she stared at the screen. “What the hell?”

Yoshida remained by the FBI sedan, watching the scene unfold. He checked his phone and held it up, shaking his head. “Nothing here either.”

Izzy spun in a slow circle, taking in their surroundings. They stood on the main highway through town, surrounded by streetlights and buildings. The sheriff’s office lay just three blocks away.

“This makes no sense.” Izzy held her phone higher. “We always have coverage here. Even during storms.”

Yoshida walked closer. “This isn’t a coincidence.”

“He planned it.” Scacchi jabbed a finger toward Cole.

“What are you talking about?” Cole’s voice carried an edge of exhaustion and frustration.

Nanook’s growl deepened as Scacchi stepped closer. The malamute’s usual friendly demeanor had vanished, replaced by rigid alertness.

“Easy, boy.” Cole tightened his grip on the collar.

Izzy moved between Scacchi and Cole. “Think about this logically. Why would he walk back into town if he was guilty? Why not just disappear into the desert?”

“Because his plan failed.” Scacchi’s hand now rested openly on her weapon. “He needed to establish an alibi.”

Cole threw his hands in the air. “An alibi for what?”

“Serena’s missing.” Izzy studied Cole’s face in the harsh emergency lights, looking for any flicker of deception. Her years in the FBI had taught her to read expressions, those tiny betrayals of emotion that most people couldn’t control.

“What do you mean, Serena’s missing?” Cole’s voice cracked.

“She was supposed to meet Jenny for drinks after work.” Izzy’s tone remained professional. “When Jenny went to check the clinic, she found Serena’s car, but no Serena.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Cole ran a hand through his dust-covered hair. “She was fine when I left this afternoon.”

Scacchi stepped forward. “Security footage shows a man in a Cubs cap—just like yours—forcing her into a black Ram pickup. With your license plate.”

The color drained from Cole’s face. His eyes widened, pupils dilating with genuine shock. Izzy had interrogated enough suspects to recognize authentic surprise when she saw it.

“My truck?” Cole’s voice dropped to a whisper. He looked down at Nanook, then back at Izzy. “Someone’s using my truck to . . .” His words trailed off as understanding dawned.

“We need to take you in.” Scacchi moved closer, hand still on her weapon. “Your truck needs to be processed for evidence.”

“My truck’s dead in the middle of nowhere.” Cole gestured out toward the valley. “I’ve been walking for hours with my dog. How could I have taken Serena?”

“We have you on video,” Scacchi snapped.

Izzy watched Cole process this information. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then relaxed—a gesture of frustration rather than aggression.

“Someone’s copying me.” Cole’s eyes met Izzy’s. “First Mari in my hangar, now this? They’re trying to make it look like I’m⁠—”

“Save it for the interrogation,” Scacchi cut him off. “Sheriff, are you going to arrest him, or do I need to call for backup?”

Nanook growled again, pressing against Cole’s leg.

Noticing the sudden absence of Yoshida’s calm presence, she glanced around, spotting him halfway down the block, phone held high in the air like a divining rod.

He walked back toward them, eyes on his phone screen. His deliberate pace cut through the tension. “Interesting. I’ve got three bars down there.” He gestured behind him. “But as I get closer. . .” He held up his phone, showing the no service indicator.

“That’s not possible.” Scacchi’s hand finally dropped from her weapon. “We had service all the way here.”

Yoshida turned to Cole. “May I see your medical bag?”

Cole’s fingers tightened on the strap. Izzy recognized more than the protective instinct of a doctor guarding his tools. He knew he was being set up, but it wasn’t by Yoshida.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Let him look.”

Cole slipped the backpack off and handed it to the FBI agent. Yoshida set it on the hood of Izzy’s SUV. He began removing items: stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, various medications in sealed containers, rolls of bandages.

“Standard kit,” Cole said. “Plus extra supplies for treating burns.”

Yoshida nodded, continuing his examination. His hands moved to a bottom compartment, and his eyebrows lifted. He reached in and withdrew a small black device roughly the size of a large cell phone.

“What’s that?” Cole leaned forward, squinting.

“Cell phone jammer.” Yoshida turned it over in his hands. “Definitely not standard medical equipment.”

Scacchi stepped closer. “Where did you get that?”

“I didn’t.” Cole’s voice carried equal parts exhaustion and dawning understanding. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Someone planted it in your bag,” Yoshida said. “That’s why you couldn’t call for help. Why none of us have service right here.”

“How would they know he was taking that bag with him?” asked Scacchi.

“Because it lives in my truck,” said Cole. “And he’s been watching. Closely.”

Izzy watched the shift in everyone’s posture. Scacchi’s aggressive stance softened. Cole’s shoulders slumped with relief. Even Nanook finally sat, his tail creating small puffs of dust in the emergency lights.

“This isn’t something you’d pick up at Radio Shack,” Yoshida continued. “This is serious equipment. Someone wanted to make sure you were stranded out there.”

“But his truck was on the video,” said Scacchi.

“My truck is out in the middle of the valley.” Cole ran a hand over his face. “At least it was.”

Scacchi crossed her arms. “We need to process this as evidence.”

“Agreed.” Yoshida set the device aside. “Along with the doctor’s truck, once we locate it.”

Nanook let out a long sigh and flopped onto his side, too tired to maintain even a sitting position.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Izzy stepped away from the group, moving just far enough that her voice wouldn’t carry. The night air had grown cooler, and she pulled her jacket closer as she hit Wahlberg’s contact on her phone.

He answered on the third ring. In the background, she heard the sound of a baseball game on TV.

“Wahlberg, I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.” She kept her voice low but firm. “Serena’s missing. Someone took her from the clinic in what looks like Cole’s truck.”

The TV sound cut off. “Is Jenny okay?”

“Yes, she’s the one who alerted us.”

“Thank God. What do you need, boss?”

“I need you to drive out to where we are on the highway. Get keys from Cole, then head to the clinic to help Jenny. She’s already there. Secure the scene and lock up when you’re done.” Izzy glanced back at the group. Scacchi was still eyeing Cole with suspicion while Yoshida examined the cell jammer. “Call Thompson at the duty desk. Get every available unit looking for a black Dodge Ram and Serena. And ask him to have Martinez meet me at Cole’s cabin.”

“On my way.” The sound of keys jingling came through the line.

Izzy ended the call and walked back to the others. Scacchi had moved closer to Cole’s medical bag, examining its contents with poorly concealed skepticism.

“I want to search your cabin,” Scacchi announced.

Cole shrugged. “Be my guest.”

Nanook, still sprawled in the dust, lifted his head and growled low in his throat at Scacchi. Izzy suppressed a smile. Smart dog.

Wahlberg’s personal truck appeared within minutes, cutting through the darkness. He stepped out wearing jeans and an A’s T-shirt, his badge clipped to his belt.

Cole retrieved his clinic keys, holding them out. “Front and back door. Jenny knows the security code.”

Wahlberg nodded, pocketing the keys.

“One more thing,” Izzy said. “Get hold of a tow service. Send them with a patrol car up toward the Rossetti place to find Cole’s truck. Have it taken to the motor pool and impounded.”

“Yes, boss.” Wahlberg climbed back into his car and pulled away, leaving them in the wash of emergency lights once again.

Once Wahlberg was away, the others got in their vehicles. Izzy drove Cole and Nanook with the special agents in their sedan, Scacchi at the wheel.

The drive to Cole’s cabin felt longer than usual, each mile stretching out in tense silence. Izzy’s headlights carved through the darkness, illuminating the few turns of the mountain road. In her rearview mirror, the FBI sedan’s lights followed close behind.

Cole sat quietly in the passenger seat, his usual easy manner replaced by something more guarded. Nanook sprawled across the back seat, his fur still coated in trail dust. The malamute’s eyes remained fixed on Cole, as if sensing his master’s unease.

The cabin emerged from the darkness, its weathered cedar siding catching the glow of their headlights. A Mirage County patrol SUV sat in front of the house. Izzy pulled into the gravel driveway, positioning her SUV to keep the scene illuminated. The FBI sedan rolled to a stop behind them, the sound of doors opening and closing echoing across the quiet property.

Cole stepped out first, keys already in hand. “You’re welcome to search anywhere you’d like.” His voice carried that steady calm that Izzy had come to know so well. He led them to the front door rather than the mudroom.

Martinez got out of the waiting SUV as Scacchi strode past him without acknowledgment. He nodded to Izzy.

“You were quick,” she said.

“I was on this side of town. What’s up?”

“FBI is doing a search of Dr. Barrow’s home. I want you to keep an eye on everything she does. You got me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cole opened the door, and Scacchi pushed past him into the house. Nanook padded after her, his hackles raised again. Izzy couldn’t help but appreciate how the big dog maintained a careful distance—close enough to watch but far enough to avoid Scacchi’s wrath. Martinez stepped past Cole and followed Scacchi inside. As Izzy reached the porch, she heard the special agent.

“Kitchen’s clear,” Scacchi called out, moving through the house.

Cole leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed. Yoshida stood nearby, observing more than searching.

Izzy gestured for them to move in out of the cold. “We can wait in the kitchen.”

“Agent Scacchi.” Cole’s voice carried as he walked down the hall. “The chest in the bedroom—careful with the lid. It’s heavy oak.”

A loud bang followed his words as Scacchi presumably ignored his warning. Nanook’s low growl drifted out from inside.

“Your dog have a problem?” Scacchi emerged in the doorway.

“No,” Cole said. “But he’s good at reading people.”

Izzy watched Scacchi’s jaw tighten at the implied criticism. The agent stormed past them, out the sliding door and off across the backyard toward the barn.

“Nothing here,” Yoshida said quietly. “No signs of struggle or blood evidence.”

Scacchi returned from the barn with Martinez in tow, frustration evident in her every movement. “We need to process everything. Get a team out here.”

“On what grounds?” Cole’s voice remained maddeningly calm. “You’ve seen there’s nothing to process.”

“A woman is missing.” Scacchi stepped closer to Cole. “And you’re involved.”

Nanook moved between them, his presence a silent warning. Izzy noted how the dog positioned himself—protective but not aggressive, mirroring Cole’s own stance.

“I’ve given you full access to search,” Cole said. “I’ve cooperated completely. What else would you like me to do?”

Scacchi opened her mouth to respond, but Yoshida cut her off. “We appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Barrow.” He gestured toward their sedan. “Diana, a word?”

Izzy watched them walk to the living room, Scacchi’s body language broadcasting her frustration. Cole leaned against the kitchen counter, his eyes darting across the floor, clearly trying to answer the same question as Izzy. Where was Serena?

Yoshida returned to Cole’s kitchen alone. “We need to think through the possibilities. Where she might be.”

“Agreed,” said Izzy.

Yoshida looked at Cole. “I see you’ve got an espresso machine. You mind if I make coffee?”

Cole shook his head. “Knock yourself out.”

As Yoshida worked the machine like a professional barista, Izzy’s phone buzzed. Another negative report from Thompson. No sign of the truck at any of the usual checkpoints. She shared the update with Scacchi, who paced near the living room windows.

“We need to expand the search radius,” Scacchi said. “He could be anywhere by now.”

“He who?” Cole’s voice carried from the kitchen. “The man who stole my truck and took Serena, or me?”

Scacchi’s lips pressed into a thin line, but before she could respond, Yoshida called out, “Coffee’s good. Anyone want one?”

They all took coffee. As they sipped Yoshida’s brew, the groups shifted naturally. Scacchi drifted back to the kitchen while Yoshida moved to stand near Cole and Martinez, speaking in low tones.

Another text from Thompson: No sign of the truck headed through Harris.

“What about the forest service roads?” Yoshida asked, drawing everyone’s attention. “There are dozens of unmapped tracks up there.”

Martinez shook his head. “Too many to search effectively in the dark.”

The coffee’s rich aroma filled the kitchen as they regrouped, the temporary comfort of hot drinks doing little to ease the underlying tension. Nanook remained alert, moving between Cole and the door as if expecting trouble.

Izzy’s phone buzzed again. Wahlberg this time. Security footage from the Gas and Go showed the truck heading south on 395, but they lost it after that. No cameras caught it turning off anywhere.

* * *

The mountain air carried a sharp bite as Izzy stepped onto Cole’s back porch. Nanook padded out behind them, settling at Cole’s feet as they sat in the wooden Adirondack chairs. Behind them, through the kitchen window, Yoshida stood contemplating his coffee, lost in thought.

“You said Raven wouldn’t leave until his mission was complete.” Izzy turned to Cole. “But how is this the mission?”

Cole leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My truck didn’t just break down out there. There was a pop, like a small explosion. Someone tampered with it to strand me without an alibi. No cell service, and that jammer ensuring I couldn’t call for help as I walked back.”

“A truck matching yours was seen leaving the clinic. Your plates and everything.”

“Raven wants me to burn.” Cole shook his head. “And Serena is the next step.”

“Why involve Serena at all?”

“I don’t think she was part of the original plan.” Cole rubbed his jaw. “If I’d been arrested for Mari’s murder, mission accomplished, but that didn’t happen because he didn’t count on you defending me. Serena is improvisation. Raven excels at that. He stayed alive in the Hindu Kush when others didn’t because he could adapt.” Cole fell silent, his expression shifting.

“What is it?”

“The medal he won.” Cole’s words came slower now. “He saved one of his team after a firefight. Instead of retreating to base, escaping the mountains, Raven went up. Higher elevation, into the snow. They hid in a cave for a week until he was confident the Taliban assumed they’d slipped through. Then he carried the wounded man down on a makeshift stretcher, dragged it across the snow. Up the mountain and back down.”

“Spud told me that story.”

Cole’s eyes widened. “That must be how he got Mari into the mountains. A stretcher, just like how we brought her down.”

“If that’s his method, then Serena’s already dead. If he’s dragging her up there the same way⁠—”

“No.” Cole said. “That makes no sense. It’s much easier to force someone to walk at gunpoint than drag them up a mountain. That’s why he gave her ketamine. To make her do what he wanted, but still be awake.”

“But that’s not what happened.” Izzy put her palms up. “Raven killed Mari in your hangar.”

“I don’t think that was his plan. Again, it makes a hard job harder. He wanted to leave evidence Mari had been in my hangar, so he lured her there. But killing her there wasn’t the goal.”

“Then why did he?”

“Because she fought him.” Cole’s voice carried certainty now. “The smart play is to comply, look for a chance to escape or alert someone, but Mari knew him. She knew his endgame. Raven had assaulted her once, attempted it again.”

Izzy thought about Mari’s response to Zander at the bar. More fight than flight.

“She knew once he had her away from town, she was dead,” Cole continued. “So she had to fight immediately. She tried. Just not well enough.” He paused. “I’m still not sure why he took her up that mountain, though.”

“I think I do.” Izzy straightened. “Raven’s not on rotation, but he’s been away from home. Here in Darkness, watching, planning. He saw us together, figured I wouldn’t accept your guilt at face value. So he took Mari up the mountain to make it federal, to take me out of the equation.”

“But Serena . . .” Cole’s voice trailed off.

“He could have taken her anywhere. A mountain, an abandoned building, even one of the weekender houses. It’s a needle in a haystack.” Izzy cupped Cole’s face in her hands. “But we’ll keep turning those haystacks until we find her.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cole stood in his backyard, the night air crisp against his skin. The neat rows of native plants and rocks created an orderly mountain garden. His attempt to tame a small piece of wilderness. But tonight, the careful planning felt hollow, a facade of control when he’d lost so much of it.

Through the window, he could see Nanook sprawled across his bed, the dog’s chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep. Special Agent Yoshida wandered into the kitchen for another coffee before returning to the living room.

Moonlight cast shadows across the subalpine garden where sage and lupine grew between granite stones. The scent of pine drifted down from the forest above. His gaze drifted up to the jagged peaks, their snow-capped summits ghostly white against the dark sky. Mari had been up there somewhere, her body found in that vast wilderness. Maybe Serena was, too. All because of his choices years ago.

Peace eluded Cole. His thoughts spiraled to Serena—bright, capable Serena who kept his clinic running, who deserved better than being caught in Raven’s web of revenge. Another person Cole had failed to protect.

He stopped at the edge of the yard, staring up at the mountain range. The same kinds of peaks where Raven had proven himself in Afghanistan, carrying wounded men to safety through terrain that would kill most soldiers. Those skills had served a noble purpose once. Now they made him a deadly predator, using the landscape Cole called home as a weapon against him.

Cole’s phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him from his contemplation. The screen proclaimed an unknown number, the message header displaying a string of random characters and numbers that marked it as spam.

His pulse quickened as he read the text. Coordinates, followed by

Unknown

Tell no one, especially the lady sheriff or FBI. Come alone or she dies.

I see everything.

Training kicked in before conscious thought. Cole’s eyes swept the ridgeline, searching for movement or reflection that might betray a watcher’s position. Nothing.

He pulled up his mapping app, fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The coordinates placed the meeting point on Mt. Mollison, near where they’d found Mari’s body, but away from the established trails. The terrain there had appeared treacherous—a maze of granite outcroppings and steep ravines that would funnel any approach through predictable channels.

Perfect ground for an ambush.

Cole knew the smart play was to alert Izzy, but Raven’s message rang true. From those heights, with the right equipment, he could monitor any movement in the valley below. Thermal imaging would reveal a tactical team’s approach, even under cover of darkness.

The cellular jammer Yoshida had found was a reminder of how thoroughly Raven had planned this. Cole’s mind raced through scenarios, weighing options against Serena’s life.

She’d trusted him as her employer, her friend. The thought of her scared, alone with a predator like Raven, made Cole’s heart race. His instincts screamed at him to move now. Before Raven grew impatient.

The coordinates beckoned from his phone screen. Cole’s gaze drifted to the peaks again, knowing Raven was up there somewhere, watching. Waiting.

Cole strode over to his storage shed. The scent of cedar and gear oil greeted him as he flicked on the LED shop light. Everything in its place, just as he’d learned in the service.

Metal shelving units lined the walls, stacked with clear plastic tubs. Each container bore a neat label in his handwriting: Winter Gear, Emergency Medical, Climbing Equipment. The organization system might seem excessive to some, but old habits never really died.

He pulled down the winter gear first, checking the bindings on his snowshoes. The aluminum frames gleamed, the synthetic decking still pristine. Next came his extra medical kit—as comprehensive as his everyday bag.

His hands moved automatically to the climbing gear. Ropes, carabiners, protection pieces all stored in their designated spots. Two tactical flashlights with fresh batteries went into his pack, along with chemical light sticks and emergency flares.

Cole reached for his crampons, then froze mid-motion. The metal spikes glinted at him, and suddenly the weight of what he was doing hit him. This wasn’t the way. It wasn’t how the army operated. No man was sent in alone, even if he went in alone.

His gaze drifted to the small photo tacked to the wall—him and Izzy at Christmas, her rare smile lighting up her face as Nanook photobombed them. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He had people who cared now. Who would move heaven and earth for him.

Going alone wasn’t brave or noble. It was exactly what Raven wanted—to isolate him, to strip away his support system. The same way he’d isolated Mari before killing her.

Cole set the crampon down. His fingers brushed across his phone, and he recalled Raven’s message. The greater weight was the trust Izzy had placed in him. She would understand if he had to go alone in the service of a patient, but this was something else. This was foolish. This was playing Raven’s game on his turf by his rules. Cole knew he needed to balance the engagement somehow.

Cole left the shed and made his way back to the house. Through the window, he could see Izzy in his kitchen, her brow furrowed in thought.

He stepped inside, the warmth jarring after the mountain air. “Can you come outside for a minute?” His voice was low, meant only for her.

Izzy looked up, noting his expression. She followed him out to the shed.

He stood before the climbing gear he’d laid out. Ropes coiled like snakes beside his pack, carabiners gleaming dully against the dark nylon. Medical supplies and emergency gear.

Cole watched understanding dawn in her eyes as she took in the equipment. She didn’t speak, but he saw her shoulders tense as she pieced together what he’d been planning.

He pulled out his phone and showed her the text. Izzy’s eyes narrowed as she read the coordinates and threat.

Their eyes met over the phone screen. No words were needed. She knew he’d considered going alone, just as she understood why he’d chosen to tell her instead. They’d both spent years handling things solo—him in the military, her in the FBI. But that wasn’t who they were anymore.

Cole felt something like relief as Izzy’s hand found his in the dim light. They were partners now. Whatever came next, they would face it together.

“This is my fault.” The words scraped from his throat. “If I don’t go, Serena dies.”

Izzy stepped closer, her breath visible in the cold air. “None of this is your fault. You did exactly what you should have done. Every step of the way.”

Cole turned away, unable to meet her eyes. “Mari lost everything because of my choices.”

“No.” Izzy’s voice hardened. “She lost everything because of Raven’s actions. Her anger toward you—that was trauma speaking. We all get blinded sometimes, lash out at the wrong people. That doesn’t make her right.”

Cole’s hands clenched into fists. “Understanding why she blamed me doesn’t bring her back. Doesn’t help Serena now.”

“I’m not telling you not to go.” Izzy moved to stand in front of him. “That’s not an option. You have to go, and we have to back you up.”

“Raven will see anyone else coming. He’s got the high ground, probably thermal imaging. He’ll kill her the moment he spots backup.”

“Then we need to come in a way that’s invisible.”

Cole turned to face her fully. “How? The terrain’s exposed. No cover would hide a heat signature.”

A slight smile touched Izzy’s lips. “I might know someone who can help us with that.”

“Who?”

Izzy just pulled out her phone, already dialing. Cole watched her face in the moonlight, seeing the tactical mind at work behind her eyes. Whatever she had planned, he hoped it would be enough to save Serena.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Izzy strode in through the sliding door. Yoshida and Scacchi were in quiet discussion in the living room, so she motioned Martinez in the kitchen to follow her outside. The lights from Cole’s cabin cast a warm glow across the driveway where Martinez’s patrol vehicle sat waiting. She led her deputy far enough away that their voices wouldn’t carry back to the house.

“I need to tell you something, but we keep this between us for now.” Izzy studied Martinez’s face in the dim light. “Raven just contacted Cole with coordinates for a meet. We’re sure he’s got Serena up there.”

Martinez frowned. “We need to mobilize⁠—”

“No.” Izzy held up her hand. “Raven’s watching. He’s got the high ground and likely monitoring our radio frequencies. Maybe even our phones.” She pulled out her own device and powered it down. “We need another way up that mountain that he won’t see coming.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I need you to go get someone, but stay off the radio completely. No calls, no check-ins.” Izzy gave him detailed instructions in a low voice. “Bring him straight here. And Martinez, make it fast but quiet.”

Martinez nodded once, already opening his door. The engine turned over with a soft rumble, and he eased down Cole’s long driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness until they disappeared around the bend.

Izzy turned and headed back inside. They had one shot at this. If Raven spotted backup coming, he would kill Serena, if she wasn’t already dead.

She stepped back into Cole’s living room, where Yoshida and Scacchi huddled over a map spread across the coffee table.

Scacchi’s head snapped up at her entrance. “Where’s your deputy gone?”

“We received contact from Raven.” Izzy stood with her hands on her hips. “A text message with coordinates for a meet.”

Scacchi straightened, arms crossed. “Is he going to get Hawkins?”

“No.” Izzy refused to rise to the bait in Scacchi’s tone. “Raven wants Cole to come alone. Says he’s watching everything. And that cell phone jammer suggests he might even have ears on our phone calls.”

“Convenient.” Scacchi’s lip curled. “Another story that puts your boyfriend in the victim role rather than the suspect category.”

Cole emerged from the kitchen, phone extended. “See for yourself.”

Yoshida took the device first, studying the message with narrowed eyes before passing it to his partner. Scacchi’s expression shifted as she read—doubt giving way to focus.

“These coordinates.” She looked up at Izzy. “Where are they?”

“They’re near where we found Mari’s body.”

“If this is real.” Scacchi handed the phone back to Cole. “Could be another attempt to manipulate the investigation.”

“It’s real,” Izzy said. “And right now, Raven has Serena up there waiting for Cole to walk into his trap.”

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Even Scacchi’s skepticism seemed to waver in the face of the evidence before them.

“We can’t go in guns blazing,” Izzy said, starting to pace across the room. “He’ll see us coming, day or night. Thermal imaging would light us up like Christmas trees against the cold ground.”

Scacchi leaned over the map, studying the western face of the range. “What about coming in from the east side?”

“You mean crossing the entire Sierra Nevada range?” Izzy’s laugh held no humor. “That didn’t work out so well for the Donner Party.”

The room fell silent at her dark reference to the pioneers who perished crossing the mountains in the 1840s. Nanook wandered into the room, looked at the tense faces, then walked out again.

“He’s got us boxed in,” Scacchi admitted, her earlier antagonism fading as the tactical reality sank in. “Any movement up that trail will be visible for miles.”

Izzy kept pacing. The valley stretched like a giant bowl before the mountains, with their target perched near the rim. Any approach would mean crossing open ground, exposed to whatever surveillance equipment Raven had positioned.

“We’re dealing with someone who spent years learning how to control high ground,” she said. “He’s probably got observation posts set up, maybe even booby traps on the obvious approach routes.”

The depth of their tactical disadvantage settled over the room. Sending in a tactical team would be suicide—for both the officers and Serena. Yet doing nothing wasn’t an option either.

Izzy stopped and turned to the others. “I’ve got someone who might be able to help, but in the meantime, we need to think outside the box. How do we get up there without being seen?”

“Or get him to come down,” said Scacchi.

Izzy pointed at the FBI agent. “Right. Good thinking. Either way, he’s got the advantage, so let’s think hard.”

Yoshida stood. “I need more coffee.”

They sat in the living room brainstorming ideas, but every plan had a fatal flaw.

After forty minutes of frustration, headlights swept across Cole’s front windows, drawing Izzy’s attention. She moved to peer through the glass as Martinez’s patrol vehicle rolled to a stop. The deputy emerged with a tall, lean figure that Izzy recognized as Ranger Malcolm Garth.

Izzy opened the front door. Mal stepped in wearing a lined jacket over a flannel shirt and faded jeans, his silver-threaded hair disheveled as if he’d been sleeping. His weathered face creased with concern as his deep-set green eyes took in the assembled group with a scan.

“Sheriff.” He nodded to Izzy. “Deputy Martinez filled me in on the basics.”

“Thanks for coming so quickly.” Izzy gestured to the FBI agents. “Special Agents Yoshida and Scacchi. This is Malcolm Garth, Forest Service. Mal, we’ve got a hostage situation developing on your mountain.”

Mal shrugged off his jacket. “Martinez mentioned something about the same area where we recovered that woman’s body.”

Cole stepped forward, phone extended. “These coordinates came in about an hour ago.”

Mal studied the screen, his expression grave. He reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a folded topographical map. The paper crackled as he spread the detailed Forest Service map across Cole’s coffee table.

“Let me get this exact.” Mal’s finger traced across the grid lines, then settled on a spot. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and made a precise mark. “There. That’s your location—the alpine trailhead of Mt. Mollison. That’s where he is.”

“No,” said Cole, looking over the map. “He won’t be there.”

Mal looked at him across the table. “I can assure you, that’s where those coordinates are.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mal. It might be where he wants me to go, but it’s not where Raven is.” Cole’s finger traced the ridgeline. “In Afghanistan, Raven would find high ground with good cover, then watch and wait. Sometimes for days. He’d pick spots where he could observe Taliban movements without being seen.”

Izzy saw Mal’s skepticism as Cole continued.

“There was this time in the Kunar Valley—a cave system, perfect for hiding in. So, of course, the Taliban checked it. Multiple times. Turns out he was on a mountain face for several days. Perfect vantage point to watch the enemy below, but they never knew he was there.” Cole’s eyes scanned the topographical lines. “He’s doing the same thing here. Found himself a spot with clear sight lines of the valley, but close enough to reach the meeting point quickly. Maybe thirty minutes on foot, max.”

Mal crossed his arms. “That’s a lot of territory to cover. How can you be sure?”

“Because I saw this guy in action,” Cole said. “You want somewhere sheltered, with multiple escape routes, but most importantly—somewhere you can see anyone coming from miles away.”

Izzy studied Cole’s face, seeing the tactical mind at work behind his eyes. She could see Mal coming around to Cole’s assessment, the ranger’s initial doubt giving way to consideration as he looked at the map with fresh eyes.

“The coordinates are just where he wants the meeting,” Cole said. “But right now, he’s watching us from somewhere else. Waiting.”

Mal shook his head. “There’s no trail that would give him that kind of vantage point.”

“He doesn’t need one.” Cole’s voice carried absolute certainty. “Raven treats backcountry like most people do sidewalks. Trails are just suggestions to him.”

Mal’s eyes narrowed as understanding dawned. “Wait. There might be something.” He leaned over the map again, finger tracing along elevation lines. “There’s a subpeak below the main summit. We had some rock falls from that area a few years back. Had to investigate how unstable the formation was.”

Izzy moved closer, feeling Martinez, Scacchi, and Yoshida do the same, each studying where Mal pointed. “What’s the access like?” she asked.

“It’s about twenty minutes off the trailhead—in summer conditions, that is.” His pen circled a small area. “The spot’s perfect for what you’re describing. Natural cave formation, solid overhead cover, and the view . . .” He whistled low. “You can see clear down the valley. To the south end of the valley and north halfway to Harris.”

Izzy felt the room’s energy shift as they processed this new information. The tactical implications were clear—if Raven had found this spot, he’d have everything he needed. Security, visibility, and quick access to his chosen meeting point.

“How many ways in and out?” she asked.

“That’s the thing.” Mal traced two paths with his pen. “It’s accessible from that same trailhead we took before via the eastern approach. The south side is the main peak of Mt. Mollison. North is the ravine where we recovered the young lady’s body, and west is into the heart of the range.”

Izzy stood upright. “You said from that point he could see halfway to Harris. So what about that way? Can we go further north and then climb up out of view?”

The ranger scratched his chin. “You can, but you couldn’t get back south to Mollison once you were up there. There’s no way, other than via serious backcountry through the range, and I wouldn’t do that this time of year. It would be days of trekking in the summer, anyway.”

Izzy again paced the length of Cole’s living room, her mind racing through scenarios. “We don’t have that kind of time. We know it’s a four-hour hike from the base of the mountain to this trailhead. So if Cole leaves within the next hour, drives to the closest point to the trailhead, then hikes up—that’s maybe six hours to where we found Mari.”

Mal’s face lit up, and he snapped his fingers. “Wait. There might be another way.” He bent over the map again, finger tracing along contour lines. “From that subpeak, Raven can see south, but he’s not on the edge of a cliff—it’s a peak.”

Izzy stopped moving. “What are you thinking?”

“Drive south and then cut west to the base of the mountain. He can’t see the very bottom against the mountainside.” Mal’s finger traced the route. “Then take a four-by-four back north to the start of the fire road.”

“What fire road?” Izzy asked.

“There’s an old fire road that switchbacks all the way up to a meadow between Mt Mollison and Silverhowl Peak. It’s about a mile elevation gain. Even in summer, it’s a white-knuckle drive. Right now, those switchbacks are covered in ice and snow, and will be for another month or two, even at the bottom.” Mal straightened, a glint in his eye. “But if you had a snowmobile, you could drive it. It’s dangerous—no safety rails. Drive off the edge, you’ll die.”

Izzy stepped to the map and studied the topographical lines. “Won’t we be on the wrong side of the peak?”

“Yes, that’s why this Raven guy won’t see you coming.” Mal drew the new approach with his finger. “Once up there, you can snowmobile the length of the meadow, then hike around the west side—the back of Mollison. Come at the trailhead from above.”

“How long to get to the coordinates that way?” Izzy’s heart picked up speed as hope flickered.

Mal’s face creased in concentration. “An hour to prep, another hour to drive to the base, two hours up, two hours around.”

“Six hours is doable.” Izzy nodded, already mentally preparing.

“If you have a snowmobile handy,” Yoshida pointed out.

“I have one.” Mal shrugged. “Fitted with tracks for ice.”

Scacchi stepped forward, arms crossed. “You’re going to drive up a switchback mountain trail covered in ice at night on a snowmobile?”

“No.” Izzy turned to Mal, a slight smile playing at her lips. “I’m not. He is.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The brakes on Martinez’s patrol SUV whined as they pulled up to Mal’s winter cabin. The modest structure sat back from the street where Darkness gave way to the mountains, weathered wood siding blending with the surrounding pines. A small, covered porch protected the front door, its practical design speaking more of function than comfort.

Martinez left to drive the highway to continue the pretense of searching for Serena. Mal led Izzy inside, flicking on lights that revealed a space as spartan as its exterior suggested. Clean surfaces, basic furniture, everything maintained but devoid of the usual markers of a home. No family photos adorned the walls, no collected mementos cluttered the surfaces. The kitchen showed signs of regular use but held nothing beyond the essentials.

Izzy watched Mal move through the space, gathering gear from organized storage areas, each item in its designated place. The cabin felt less like a home and more like a well-maintained outpost.

“I’ll get the snowmobile prepped,” Mal said, pulling thermal blankets from a storage trunk. “Should take about twenty minutes.” He pointed at a cardboard box in the corner of the room. “Check the lost and found. Serena might not have gloves or anything. Grab what you think she could use.”

Izzy riffled through the box and found gloves and thick socks, but there were no shoes even remotely the right size. She took a watch cap with a beer logo on it, then headed outside.

Mal hitched a trailer to his green Forest Service four-by-four. The snowmobile, already loaded on a trailer, sat ready for deployment. Izzy stuffed the lost and found gear into the pack Mal had ready to go.

They pulled onto Highway 395, and within minutes they left the landmarks of town behind. Gas stations and scattered buildings thinned out until only empty road stretched ahead. The landscape was nothing but a dark blur through Izzy’s window. Mal kept his eyes on the road, but his attention seemed split between driving and scanning the mountainsides.

“That formation there,”—he pointed to a distant peak—“creates a weather shadow. Sometimes holds snow when everything else is bare.”

“The snow doesn’t completely clear up high, does it?”

“No. Actually, up top, you’re talking ice sheets, not snow. Occasionally, they break away and fall down the hill, but there are always patches that make it through summer.”

Mal turned west onto a mountain access road, the truck’s suspension working harder as they hit rougher terrain. He handled the rig confidently, adjusting for the trailer’s weight as they climbed.

The vegetation changed, scrub brush giving way to scattered pines. Loose rock scattered across the track, forcing Mal to pick his line carefully. He navigated along the mountain’s base, searching for signs of the conditions they needed.

“No snow yet,” Izzy noted, scanning the ground.

“Give it time.” Mal downshifted as they crossed a dry creek bed. “We’re still too low.”

Then the road ended. Mal slowed but didn’t stop. He just drove into the scrub, and instantly the ride grew even rougher, the suspension working overtime but falling short.

The four-by-four cut right, back north along the base of the mountain. Izzy couldn’t see the mountain range above from her seat, but the base of it looked within touching distance through Mal’s side window.

The truck crawled forward through deepening shadows, each turn revealing more rugged terrain. Scree slopes rose to the left while scrubland stretched away to their right. Their entire plan hinged on finding snow at an accessible elevation, and so far, the ground remained stubbornly bare.

* * *

Cole knelt beside his gear bag, cataloging each item through muscle memory honed by years of medical missions and military deployments. Crampons checked and secured. Snowshoes with fresh bindings. Emergency shelter. Water purification tablets. Three days of high-calorie rations.

Nanook paced the shed, tail wagging, as Cole packed the specialized first aid kit. The dog’s excitement bubbled over into small whines whenever he touched the winter gear.

Cole paused his inventory to scratch behind Nanook’s ears. “You know we’re heading out, don’t you, boy?”

The malamute pressed against his leg, eyes fixed on the growing pile of equipment. Cole had learned to trust Nanook’s instincts in the field—the dog’s enthusiasm suggested favorable conditions ahead despite the darkness waiting outside.

Cole checked his GPS unit. The screen glowed with fresh batteries as he confirmed the programmed coordinates.

He shouldered his pack, adjusting the straps until the weight settled evenly. Nanook stood by the door, practically vibrating with anticipation. The dog’s enthusiasm lightened Cole’s mood despite the gravity of their mission.

After locking the shed, they moved to the vehicles sitting out the front of his house. Cole stowed his gear and closed the hatch, finding Scacchi standing in the darkness, watching him. For a long moment, they eyed each other in the soft light coming from the house.

“Remember,” said Scacchi, “you get in trouble, shoot a flare.”

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

Scacchi nodded, and Cole opened the door to Izzy’s ride to let his dog jump inside. He returned the nod, then got in and backed out.

Izzy’s patrol SUV handled differently than his truck as they wound through the pre-dawn darkness. Nanook sat alert in the passenger seat, nose working overtime at the unfamiliar vehicle’s scents.

Cole downshifted as the road grew rougher. He missed the feel of his Ram’s steering, but the patrol vehicle’s four-wheel drive proved capable as they climbed toward the mountains.

When Cole reached the end of the road, he positioned the SUV facing outward, ready for a quick departure if needed. One final equipment check: medical gear, survival supplies, communications. Everything secured and accessible.

Cole shouldered his pack and closed the vehicle up. The malamute moved silently at his heel as they picked their way toward the glow of the snow-packed route up the mountain.

A dark shape caught Cole’s attention, barely visible against the mountain’s shadowed base. He dropped into a crouch, moving forward. Nanook showed no signs of alarm, but his ears pricked forward with interest.

Cole’s tactical approach brought him within twenty yards of what he now recognized as a truck. Not just any truck—a black Dodge Ram, identical to his own down to the model year. He studied the vehicle’s condition, noting the light coating of frost on the windows.

The license plate caught his eye. Cole moved closer, disbelief flooding his system as he read his own plate number staring back at him. He reached out, fingers tracing the raised numbers. The surface felt wrong—smooth plastic rather than stamped metal.

A replica. A fake designed to complete Raven’s deception. Cole’s truck had been disabled miles away in the valley and then retrieved by tow truck, yet here was its twin, positioned to further the elaborate frame job. The psychological warfare was pure Raven—detailed, methodical, meant to unsettle and disorient.

Cole left the truck behind and headed for the trail. He hiked until he reached the snowline. When the snow grew too deep, he knelt in the snow, securing the snowshoe bindings. He double-checked the heel risers, ensuring they would engage smoothly when the slope steepened.

Standing, Cole adjusted his pack, shifting the weight higher on his shoulders and cinching the hip belt. The medical supplies rode close to his spine, keeping his center of gravity stable.

Nanook bounded through the snow, his thick coat repelling the cold. The malamute’s broad paws spread naturally across the surface, barely leaving impressions where Cole’s boots would sink knee-deep without the snowshoes. The dog circled back periodically, checking on Cole’s progress with what seemed like barely contained impatience, their long hike back to town now forgotten.

“Easy, boy,” Cole murmured. “We’ll get there.”

The knowledge that Raven was likely watching their ascent from some hidden vantage point didn’t trouble Cole. Let him see the dog. Let him know that Cole hadn’t come alone, that he had a partner who could track by scent and spot movement long before human eyes could detect it.

Cole chose their path carefully, staying close to the mountain side where possible. The ravine to his right was nothing but a massive back hole.

The first hour tested Cole’s endurance. Despite his fitness, the combination of altitude and the loaded pack made each step deliberate. Sweat froze against his base layer despite the brutal effort. The snow conditions varied—powder giving way to wind-scoured patches, requiring constant adjustment to his gait.

The weather held clear but cold, and the predawn light offered the first glimpse of the ridge lines above. Cole monitored the sky for signs of incoming weather systems while tracking their progress against landmarks.

As the slope steepened, the snow became more compacted. Cole’s snowshoes began to slip more than grip. He called Nanook to his side and found a relatively flat spot to make the transition to crampons. The dog sat alert, scanning their surroundings while Cole worked.

He removed his pack and extracted his water bottle, taking measured sips. He offered Nanook water straight from the canteen, watching with satisfaction as the dog drank eagerly. No signs of fatigue or stress in his companion.

The crampons went on quickly, their sharp points biting into the hardened snow. Cole repacked his gear and stood, testing his footing. The metal spikes provided immediate confidence on the firm surface. He and Nanook resumed their ascent, finding a new rhythm in the changed conditions.

Each step with the crampons felt more secure, allowing Cole to increase his pace. Nanook matched his speed easily, the dog’s powerful legs driving through the crusty ice. They moved as a unit now, reading each other’s cues without the need for commands.

The rising sun gave fresh perspective. The trail stretched endlessly upward, the peak still hidden behind false summits. Cole settled into the familiar burn in his legs, the crampons crunching rhythmically with each step. Nanook’s breathing came steady and strong beside him as they pushed higher into the mountain’s grip.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The mountain loomed before them, its snow-covered slopes glowing silver in the moonlight. Izzy watched Mal maneuver his truck and trailer across the rough terrain until they reached the narrow access road, the headlights cutting through the darkness. He pulled to a stop at a wide spot where the dirt track to town ended, and the fire road began its ascent. Izzy glanced back along the road they hadn’t taken. It would have saved time but would also have been obvious to anyone watching from above, and she hoped the detour had worked.

Mal killed the engine, and they sat in silence, studying the terrain ahead. The fire road zigzagged up the mountainside, visible only as subtle variations in the ice’s texture where it wrapped around the slope.

“Late season snow.” Mal stepped out and tested the surface with his boot. “Cold snaps followed by warm days, then more freezing. Creates a crust hard as concrete.”

“Good for us?” she asked.

“Better than powder. Snowmobile won’t sink.” Mal moved to the trailer and began loosening the tie-downs. “Help me with this?”

Together, they maneuvered the snowmobile off the trailer, its metal tracks gleaming dully. Mal checked the fuel level and tested the throttle while Izzy secured their gear.

“What about noise?” She kept her voice low despite the emptiness around them. “Will Raven hear us coming?”

Mal shook his head. “Sound carries weird up here. Ice reflects it like a mirror, but snow absorbs it.” He gestured toward the peak. “But we’ve got the entire mountain between us and his likely position. Even if he’s got surveillance equipment, the acoustics work in our favor. Sound won’t bend around that much rock.”

“And the final approach?”

“We’ll have to leave the snowmobile at the meadow.” Mal collected his pack. “From there it’s on foot—maybe an hour’s hike to come in behind his position.”

Izzy nodded, checking her weapon and radio one final time. The vast whiteness stretched before them, broken only by the dark shapes of scattered pines. Somewhere on the other side of that massive wall of rock, Cole was walking into Raven’s trap.

“Ready?” Mal asked, swinging his leg over the snowmobile’s seat.

Izzy adjusted Mal’s pack on her back and got on behind him.

The snowmobile’s engine roared to life, shattering the mountain’s silence. Izzy wrapped her arms around Mal’s torso, gripping the thick fabric of his winter coat as he eased the machine forward. The headlight carved a narrow white tunnel through the darkness, illuminating the treacherous path ahead.

Mal guided them onto the first switchback, the specialized tracks biting into the ice-crusted surface with a grinding crunch. The sound echoed off the mountain face, competing with the engine’s thunderous growl. Izzy felt the vibrations through her entire body as they climbed higher.

To one side, the mountain wall loomed close enough to touch, its rough surface catching the edge of their light beam. To the other, beyond the path’s edge, absolute darkness promised a fatal plunge. Izzy focused on the back of Mal’s head, refusing to let her eyes drift toward that void.

The snowmobile’s tracks clawed at the surface, finding purchase where regular tires would spin helplessly. Each turn brought them higher, Mal leaning into the switchbacks. The machine responded to his subtle adjustments, the metal cleats in the tracks scratching across the frozen surface like steel fingernails.

Their headlight beam swung wide as they rounded another bend, momentarily illuminating the valley beyond. Izzy caught a glimpse of their truck, now just a tiny dark speck against the snow. She tightened her grip as Mal throttled up to tackle the next incline, the tracks churning against the ice as they climbed higher into the darkness.

After an hour, Mal slowed and the snowmobile’s engine cut out, leaving Izzy’s ears ringing in the silence. Her body continued to vibrate even after Mal brought them to a stop on a wider section of the fire road. Every bone felt like it had been rattled loose, her teeth aching from clenching her jaw against the constant juddering motion.

She unwrapped her stiff fingers from around Mal’s torso, flexing them to restore circulation. Her legs trembled as she dismounted, muscles protesting the prolonged tension of bracing against the machine’s violent shaking.

“Water?” Mal reached into the storage compartment beneath the seat, pulling out insulated bottles they’d filled before leaving. The liquid was still warm enough to send welcome heat through Izzy’s core.

She stretched her arms overhead, twisting to work out the knots forming in her back. Mal did the same, rolling his shoulders and neck with audible cracks. The sound carried strangely in the thin air, seeming both muffled and sharp at once.

Mal walked to the edge of the switchback, his boots crunching on the packed snow. He stood motionless, staring down at the valley below. Izzy joined him, careful to maintain her footing on the icy surface.

The valley had transformed into a vast black void, as if someone had carved a hole straight through the planet. Not a single light pierced the darkness—no cars, no houses, not even the faint glow of Darkness itself. The stars wheeled overhead in impossible numbers, their cold light more brilliant than anything in the world below. The sight made Izzy feel untethered, suspended between earth and sky, with nothing solid to anchor her except the mountain at their backs.

“Puts things in perspective.” Mal spoke as if in a cathedral, before taking another sip of water. “How small we are. How far we have to go.”

Izzy nodded, unable to tear her gaze from the absolute darkness beneath them. The valley’s emptiness seemed to pull at her, a gravitational force that made her step back from the edge. Their journey had carried them beyond the realm of ordinary human concerns into a place where nature ruled absolutely.

She screwed the cap back on her water bottle, muscles still protesting as she moved. The cold had begun seeping through her layers despite the workout of holding on. They needed to keep moving.

The snowmobile’s engine roared back to life, and Izzy resumed her position behind Mal. They climbed higher, the switchbacks becoming steeper and more treacherous.

After another hour of grinding ascent, they crested what felt like the hundredth switchback, and the terrain opened before them. Izzy’s breath caught at the expanse. They’d reached over ten thousand feet, and the world had transformed into an alien landscape.

Far below, tiny clusters of lights marked isolated farmhouses and the few small towns that dotted the valley floor. Each collection of illumination seemed impossibly far from the next, emphasizing the vast blanket of black between them. Darkness itself was barely visible, just a slightly denser collection of lights that could have been stars fallen to earth.

The vista stretched endlessly, the curve of the Earth visible at the horizon where the black of the eastern mountains met the star-filled sky. Up here, civilization felt like a distant memory, something that existed in another world entirely. The air bit sharper, thinner, making each breath deliberate and conscious.

Mal guided them onto a relatively flat expanse, the snowmobile’s engine echoing off unseen walls. They’d reached the meadow, though “meadow” seemed an inadequate word for the space between these towering peaks. To their left, Silverhowl Peak thrust upward, its snow-covered face gleaming silver in the moonlight. To their right, Mt. Mollison loomed equally massive, its dark rock faces creating deeper shadows where the snow couldn’t cling.

The moon cast enough light that the snow glowed with an inner luminescence, creating an otherworldly path through the bowl. Their headlight seemed almost redundant against the natural radiance. The effect should have been beautiful, peaceful even, but something about the scale of the mountains pressing in on either side lent the scene an ominous quality.

Mal slowed their pace, picking his way across the meadow. The snow here had been sculpted by wind into waves and ridges, requiring constant adjustments to their path. The engine’s roar bounced between the mountain walls.

Izzy tightened her grip as they navigated open space. The snowmobile’s tracks left parallel lines on the pristine surface, the only mark of human presence in this vast white corridor. The moon cast their shadow ahead of them, a single dark shape that seemed to flee their approach across the luminous snow.

An hour later, the snowmobile’s engine died once more, leaving Izzy’s ears ringing. She dismounted stiffly, the shoulder that had taken a bullet six months ago throbbing with a deep, familiar ache.

Mal pulled off his gloves and flexed his fingers. “Fire road ends here. Believe it or not, there’s a dirt parking lot beneath us. In summer, this meadow’s full of wildflowers.” He gestured to their right where moonlight gleamed off a flat expanse. “That’s an alpine lake. Popular spot for hikers when it’s not frozen solid.”

Izzy rolled her shoulder, trying to work out the knots. The pain radiated down her arm. She’d been cleared for duty months ago, but the long ride had awakened every weakness in the healing tissue.

“From here we follow the summer hiking trail.” Mal pointed toward the looming mass of Mt. Mollison. “It’s way longer than going straight up, but the grade’s easier. Follows natural contours around the mountain instead of fighting them.”

The frozen lake stretched away into darkness, its surface reflecting moonlight like broken glass. Mal was right—she could imagine this place in summer, filled with hikers and campers enjoying the alpine beauty. But now it felt alien and hostile, the kind of wilderness that had no patience for human intrusion.

They continued for another half hour. The snowmobile carved through the pristine snow, its engine a steady growl in the vast silence. The Milky Way stretched across the black dome of sky, a river of light that seemed close enough to touch in the thin mountain air.

Izzy’s head spun with each breath, the altitude making even simple movements feel dreamlike and distant. Her body had mostly adjusted to Darkness’s elevation over the past months, but up here, past ten thousand feet, the air grew thin enough to notice. The effect wasn’t entirely unpleasant—it lent an otherworldly quality to their journey.

The meadow gradually narrowed into a canyon before Mal brought them to a final stop at the western face of Mt. Mollison. The mountain’s bulk loomed before them, its rocky surfaces too steep for snow to cling. Here, the meadow’s smooth white expanse gave way to exposed stone and treacherous ice.

Mal killed the engine and sat quiet for a moment, taking in the view.

The stars wheeled overhead in impossible numbers, more than Izzy had ever seen, even growing up in Darkness. Individual points of light burned with cold fire, and the broad sweep of the galaxy itself formed a luminous band that cast faint shadows on the snow.

“It’s beautiful,” Izzy said, her voice barely carrying in the thin air.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” His words carried his usual dry humor. “I’m not a ranger for the money.”

Izzy slid off the seat, and Mal stood and stretched out his back. “We walk from here,” he said, pulling crampons from his pack. “Sound carries strange in these canyons. Might echo down the north face.”

Izzy nodded, accepting a set of the spiked boot attachments. The metal points gleamed dully as she secured them to her boots.

The first hints of dawn painted the eastern sky beyond the mountain, though their position on the western slope remained in deep shadow. That gradient of light marked their progress—darkness behind them, uncertain dawn ahead as they began their careful ascent of the rocky terrain.

Mal took point, picking their route through the boulder field where snow and stone created a treacherous maze. Their crampons scratched against rock and bit into ice as they worked their way higher, the sound seeming overloud in the pre-dawn stillness. The canyon they’d traversed fell away below, and the vast wilderness stretched endlessly westward, still wrapped in night’s embrace while the eastern sky continued to brighten.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The rising sun illuminated the highest peaks, while the valley remained shrouded in pre-dawn darkness. Cole’s breath clouded in front of his face, dispersing in the bitter wind that knifed through his insulated jacket. He kept his movements steady and controlled, but beneath his calm veneer, fear for Serena churned in his gut.

The trail switchbacked up the mountain’s northern face. Cole’s thigh muscles burned from the relentless climb, but he pushed on. Time stretched like frozen taffy—too slow when thinking of Serena, too fast when considering what waited at the top.

As they climbed higher, the terrain opened into the wider area of the trailhead. Here the wind had carved the snow into strange sculptures, their surfaces glittering in the strengthening dawn light. Cole recognized the ravine where they’d found Mari’s body, and where the climbers had pitched their tents to wait after reporting the body they found.

Cole signaled to Nanook with a subtle hand gesture. The malamute melted into the shadows between a jumble of lichen-covered boulders and the mountain face, his grey and white coat blending with the dim light and patches of snow. At this altitude, no trees grew to offer cover, just rock and ice and sky.

“That’s far enough.”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing off the rock walls.

Cole stopped, forcing his breathing to remain steady despite the thin air and hammering heart. A figure emerged from behind an outcropping, moving with the fluid grace of a predator.

Captain John Jay Raven stood before him, dressed head to toe in white alpine camouflage that made him seem to float against the snow. Tactical goggles perched on his white watch cap, and the rifle in his hands stayed rock-steady, aimed at Cole’s chest. His movements held that distinctive military bearing, but there was something else—a coiled tension, like a snake about to strike.

Even after five years, Cole recognized the cold calculation on Raven’s face. The captain’s features were sharper now, aged by sun and wind, but his eyes held that same predatory gleam Cole remembered from Afghanistan. A thin scar traced his left jawline, stark white against wind-reddened skin.

Raven’s finger rested alongside the rifle’s trigger guard. A soldier to his core, but one who’d lost his way, trading honor for power and control. His tactical vest bulged with extra magazines and what looked like climbing gear.

“Hello, Major,” Raven said, voice carrying that same arrogant edge. “Or is it just Doctor now?”

Cole studied Raven’s stance, noting how the rifle remained level despite the wind gusting across the exposed ridge. The thin air burned Cole’s lungs, but he kept his breathing measured, refusing to show weakness.

“Where’s Serena?” Cole’s voice barely carried across the space between them.

“I’ll take you to her.” Raven’s lips curved in a cold smile. “Follow me.”

“Not without proof she’s alive.”

Raven’s smile vanished. “You’re not calling the shots here, Doc. Or did you forget which one of us is holding the rifle?”

“You could have shot me any time on the way up.” Cole shifted his weight, testing his footing on the icy surface. “But you didn’t. You watched me climb for what, two hours?”

“Three.” Raven’s head tilted. “Saw you leave your vehicle. Nice touch bringing the mutt along. Breaking my rules already.” He surveyed the area, moving nothing but his eyes. “Where is the dog?”

The tension in Cole’s shoulders eased a fraction. If Raven knew only about Nanook, then he hadn’t spotted Izzy and Mal’s approach from the south. “Took off ages ago. He loves the snow. The altitude, not so much.”

“Quite the coincidence.” Raven’s voice hardened. “You having an Alaskan dog. Living here in the mountains. Almost like you were preparing.”

“For what? A psychotic ex-soldier with a grudge?” Cole analyzed Raven’s pupils, the tension in his jaw, the tremors in his trigger finger. “I chose this place because it reminded me of better days. Before men like you poisoned everything.”

Raven’s finger twitched against the trigger guard. “Men like me? I gave everything to the army. My blood, my honor⁠—”

“Your honor?” Cole barked a harsh laugh. “Is that what you call assaulting women you were charged to protect?”

“I protected them.” Raven’s voice rose. “Taught them their place in a man’s world. Then you had to interfere, destroy everything I built.”

“Built?” The word tasted bitter. “You mean the fear? The control? That’s not leadership, Captain. That’s cowardice.”

Raven took a step forward. “Cowardice? I earned my medals. Saved my men while you hid in your medical tent.”

“I saw what your protection did to those women.” Cole’s voice remained steady, but anger burned inside. “Mari fought back. That’s why you killed her, isn’t it? She wouldn’t play your game.”

The rifle barrel dipped a fraction before steadying. “You don’t know anything about that bitch. About any of them.”

“I know you’re still trying to control everyone. Still playing soldier in the mountains.” Cole gestured at Raven’s tactical gear. “But this isn’t Afghanistan, and I’m not letting you hurt anyone else.”

Raven’s laugh echoed off the rock face. “Letting me? You’re not in charge anymore, Major. Your rank, your authority, it’s all gone. Just like mine.”

“Then why bring me up here? Why not just shoot me in town?”

“Because this is where you belong.” Raven’s eyes gleamed with zealous certainty. “In the mountains. Where there’s no one to hear. No one to help. Just like Delgado.”

“Shooting me doesn’t work with your plan. You want everyone to think I killed Mari, then Serena. A bullet in my chest ruins that narrative.”

Raven’s eyes narrowed as he processed Cole’s words. Without lowering the rifle, he reached to his tactical vest and drew a pistol. The morning light caught the blued steel as he stepped closer, keeping the handgun trained on Cole’s center mass.

“You have no clue what my narrative is, Doc. Now, the only proof of life you get is the girl herself.” Raven lowered the rifle, letting it hang across his chest. “Let’s go find your precious employee.”

Cole held his ground, watching Raven move toward him.

“On your knees. Hands behind your head.” Raven gestured with the pistol. “Now.”

Cole sank to his knees, the packed snow soaking into his pants. He laced his fingers behind his head, watching as Raven circled him. The weapons check was textbook: quick pats along the legs, torso, and arms, never letting the pistol waver from Cole’s head.

Raven’s laugh held no warmth. “You came up here completely unarmed? Some soldier you turned out to be.”

I was never a soldier first, Cole thought.

Cole followed Raven’s gesture toward an incline of scree. The disturbed terrain and boot prints in the snow led away from the established trail, cutting a diagonal path up.

Cole’s crampons scraped against exposed rock between patches of ice, each step requiring careful testing before committing his weight. The slope pitched at a severe angle, forcing him to lean into the mountain face. His gloved hands pushed against his thighs as he picked his way upward.

Behind him, Raven’s rifle sling creaked with his movements. The captain maintained a steady distance, close enough to shoot accurately but far enough to react if Cole tried anything. The weight of the weapon across Raven’s chest didn’t hamper his progress.

They climbed higher, leaving the relative safety of marked routes behind. No cairns marked this path, no anchors for safety lines. Just virgin ice and rock that had probably never felt human touch before Raven’s reconnaissance.

Their labored breathing echoed off the rock face, creating a strange harmony with the crunch of snow under their boots. The wind picked up as they gained elevation, knife-edged and bitter, cutting through Cole’s insulated jacket as he scrambled his way forward.

* * *

The morning light crept over the eastern ridges, giving structure to the world. Izzy’s crampons bit into the frozen surface with each step with a metallic crunch. The ice stretched before them like broken glass.

Mal led the way, picking their route through the treacherous landscape. They roped together despite the relatively flat terrain—a fall here could send either of them sliding hundreds of feet toward the ravine. The wind cut across the exposed snowfield, sharp enough to steal breath even through their face protection.

Izzy studied the false peak above them, its jagged profile stark against the brightening sky. Somewhere on that subpeak, Raven had made his observation post. The position made tactical sense—clear sight lines to the valley below while maintaining multiple escape routes deeper into the mountains.

The morning light revealed the true nature of their surroundings. What had appeared to be mere snow from the valley was more like an ancient glacier, its surface polished to a deadly sheen by countless freeze-thaw cycles. Crevasses split the ice like lightning bolts frozen in time, forcing them to weave a careful path between the hazards.

Izzy’s thoughts turned to Raven’s military record. He’d earned his Distinguished Service Cross in terrain even more challenging than this—the Hindu Kush, where generations of armies had learned harsh lessons about mountain warfare. But the medal wasn’t what interested her; it was how he’d earned it.

The wind died suddenly, leaving them in an eerie silence broken only by their labored breathing and the scratch of crampons on ice. Izzy studied the terrain ahead, connecting it to what she knew of Raven’s methodology. He would have multiple positions prepared—observation posts, fighting positions, escape routes. But he was still an outsider here, working in Mal’s territory.

Raven had proven his versatility in Afghanistan. In the Hindu Kush, Raven had to learn the terrain, to study how locals moved through the mountains. He often fought in territory his enemy knew better. Just as he was here, working on a compressed timeline with limited reconnaissance. He would have to rely on maps, satellite imagery, and whatever he could observe from the valley floor.

Izzy’s own training in counterterrorism had taught her something about adaptability, too. What people often thought of as fast-thinking was actually the opposite—it was the result of training the scenarios.

Mal held up his hand, and Izzy stopped, the rope between them going slack. He pointed to a section of ice ahead where the surface changed texture. They would need to move even more carefully there, where the morning sun had begun to soften the top layer despite the bitter cold.

The false peak loomed closer now, its rocky spine jutting through the snow like a dorsal fin. Izzy could see why Raven would choose it—the position offered coverage from above while maintaining clear views of any approach from below. But it had one critical weakness: shelter. It was an exposed position, too steep to pitch a tent, and Raven wasn’t keeping Serena in a bivouac.

Izzy tugged on the rope to get Mal’s attention, then she paused to catch her breath. “How would he shelter up here?”

Mal pulled a water canteen from the webbing on his pack and drank. “Tent?”

“But where? That peak looks too steep, and the trailhead is exposed.”

Mal shrugged. “Personally, I’d go with the trailhead, but then, I wouldn’t be hiding.” He handed Izzy the canteen and rubbed his chin in thought.

Izzy sipped some water. “What about caves? Any natural shelter up here?”

Mal adjusted his goggles against the morning glare. “Not traditional caves, not this high. But we do have talus caves on the northern side.”

“Talus caves?”

“They’re not real caves—more like gaps between massive boulders. Over thousands of years, rockfall piles up at the base of cliffs. The boulders lock together, creating spaces underneath.” Mal pointed toward the shadowed northern face. “Some are big enough to stand in. Others you have to crawl through.”

“These caves—where are they exactly?”

“There’s one just below that observation point we discussed. Where I figured Raven could watch the valley approaches.” Mal traced the line with his finger. “See that bluff? The talus field is right beneath it, in the shadow of the main peak.”

Izzy studied the position. The morning light revealed a series of dark patches in the snow-covered slope, places where the angle was too steep for snow to accumulate. “Can we get there?”

“Probably.” Mal’s breath frosted in the air. “I’ve done it in summer, checking for unstable zones. Never in winter conditions.” He adjusted his crampon, testing the spikes against the ice. “The talus field itself is tricky. Those boulders shift over time, and snow can hide gaps between them. One wrong step, and you could drop fifteen feet into a void.”

The wind picked up, carrying ice crystals that stung any exposed skin. Izzy pulled her face protection higher, considering the technical challenge. “Could he hold Serena there?”

“Possible.” Mal squinted at the slope. “The talus cave I’m thinking of is big enough, about the size of a living room. Not as much headroom, but doable.”

The shadow of the main peak still covered their target zone, while the rising sun illuminated the valley below. The contrast made the dark patches in the talus field appear as black holes in the white slope.

“Perfect shelter, if you know what you’re looking for. Easy to defend, hard to approach without being seen.”

“Okay.” Izzy handed back the canteen. “Let’s go take a look.”

Mal led Izzy up over rocks and ice. He reached a craggy boulder and put his hand up to signal Izzy to stop.

The crampon tracks in the ice caught Izzy’s attention—indentations that formed a clear path through the icy surface. Mal pointed to where multiple sets overlapped, evidence of repeated trips between positions. The marks led toward a dark void in the white slope, where massive boulders created a natural fortress in the mountain’s flank.

Izzy unclipped her gloves and secured them to her coat. The bite of the cold hit her fingers immediately, but she needed the tactile connection with her weapon. She drew her Glock, the grip feeling like ice against her bare skin. Her hands had started to ache within seconds of exposure, but the discomfort sharpened her focus.

The approach required careful foot placement. Each step had to be deliberate. Their movement created subtle echoes that bounced between the rock faces, amplifying even the smallest sound.

Izzy pressed herself against the rough stone beside the entrance, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The acoustics shifted—outside sounds became muffled, while the drip of melting ice within the cave carried with unnatural clarity. She drew her flashlight, holding it in her support hand beneath her weapon.

The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a space larger than she’d expected. The ceiling rose in irregular steps where boulders had wedged together, creating a chamber perhaps twenty feet deep. Water gleamed on the walls where ice had begun to melt, and her breath formed clouds in the beam of light.

The flashlight caught movement—a human form huddled against the far wall. Izzy swept the beam higher, illuminating Serena’s face. Fear widened her eyes, but they were alert and focused. She was alive, and from what Izzy could see in the harsh light, unharmed.

The cave’s acoustics transformed their breathing into whispers that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Condensation dripped from the ceiling in an irregular rhythm, each drop echoing off the stone walls. The temperature inside remained constant, protected from the wind but still well below freezing. Their breath formed ghostly shapes in the flashlight beam as Izzy moved forward, keeping her weapon ready while scanning the deeper shadows of the cave.

She found no one else, so Izzy stepped back and turned her head toward the cave entrance.

“Mal.” She kept her voice low, not confident about how far it could be heard outside.

Mal’s face appeared in the light of the entrance. Keeping her weapon trained on the deeper recesses of the cave, she nodded.

“Get in here. Light it up,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the steady drip of melting ice.

Mal unclipped a compact LED lantern from his pack and twisted its base. As he moved inside, a warm glow filled the space, revealing the cave’s true dimensions. The light caught the wet stone walls, creating reflections that made the shadows shift and move. The irregular ceiling rose in tiers where massive boulders had wedged together.

Serena sat against the far wall, her wrists bound with plastic zip ties and her ankles secured with climbing rope. She wore a jacket that would keep her warm in a bar in town but wasn’t cutting it in the mountains, and her exposed hands were balled into fists to try to keep warm. Her eyes widened as she recognized Izzy, fear giving way to momentary confusion, then relief washing across her features, but the relief vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by fresh panic.

Izzy moved toward her. “Serena, it’s okay.”

Serena shook her head vigorously, her dark hair falling across her face.

Izzy froze, scanning the cave again. The chamber branched into smaller nooks between the boulders, but nothing moved in the shadows. A military-style backpack sat propped against the wall, its contents partially visible through the open top.

Moving carefully across the uneven floor, Izzy reached Serena and examined the restraints. The zip ties had been cranked tight enough to leave marks on Serena’s wrists, but hadn’t cut off circulation.

As soon as Izzy used her multi-tool to cut the zip ties, Serena pressed her finger to her lips in an urgent gesture. She jerked her head toward the backpack, her eyes conveying silent warning.

Izzy moved to the pack as if walking on eggshells. The pack was stuffed with gear—emergency blanket, ropes, water bottles. But on top of those items sat a handheld radio, its power light glowing green. The channel indicator showed an active frequency, the speaker turned low but still monitoring.

Serena’s eyes remained locked on Izzy, silently pleading. The camp light cast strange shadows across her face. Izzy recognized the mix of terror and determination in the younger woman’s eyes—Serena was scared, but she was thinking clearly enough to warn them.

Mal kept the light steady, but his posture had shifted, reading the situation through Serena’s silent warning and Izzy’s careful movements. The cave felt smaller now, the shadows deeper where the light couldn’t reach. Every sound—their breathing, the crunch of their boots on the icy floor, the endless dripping—seemed magnified by the stone walls.

* * *

Cole heard the static crackle pierce the mountain silence. He stopped mid-stride and turned to face Raven thirty yards back.

The former captain stood with casual menace, his white winter camouflage blending with the snow-covered slope. The rifle rested easy across his chest, supported by a tactical harness. Dawn’s first light caught the edge of his goggles as he reached for the radio clipped to his vest.

Izzy’s voice cut through the static. “Get in here. Light it up.”

Cole’s heart thundered. He forced his breathing to remain steady, not wanting Raven to see his reaction. The radio crackled again.

“Serena, it’s okay.”

Relief flooded through Cole’s body, relieving the knot that had been twisting in his gut since he’d learned of Serena’s abduction. She was alive.

Relief turned to ice in Cole’s veins as understanding crystallized. The radio call hadn’t surprised Raven at all. The former captain’s posture remained relaxed, almost bored, as if everything was proceeding according to plan. Cole had walked right into it, bringing exactly what Raven wanted—leverage.

“On your knees, Doc.” Raven’s voice carried the same casual authority he’d used to command troops in Afghanistan. No anger, no excitement. Just the certainty of someone who knew his orders would be followed.

“Going to kill me now?”

“Not yet.” Raven gestured with the rifle. “Down.”

Cole’s joints protested as he lowered himself onto the frozen ground.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Doc.” Raven didn’t move any closer to Cole. “Bringing friends along when I specifically said to come alone.” His voice carried the same patronizing tone he’d used with local villagers in Afghanistan. “Now those friends of yours are going to pay the price.”

Cole’s muscles tensed, fighting the urge to surge upward. But Raven would expect that—would welcome it even. Any sudden move would give him the excuse he wanted. Cole forced himself to remain still, mind racing for options that wouldn’t get Izzy or Serena killed.

Raven slipped off his pack and dropped it onto the ice. “You never did learn to follow orders properly, did you? Always thought you knew better.” The rifle barrel hung loose by its strap, but only inches from Raven’s hands as he opened the pack. “That’s why we’re here. Because you couldn’t mind your own business.”

He extracted a sleek commercial drone, its carbon fiber arms folded against the central housing. Four propellers extended with sharp mechanical clicks as he unfolded them. The craft was matte black, barely larger than a dinner plate.

Cole shifted his weight, knees aching against the frozen ground. Raven didn’t even glance up from his work. He knew Cole wouldn’t try anything yet. Not while the rifle hung within easy reach.

Raven powered up the controller, its small screen casting a blue glow across his face. They stood in a pool of darkness while the rising sun painted the peaks above them in blinding white. Mt. Mollison’s summit caught the light first, then the false peak below it, the illumination creeping down the mountainside like honey dripping over stone.

The drone’s rotors whirred to life, then lifted from Raven’s outstretched hand. Cole tracked its ascent, noting how quickly it gained altitude. The craft banked sharply and accelerated toward the sunlit peaks, becoming little more than a black speck against the brightening sky.

Raven manipulated the controls, his attention split between the controller’s screen and the drone’s flight path. The craft executed a sweeping arc around the false peak’s northern face. Cole understood the strategy. Raven was searching for Izzy’s position, using the drone’s camera to scout the terrain he couldn’t see from their shadowed vantage point.

The mountain’s geography worked against them all now. The complex network of ridges and gullies that had allowed Izzy to approach unseen also meant Raven couldn’t be certain where she was, but the drone changed that equation. Its camera could peer into every shadow, every fold in the rock.

Cole studied their immediate surroundings. The nearest cover was a boulder field thirty yards up the slope, but moving would mean presenting his back to Raven’s rifle. The trail they’d followed wound downhill, but offered no protection. His best advantage might be Raven’s divided attention.

The drone executed another banking turn, dropping lower as it paralleled the ridge line. Raven’s lips curved in a satisfied smile as he watched the feed. Whatever he saw on that small screen, it confirmed something for him. The former captain’s posture shifted, tension gathering in his frame like a coiled spring.

“Your girlfriend’s not as clever as she thinks,” Raven said, eyes still fixed on the controller. “Mountain infantry, remember? I own the high ground.”

Cole shifted his weight onto his right knee, then eased his left leg up until his boot was on the ice. His body tensed like a sprinter on the starting blocks. A quick lunge might catch Raven off guard, the drone controller would slow his reaction time, and the rifle hung loose on its strap.

Without taking his eyes from the controller’s screen, Raven drew his sidearm and leveled it at Cole’s head. The motion was fluid, almost lazy, yet the barrel remained rock-steady. “Really, Doc? That’s beneath you.”

Cole had underestimated Raven’s situational awareness, forgotten how the captain had survived years in hostile territory by developing a sixth sense for threats. The pistol’s dark muzzle seemed to grow larger in his vision, commanding his complete attention.

“Back down,” snarled Raven.

Cole eased back onto both knees. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, every muscle vibrating with frustrated tension. The dawn air bit at his exposed face as he knelt there, watching Raven manipulate the drone controls one-handed while keeping the pistol trained center mass.

The moment stretched between them, marked only by the distant whine of the drone’s motors and the first rays of sunlight creeping down the mountainside. Cole forced his breathing to remain steady. He’d failed to act when the opportunity presented itself, and now he had to live with that decision.

Cole looked over his shoulder to track the drone’s path as it banked above the northern face of the false peak. The craft’s black form vanished against the dark rock, then reappeared as a silhouette when it crossed patches of snow, hovering before descending closer to the mountain face.

Something dropped from the drone—a small, dark object that disappeared into the shadow below. The craft continued along a ridgeline, pausing every few seconds to release another object. Cole recognized the systematic pattern. The drops weren’t random.

His stomach clenched as understanding hit.

The first explosion came as a muted thump that Cole felt through his knees more than heard. Three seconds later, another detonation shook the mountain, then a third. The sound was wrong—too quiet for the size of the blast he expected. The charges had been placed to direct their force inward, into the mountain’s face.

Cole watched in horror as a crack appeared in the ice pack, spreading like a spider web across the pristine white surface. The explosions continued in sequence, each one timed to build on the damage of the last. The mountain seemed to shudder with each impact, the vibrations traveling through the frozen ground into Cole’s bones.

A deep groan emerged from the rock face as tons of snow and ice shifted. The sunlight caught the leading edge of the developing avalanche, turning it a brilliant white as the entire face of the mountain moved.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Izzy pulled out the spare gloves and helped Serena put them on, then repeated the process with the socks. They were thick and wooly and Serena had to work hard to get her shoes back on. It wasn’t as good as boots, but it was better than nothing. Izzy pulled the watch cap over Serena’s head, then turned to the cave entrance.

She removed her own gloves and tucked them into a coat pocket. The cold bit into her fingers as she gripped her Glock and poked her head out of the cave entrance. She scanned for threats, knowing there was every chance she wouldn’t see Raven unless he wanted to be seen.

Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, each drop amplified by the stone acoustics. Serena stumbled on the uneven floor, and Mal caught her before she fell. The sound of shifting gravel under their boots made Izzy wince. If Raven was listening through that radio, he’d hear every scrape and shuffle.

Izzy led them out. They emerged onto the snow-covered outcrop, the transition from cave darkness to morning light momentarily blinding. The temperature dropped another ten degrees without the cave walls to block the wind. Their earlier tracks carved a clear path, leading down the mountain face like an arrow. Izzy noted another set of footprints led the other way.

As soon as she was out of the cave, Serena grabbed Izzy’s arm. “It’s Michael.”

Izzy frowned. “Who’s Michael?”

“The guy I’ve been seeing. He’s the one who kidnapped me from the clinic. He turned up out of the blue—I thought it was cute until he pulled a gun.”

Izzy nodded. “You said you met him online?”

“Yes.” Serena looked on the verge of tears. “I’m such a fool.”

“No, Serena, you’re a good person who got caught up in a sick person’s games. We suspect the man you know as Michael is actually JJ Raven. He used to be in the army and blames Cole for the end of his career.”

“What was he going to do with me?”

Izzy didn’t want to think about it, let alone get Serena thinking about it. “He wanted to lure Cole up here. But right now, we have to focus on getting you off this mountain.”

She scanned the surrounding terrain, searching for movement against the white expanse. The snow conditions had set hard overnight, their crampons barely scratching the icy surface. The exposure made her neck prickle.

Mal adjusted his grip on Serena, the movement causing a cascade of small ice crystals to skitter down the slope. The sound seemed to hang in the air. Izzy forced herself to breathe steadily, though her heart raced. They were exposed here, vulnerable, but they had no choice but to move forward.

Izzy couldn’t move. The wind whipped across the exposed mountainside as she shrugged off her backpack. Her muscles protested after hours of climbing, but her mind was clear. She couldn’t abandon Cole up here.

“Take her down.” Izzy pressed the pack into Mal’s gloved hands. “Get her to safety.”

Mal’s face tightened. “You’re not staying up here alone. The temperature’s only going to drop, and you’ve got no gear.”

Izzy unzipped the side pocket and pulled out a water bottle. “I’ll keep this. The rest is yours.”

“That’s not enough.” Mal shifted his weight, ice crunching under his boots. “You get stuck up here without proper equipment, you’ll freeze.”

“I’m not leaving without Cole.” Izzy checked her weapon, the metal painfully cold against her bare hands. “Raven has some equipment in the cave. I’ll use it if I have to.”

Serena swayed on her feet, cold and exhaustion etched into her face. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and she trembled despite Mal’s supportive grip. “Dr. Barrow is up here?” she whispered. “If anything happens to him . . .”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” Izzy squeezed Serena’s arm. “But you need to get off this mountain. Now.”

Mal studied the terrain below, his expression grim. “At least take some emergency supplies⁠—”

“No time.” Izzy tucked the water bottle into her coat. “The longer we stand here arguing, the colder it gets, and the closer Raven gets. Go.”

The weight of the moment hung between them. Mal opened his mouth to object again, then closed it. He adjusted his grip on Serena and nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Don’t die up here, Sheriff.”

He turned toward the descent path, carefully guiding Serena’s unsteady steps.

The first boom startled Izzy, an unnatural sound that didn’t belong on the mountain. The second and third explosions followed in quick succession, each one sending vibrations through the frozen ground beneath her boots.

Izzy spun toward the sound, her heart lurching as she watched the mountainside above them shift. The movement seemed wrong, like watching furniture slide across a tilting floor. The pristine white surface fractured, dark lines spreading like lightning across the ice pack.

“Move! Move! Move!” Mal’s voice cracked with urgency.

A deep rumble built beneath the surface, a sound Izzy felt in her guts more than heard. The vibrations intensified, traveling up through her crampon spikes into her bones. The air pressure dropped, making her ears pop.

The sound of ice breaking apart filled the air. Sharp cracks and grinding groans as the frozen sheet began to separate. The noise grew exponentially, drowning out even Mal’s shouts. Small fragments of ice skittered past her boots, harbingers of the mass of snow and ice now sliding down the mountain face.

The entire slope seemed to come alive, the surface rippling as layers of compacted ice broke free. A slow movement at first, almost graceful, but Izzy could see the speed building. The massive ice sheet was transforming into a moving wall of white, and they stood directly in its path.

Mal shoved Serena into Izzy, which seemed to wake her from her stupor, watching the earth crashing down on them.

Izzy grabbed Serena’s arm, and they stumbled backward. Ice particles filled the air, stinging her face as the avalanche gathered momentum. The ground beneath their feet shuddered with increasing violence. Each step felt wrong, like trying to run across a bouncy castle.

Serena’s legs gave out. Izzy caught her weight, nearly going down herself as Mal grabbed them both. They half dragged, half carried Serena toward the cave entrance. The sound grew impossibly louder, drowning out their ragged breathing and the scrape of their crampons against ice.

White powder churned around them, thick as fog, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

They plunged into the darkness of the cave and scrambled deeper into the space. The roar followed them in, amplified by the rock chamber until Izzy could feel it in her teeth. They hit the back wall, and Izzy felt herself being dragged down to the ground.

“Down!” Mal shouted. “Duck and cover!”

They curled into tight balls, arms wrapped over their heads. The cave floor vibrated beneath them as the avalanche hit. The sound became physical, a presence that pressed against Izzy’s body. Dirt and small rocks showered down from between the boulders forming the cave’s ceiling.

The temperature plummeted as snow forced its way through every crack. Fine powder filled the air, coating Izzy’s face and hands with frost. She could taste mineral dust on her tongue, feel grit between her teeth.

The light from the entrance dimmed, then vanished completely as the avalanche sealed them in. The darkness felt absolute. Through the thunderous noise, Izzy felt Serena’s sharp, panicked breathing beside her.

The cave groaned around them. Larger rocks shifted overhead, the sound of stone grinding against stone mixing with the avalanche’s roar. Izzy pressed herself tighter against the wall, willing the ancient boulders to hold. If the cave collapsed, no one would find them until spring.

Minutes stretched like hours as the mountain moved above them. Eventually, the violence began to subside, the thunderous roar fading to a distant rumble. The air cleared, though fine powder still drifted down from above.

When Izzy finally lifted her head, there was nothing but absolute darkness. Mal unfurled his body, and his camp light shone from where it was tucked against his belly. He dragged himself into a seated position against the wall, then held the light out.

Izzy saw only smooth white where the cave entrance had been. A solid wall of snow and ice sealed them inside, transforming their shelter into a tomb.

* * *

Cole was driven face-first into the ground as the mountain shuddered beneath him. The rumbling grew until it filled Cole’s skull, drowning out everything else except the echo of Izzy’s voice from the radio moments before.

“Serena, it’s okay.”

Those words replayed in Cole’s mind as he watched the cascade of ice and snow thunder down the mountain face. His throat constricted as understanding slammed into him. Raven hadn’t brought him here to kill him. Not yet. This was about making Cole watch.

The former mountain infantry captain had chosen this location. Cole remembered how Raven had operated in the Hindu Kush, using the terrain as a weapon. He’d study a mountain for days, learning its weaknesses, understanding how snow accumulated on its faces. The cave where he’d held Serena wasn’t random—it was positioned exactly where an avalanche would hit with maximum force.

Cole surged to his feet, his crampons slipping on the ice as rage overtook fear. “What the hell have you done?”

The words tore from his throat, echoing across the mountainside. The avalanche’s rumble had faded, leaving an unnatural silence in its wake.

Raven’s posture remained relaxed, the rifle hanging easy across his chest, his sidearm back in its holster. “This is your fault, Doc. I gave simple instructions. Come alone.” His tone carried the same patronizing edge he’d used when dressing down junior officers. “You really should learn to follow orders.”

Cole’s legs trembled from the climb and cold, but he forced himself to stand straighter. Twenty yards separated them on the mountainside, Raven positioned slightly lower on the slope. Below him was the ledge that led back to the real world.

“What now?” Cole’s voice cracked. “You’ve had your revenge.”

“Initially, I hoped you’d rot in prison.” Raven adjusted his grip on the rifle, almost casual. “Plenty of time to reflect on your choices, how you ruined my life. That was Plan A.”

Cole gestured at the devastation below. “And this?”

“A variation.” Raven’s lips curved in what might have been a smile. “You kill Serena, then die from exposure up here. Simple, clean.” He cocked his head. “But you won’t let that happen now, will you? Which means I don’t need you anymore.”

Cole’s mind raced. “They’ll find my body and know I was shot.”

“That’s why you need to disappear. Never be found.” Raven’s voice carried that same detached tone, like discussing the weather rather than murder.

“How exactly do you plan to get a dead body off this mountain? Carry me?”

“It’s easy.” Raven’s lips curved into a cold smile. “I know how to make a sled. Did it in Afghanistan to save a worthy life.” He spat onto the ice. “And I did it when I had to end an unworthy one with that bitch Delgado and drag her carcass up here. I can do it with you. I can deposit parts of you all over the country. Hell, all over the world.”

Wind whipped across the exposed slope, carrying ice crystals that stung Cole’s face. Below them, the avalanche had transformed the mountain’s face into an alien landscape of broken ice and snow.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to walk back down to the ledge?” Raven gestured down the slope. “It would make things easier for me.”

Cole’s muscles tensed as he assessed his options. The drop off the ledge behind Raven meant certain death. Charging the mercenary would get him shot. The only path left led up toward the peak, where the terrain would work against any escape attempt.

“No chance.”

“So be it.” Raven slipped his sidearm out of its holster and pointed it at Cole.

A flash of grey and white burst from the mountain shadows, accompanied by a bone-chilling growl. Nanook’s massive form sailed through the air, his thick winter coat bristling as he slammed into Raven with devastating force.

The impact knocked Raven onto his back, sending the pistol sliding across the ice. But even as Nanook’s powerful jaws clamped onto his left arm, Raven showed no sign of pain or panic.

Cole charged forward, even his crampons struggling for purchase on the frozen surface. Before he could close the distance, Raven’s arm swung around the dog’s body. The gunshot cracked across the mountainside.

White-hot pain exploded through Cole’s right arm. The force spun him like a top, his feet leaving the ground as the bullet’s impact threw him backward. His vision blurred, the world tilting as he hit the ice. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Through the haze of pain and disorientation, Cole saw Raven bring the rifle back toward Nanook.

The dog’s instincts must have sensed the threat as he released his grip on Raven’s left arm and lunged for the arm holding the weapon. Powerful jaws snapped shut on Raven’s right forearm, eliciting the first real sound of pain from the former captain. The gun fell slack on its sling.

Then, before Raven could gather the weapon, Nanook released his grip and bounded away. Cole’s heart seized as he watched his faithful companion slide down the slope, then sprint across the narrow ridge of snow and rock. Without hesitation, Nanook launched himself over the edge, disappearing into the darkness of the ravine below.

“Nanook!” The cry tore from Cole’s throat, raw with desperation and pain.

Cole stared at the empty space where Nanook had disappeared, his mind refusing to process what he’d just witnessed. Even Raven seemed frozen, his tactical composure shattered by the unexpected suicide.

The wound in Cole’s arm throbbed, blood seeping through his jacket sleeve and dripping onto the snow. His faithful companion, his friend through countless lonely nights, gone in an instant.

Raven shook off his surprise and tried to regather the rifle. Cole’s mind cleared, and he knew what he had to do.

Without hesitation, Cole threw himself into a slide, boots first, letting gravity and the ice work for him. His hip slammed into the frozen surface as he accelerated down the slope. Raven got off two quick shots from his prone position, the reports echoing across the mountain face, but Cole’s momentum carried him straight into the former captain’s legs.

The impact sent Raven spinning. Cole continued his slide, unable to stop the ice carrying him toward the ledge at terrifying speed. His crampons scraped uselessly against the surface as more shots cracked out behind him.

Ice chips exploded where the bullets struck around him. The ledge approached fast, beyond it nothing but air and a thousand-foot drop. Cole pushed himself to his feet and ran the final yards, each step bringing him closer to the ravine.

Without slowing, Cole launched himself off the edge. As he fell into space, a slight smile touched his lips. Raven might know these mountains better than Cole did, but Cole knew something the infantryman didn’t.

Cole knew he had a very smart dog.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The glow from Mal’s camp light cast eerie shadows across the cave walls as chunks of snow and ice rained down through gaps between the massive boulders forming their shelter. Izzy’s fingers had gone numb despite her thick gloves, the cold seeping through every layer of clothing. The cave felt smaller by the minute, their breath visible in the dim light.

Serena huddled against the far wall, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering but alive. No obvious injuries beyond some scrapes and bruises from being held captive. Mal swept his light across the ice wall now blocking their only exit.

“How much air do we have?” Serena’s voice quavered.

“Plenty,” Mal answered, shrugging off his pack. “These talus caves have natural ventilation through the rock formations. We won’t suffocate.”

But we might freeze, Izzy thought. Or starve. Or die of dehydration if we can’t get out soon. She pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on their immediate situation.

Mal retrieved an ice pick from his pack, testing its weight in his hands. He approached the ice-covered entrance, running his gloved hand over the surface.

He chipped away, not wild swings but controlled hits designed to chip away maximum ice while conserving energy. The sound echoed through the cave as he worked, ice fragments scattering across the rock floor.

Izzy watched his technique, the angle of attack, the way he leveraged his body weight, the rhythm of his swings. Mal clearly knew what he was doing, but after five minutes, his breathing grew labored.

“Need a break,” he gasped, stepping back. Sweat had frozen on his forehead despite the exertion. He swayed, steadying himself against the cave wall.

“I’ll take over.” Izzy grabbed the pick, mimicking his approach. The ice was dense, each impact sending shocks up her arms. She fell into a steady pattern—strike, lever, clear debris, repeat. The cold air burned her lungs.

Five minutes later, her shoulders screamed in protest. They switched again, Mal’s breathing still heavy but more controlled. He managed another five before fatigue set in.

“Let me try.” Serena pushed away from the wall, color returning to her face. “I can help.”

Izzy studied their progress. They’d carved maybe six inches into the wall. At this rate, they’d be here for hours. If they lasted that long in the cold.

Izzy watched Serena take her turn at the ice wall, her technique less refined than Mal’s but fueled by determination. Gone was the terrified woman they’d found bound in the cave, replaced by someone fighting for survival.

“Keep the angle consistent,” Mal advised from where he rested. “Let the pick do the work.”

Serena adjusted her grip, finding a steadier rhythm. Her face was flushed from exertion, but her hands remained steady. Five minutes passed quickly.

“I can keep going,” Serena insisted as Izzy moved to take over.

“Save your strength.” Izzy took the pick. “We need to pace ourselves.”

They fell into a rotation, five minutes each, then rest while the others worked. The pattern helped Izzy focus, gave structure to what could easily become panic. The sound of ice breaking became almost meditative, punctuated by their measured breathing and the occasional shift of rock above.

During Mal’s turn, he paused to catch his breath. “What if he’s waiting out there?”

“Raven?” Izzy leaned against the cold cave wall. “One problem at a time. But I expect he’s gone. The avalanche was meant to kill us.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Mal wiped sweat from his forehead before it could freeze, glancing at Serena curled up against the back wall. He dropped his voice. “She asked about air earlier.”

“You said we wouldn’t run out.”

“Probably not. But it depends how deep we’re buried.” He gestured to the ice wall. “The bigger concern is hypothermia and dehydration. And a fire to melt snow is a last resort. It would use oxygen we can’t spare and produce carbon dioxide, maybe carbon monoxide.”

The gravity of their situation settled over Izzy. “If Cole raises the alarm and they find the avalanche . . .”

“Better hope this ice wall isn’t ten feet thick.” Mal’s voice was grim.

Izzy fought to keep calm as her mind raced through scenarios. Cole was out there somewhere, possibly dealing with Raven. Would he know to look for them here? How long before anyone realized they were missing? Was Cole even alive? Yoshida and Scacchi would raise the alarm sooner or later, but they hadn’t made a plan for when. There were too many variables.

“My turn,” she said, pushing away from the wall. The pick felt heavier with each rotation, but she forced herself to maintain the steady rhythm they’d established. Strike, lever, clear debris. Strike, lever, clear debris.

The wall of ice showed their progress. A tunnel was starting to form. Not nearly enough. But they had no choice but to keep going, one strike at a time.

* * *

The impact drove the air from Cole’s lungs as his body slammed into the icy slope. The world tilted and spun, his sense of direction lost in a blur of white and gray. Cold bit through his clothes as he skidded across the crusty surface, the rough texture of the ice scraping against his back. His heart pounded as pure instinct took over, adrenaline flooding his system.

The face was steep but not sheer and carried him fast. Ice crystals sprayed up around him in a glittering cloud, stinging his face as the bitter mountain wind whipped past. The sky wheeled overhead, flashing between bright blue and the stark white of the mountainside as he rotated.

A massive boulder materialized in his path, its dark surface jutting from the white expanse. In that split second, muscle memory from childhood winters took over. Cole shifted his weight, treating his body like a makeshift sled. He leaned hard to the right, adjusting his center of gravity just enough to alter his trajectory. The boulder swept past in a blur of gray, close enough to touch. A flash of triumph surged through him, swallowed by the continuing descent.

His body caught an edge in the ice, sending him into a violent spin. Rocks peppered the slope, each impact sending shockwaves through his frame. Sharp pain exploded in his ribs as he clipped an outcropping. His shoulder took the next hit, followed by his hip connecting with something solid enough to make his teeth rattle.

Cole dug his heels into the spring-softened ice, desperate to slow his momentum. The surface gave way under the April sun, chunks breaking free as his crampons carved twin furrows down the slope. Through the spray of ice, he caught glimpses of empty space ahead—a ravine waiting to swallow him whole.

The friction bled off his speed. The final few feet seemed to take forever as he slid to a stop, mere yards from the ravine’s edge. Cole lay still, heart thundering as he cataloged his injuries. Every breath sent daggers through his ribs. His arm throbbed where he’d been shot. He hurt, but the pain told him he was alive.

A hot, wet tongue slapped across Cole’s face, startling him from his dazed state. His eyes snapped open to find Nanook’s worried face hovering above him, the dog’s thick fur dusted with snow crystals. Relief flooded through Cole’s body, pushing aside the bone-deep ache from his wild descent.

“Hey, buddy.” Cole’s voice came out rough as he wrapped his arms around Nanook’s muscular neck, burying his face in the warm fur.

Nanook whined softly, nosing at Cole’s injured arm where Raven’s bullet had torn through flesh.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” Cole scratched behind Nanook’s ears as the dog continued his inspection, sniffing at Cole’s ribs and legs with careful attention. The malamute’s natural instincts for injury assessment rivaled some medics Cole had known.

He tilted his head back, scanning the slope above them. The ledge where he’d left Raven was lost in the mountain’s geometry, hidden behind outcroppings of dark rock that jutted through the snow. The steep grade that had served as his escape route offered no path back up. The scree was too unstable for climbing.

He pressed himself lower against the slope, using a boulder for partial cover as he evaluated their position. The ravine edge lay five feet ahead, a sharp cutoff into empty space. To their left, the mountain face curved away in a gentle arc. The right side presented a mess of exposed rock and patches of ice, leading toward what looked like a broader shelf below.

Cole propped against the boulder and removed his pack. Nanook stood across his lap, and Cole ran his hands over the malamute, check for abrasions and breaks.

“You’re in better shape that I am, boy.” The dog looked as if he had been out for a run, not sliding down a mountain.

He got Nanook settled beside him, then did a more thorough self-examination. The bullet wound was a through-and-through in his upper right arm. Painful but clean. His ribs screamed with each breath, but the pain was sharp rather than grinding. Probable bruising, possible crack, but unlikely broken. Various scrapes and bruises made themselves known as he prodded his arms and legs.

Cole took care of the bullet wound. He stripped off his coat and sweater and shirt, then he applied antiseptic and dressing. He taped the wound and wrapped his arm in a bandage. Before he packed his equipment away, he got his clothes back on, his teeth chattering as he bit into an energy bar.

Time to assess the situation. They were hidden from the ledge above, which worked in their favor if Raven looked over the edge, but the white slope offering no real protection if the captain decided to work his way down to find out.

The sun was at its zenith and would soon head down below the peaks around him. Cole’s wet clothes began to stiffen with ice. The decision was being made for them. They needed to move soon, or the mountain itself would become as deadly as any bullet.

* * *

Izzy’s arms trembled as she swung the ice pick, each strike sending vibrations through her frozen fingers. The confined space of the talus cave amplified every sound—the crack of metal on ice, their ragged breathing, the occasional shower of loose crystals hitting the stone floor.

Serena huddled against the far wall, arms wrapped around herself under a thermal blanket pilfered from Raven’s equipment, while Mal stood ready to take his next shift at breaking through.

The ice pick struck again, and this time something changed. A different sound, hollower. Izzy paused, studying the surface. The packed ice had given way to a more crystalline structure. She adjusted her grip on the tool’s handle, its wooden surface smooth from their desperate work.

She struck again, and a web of cracks spread from the impact point. Her heart leaped as a faint blue glow filtered through the thinner sections. Daylight. They were close.

“I see light,” Serena whispered, hope creeping into her voice for the first time since they’d found her.

Izzy redoubled her efforts, careful now to chip away at the weakened sections rather than strike wildly. Each piece that fell away revealed more of that precious blue glow. The sun had to be hitting this side of the mountain now, turning their ice prison into a translucent barrier.

With a final strike, a section the size of her fist broke free. Cold, fresh air rushed in through the opening, carrying with it the promise of freedom.

But that freedom came with risk.

Izzy handed the ice pick to Mal and drew her Glock. She positioned herself near the growing hole, controlling her breathing as she had been trained.

“Stay back until I clear it,” she instructed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Working together, they widened the hole enough for a person to squeeze through. Izzy studied the opening, noting how exposed she would be during those crucial seconds. The blue sky beyond seemed to mock the danger she knew might await.

Izzy pushed through head-first, the jagged ice catching at her coat. The sun momentarily blinded her as she emerged onto the mountainside, but she forced her eyes to adjust, scanning for movement.

The avalanche had transformed the mountainside. What had been a clean snowfield was now a wasteland of broken ice and exposed rock. The debris field stretched down the mountain face, a violent reminder of nature’s raw power. Or in this case, man’s ability to unleash it.

Izzy pulled herself fully out of the hole, staying low as she swept her weapon across the scene. No movement caught her eye, no dark shape against the white expanse. The only sounds were the occasional settling of loose snow and the wind.

She turned back and braced herself against the jagged opening, extending her hand to help Serena through. Serena emerged shaking, her office attire crusted with snow and dirt from the cave. Mal pushed his pack through the hole and then followed.

“Everyone okay?” Izzy asked, studying their faces for signs of injury or severe cold exposure.

Serena nodded, though her teeth chattered.

Mal flexed his shoulders, working out the strain from their digging. “That wasn’t natural,” he said, scanning the mountain face above them. “This ice is too stable this time of year. The temperature’s been steady, no major weather changes.”

“I thought I heard the explosions,” said Izzy.

“Three distinct charges. Perfectly placed to trigger the slide.” Mal pointed to spots along the ridge. “Someone knew exactly where to hit it.”

Izzy processed this information. “Raven heard us on the radio. He knew we were rescuing Serena.”

“Which means what for Dr. Barrow?” Mal asked.

“If Cole reached him, Raven has no reason to keep him alive.” Izzy’s breath came out in visible puffs. “If Cole hasn’t made it up yet, Raven will be waiting.”

Serena hugged the blanket tighter around herself. “What do we do?”

“We get off this debris field,” said Mal. “In case something else comes down.”

They picked their way across the avalanche field, testing each step on the unstable surface. Izzy noticed Serena struggling to maintain her balance in her thin-soled office shoes.

“Those aren’t going to work,” Mal said, watching Serena’s feet sink into the snow. “She’ll lose her toes to frostbite if we don’t get her proper boots.”

Izzy looked down at her own winter boots. “Here, take mine.”

“Won’t work,” Serena cut in. “You’re at least three sizes bigger than me. You can’t go barefoot.”

Izzy cursed under her breath. The sun had climbed higher, but the air remained bitterly cold at this elevation. They couldn’t stay exposed like this for long.

“I need to find Cole,” Izzy said. “But Serena needs to get down before she loses her feet.”

Mal nodded grimly. “I can get her back to the snowmobile. Back the way we came.”

“You sure you can make it?”

“Done harder things in worse conditions,” Mal replied. “But you shouldn’t go after them alone.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Izzy checked her weapon. “You go that way. I’ll continue around to the trailhead.”

Serena grabbed Izzy’s arm. “Be careful. That man. . . He enjoys hurting people.”

Izzy squeezed her hand. “I know. Now go with Mal. Get off this mountain.”

They separated at the edge of the avalanche field, Mal supporting Serena as they picked their way west toward the rear of the mountain.

Izzy watched Mal and Serena take their first steps away when Mal stopped abruptly. He crouched, brushing away loose snow from a depression in the ice.

“Sheriff.” His voice carried an edge.

She moved closer. The avalanche had carved new features into the mountainside, but beneath the chaos of broken ice and rock, a clear pattern emerged. Boot prints. Not the scattered marks of someone caught in the slide, but deliberate steps heading down the mountain.

Izzy knelt beside Mal, studying the impressions. “Crampons.” She traced the air above one particularly clear print.

“These were made after the slide,” Mal said. “See how they cut through the disturbed snow?”

The tracks led away from their position, angling down toward the deeper reaches of the range. Izzy’s mind raced through possibilities. Could it be Cole, searching for her after the avalanche? But the direction felt wrong. These prints headed into the heart of the mountains, toward places only the most experienced climbers dared venture.

“It’s Raven,” she said, certainty settling in her gut. “He’s not running for the valley. He’s going deeper in.”

Mal nodded grimly. “Or following the route we came up. Through the meadow.”

The realization hit her. “The snowmobile.” She turned to Mal. “Does it need a key?”

“Yeah.” He patted his chest pocket. “Got it right here. It’s digitally encoded so he can’t hotwire it.”

Izzy studied the boot prints again, mapping the route in her head. If Raven was on foot, even with his experience, they had a chance to catch him, but splitting up meant leaving someone to search for Cole.

Mal seemed to read her thoughts. “Take Serena and go after him. On the snowmobile, you’ll overtake him well before he crosses the meadow.”

“What about Cole?”

“I’ll backtrack toward the trailhead.” Mal removed his pack. “Take this. I’ll go back and get Raven’s backup pack. It’s got plenty of gear in it, ropes and supplies. I know these slopes. If anyone gets stuck up here overnight, it should be me.”

Izzy did a quick inventory. Two magazines for her Glock. Emergency blanket. Water bottle half full. Basic first aid kit. Not ideal for a mountain pursuit, but it would have to do.

“If you find Cole . . .” she started.

“I’ll call base.” He reached into a side pocket on his pack and pulled out his satellite phone, turning it over to find the screen cracked and the phone dead.

Izzy’s heart sank.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find him,” Mal assured her.

Serena hugged herself tighter, her office clothes offering little protection against the biting wind. “What if Michael—or whatever his name is—is waiting for us?”

“He won’t be,” Izzy said with more confidence than she felt. “He thinks we’re buried up here.”

Mal handed Izzy the snowmobile key. “You’ll see his tracks in the snow if he’s ahead of you.”

“And if we catch him?” Serena asked.

Izzy checked her weapon one final time. “Then I hide you and the snowmobile somewhere and go after him. Anything happens to me, you let him go and then make your way down on the snowmobile.”

They split up, Mal heading back toward the cave for Raven’s pack, while Izzy and Serena started down the mountain face. Izzy took point, testing each step before committing her weight. Behind her, Serena followed carefully in her footprints, her inappropriate shoes making each movement treacherous. The descent would be slow, but the alternative was leaving Serena alone on the mountain.

“We need to move faster,” Izzy said, more to herself than Serena. “He’s got a head start, but he’s on foot. We’ve got a chance.”

The mountain stretched before them, magnificent and merciless. Somewhere ahead, a killer moved through the terrain. Somewhere behind, Cole’s fate remained unknown. Izzy forced herself to focus on the next step, then the next, leading them down toward the waiting snowmobile and the pursuit to come.

Chapter Forty

Izzy picked her way down the easy slope, watching for the dips and hollows that could easily twist an ankle or worse. Behind her, Serena’s teeth chattered as she followed in Izzy’s footsteps, her thin office shoes completely inadequate for the terrain despite the new socks.

A pattern in the ice caught Izzy’s attention. Two parallel lines carved into the surface, too uniform to be natural. She crouched down, studying the marks.

“Those look like cross-country ski tracks,” Serena said, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “A bit wide. Hybrids, maybe?”

“You ski?”

Serena nodded. “I go to Tamarack in the season. These look more like ski shoes. Altai Hoks, or something like that. Shorter and wider that long Nordics, but easier to carry up here.”

Izzy traced the lines with her gloved finger, then glanced around. There were foot steps up a slope that stopped by a distinctive rock. Of course, Raven would have cached equipment up here. A mountain warfare specialist wouldn’t leave his escape route to chance.

The professional in her couldn’t help but admire the tactical thinking, even as her gut twisted at what it meant. Raven wasn’t just surviving up here; he was thriving in conditions that would kill most people.

“We need to keep moving,” Izzy said, standing carefully. She offered her arm to Serena as they navigated a particularly icy patch. The ski tracks disappeared into the distance, heading toward the meadow.

Mal had left the snowmobile half-hidden beneath a scattering of pine branches, but the foliage had been tossed aside. Izzy noted the ski marks that passed within feet of their escape route. The parallel lines carved clean paths through the crusty snow, heading on toward the meadow.

Izzy circled the machine, checking for signs of tampering. No cut lines, no loose connections. The fuel gauge showed three-quarters full. She pulled off a glove and ran her fingers along the track assembly, finding no foreign objects wedged in the mechanism.

Beside her, Serena hugged herself against the brutal mountain cold. Her lips had taken on a bluish tinge, and her teeth were chattering.

“Let’s get you wrapped up before we move.” Izzy popped open the storage compartment, retrieving some bungee cords Mal had stashed.

“I can help,” Serena offered through chattering teeth, trying to hold the blanket’s corners.

“Save your strength.” Izzy worked quickly, wrapping the blanket around Serena’s shoulders and chest like a coat. She used a bungee to secure the makeshift garment, creating a crude but effective barrier against the wind. Then she used her multitool to cut two pieces out of the blanket and tied them around Serena’s feet. They wouldn’t do for walking, but would offer some protection on the snowmobile.

Izzy inserted the key, and the engine caught on the first try, its growl echoing off the surrounding peaks. Serena climbed on behind, her arms wrapping tight around Izzy’s waist. Even through layers of winter gear, Izzy felt the other woman’s violent shivering.

The snowmobile lurched forward as Izzy gave it gas, the track biting into the crusty surface. Wind whipped at their faces as they picked up speed. Serena pressed closer, seeking whatever warmth she could find as they headed toward the vast white expanse of the meadow bowl.

The frozen lake stretched out beside them, its surface gleaming like polished glass. The entire landscape held an untouched beauty that seemed at odds with their desperate flight.

Izzy kept her focus locked on the route ahead, noting each variation in the terrain that could spell disaster at these speeds. A hidden depression or chunk of ice could send them spinning out of control.

A flicker of movement caught Izzy’s eye—it was hard to say if she was imagining it, given the way her eyes were bouncing around. Her trained gaze tried to pick out details, searching for the telltale signs of a person. The shape seemed to shift and disappear, possibly ducking behind one of the scattered granite boulders that dotted the meadow’s edge.

Izzy’s mind raced through options. Cutting speed would make them an easier target if it was Raven, but maintaining this pace left them no room for evasive action. The lake offered a shorter route, but the ice could be thin after weeks of spring sunshine.

The sharp crack split the air like a whip, followed by the explosive shattering of the windshield.

* * *

Cole’s muscles burned as he hauled himself around the massive granite boulder wedged against the ravine wall, his ice pick gripped firmly in one hand. The pain in his injured arm radiated with each movement, blood soaking through his coat. He settled onto a relatively flat section of the boulder, his breath visible in the cold air.

The slope was too steep without assistance. Cole had one rope, which he could fashion into a harness to secure around the malamute’s chest and front legs, but he needed another line to get them both up the nearly seventy-degree incline. He assessed the slope for footholds, something to he could climb to and then haul Nanook up. If they could take the ravine a bit at a time, they might have a hope. Cole shifted his weight and felt the pain shoot down his arm. His heavy breath clouded his vision again as he laid back against the boulder, knowing that the climb was beyond him.

Nanook whimpered from the ledge below, then another sound caught his ear. Cole tensed, wondering if his hearing was playing tricks.

“Cole! This is Ranger Garth! Cole!”

Cole looked up, scanning the edge of the ravine. “Down here!” he called back, relief washing through him.

Mal’s face appeared over the edge. “Found yourself a nice spot for a rest?”

“Need a rope!” Cole shouted. “Nanook’s stuck down here. Can’t get him up this face.”

He watched as Mal disappeared from view, then reappeared moments later with climbing equipment.

“Sending down a line,” Mal announced.

Cole gave a thumbs up as the rope snaked down the ravine. Mal worked the line like a battle rope in a gym, flicking it hard into a wave to work around rocks and snags. Cole noticed that Mal had tied a large rock to the end to give it weight, and he dodged the rock and it landed on his boulder. He grabbed the rope, untied the rock, then disappeared below the boulder where Nanook waited. The malamute whined softly as Cole secured an improvised harness firmly around his chest and front legs.

“It’s okay, boy,” Cole murmured, giving the dog a reassuring pat. “We’re getting out of here.”

He worked his way back onto the boulder’s flat surface with Nanook beside him, the dog’s thick fur dusted with snow. After checking that the harness was properly positioned to distribute pressure across Nanook’s chest while leaving his legs free to assist in the climb, Cole called up to Mal.

“Ready when you are.”

Cole watched as Mal braced himself on the ledge above and began pulling. Instead of being dead weight, Nanook actively scrambled up the steep face, his powerful legs finding grip where possible. The malamute worked his way up the final section, the improvised harness holding perfectly. With a final heave from Mal, Nanook disappeared over the edge onto the safety of the ledge above.

Moments later, the rope slithered back down the rock face, its bright orange color stark against the white snow and gray stone.

“Here it comes!” Mal called.

Cole sat on the boulder and secured the rope around himself, creating a clean figure-eight follow-through with a backup knot. “On belay!” he called up.

“Climb on!”

Cole began his ascent, using natural features in the rock face rather than relying solely on the rope. His injured arm limited his mobility, forcing him to focus on footwork. Each movement sent fresh pain shooting through his arm, but he pushed through it, concentrating on the rhythm of the climb.

“Looking good,” Mal called down. “About fifteen feet to go.”

Cole reached a particularly steep section where the rock face became nearly vertical. He paused, studying the terrain, then his boots found invisible holds. With a final effort and Mal’s steady pull, Cole reached the edge and dragged himself onto the ledge with his good arm. He rolled away from the edge and lay on his back, chest heaving in the thin mountain air.

Nanook pressed in, nose working over his injured arm and landing several wet licks across Cole’s face.

“Izzy went after Raven,” Mal said once he’d caught his breath. “Took Serena with her on the snowmobile.”

Cole pushed himself to a sitting position, grimacing as pain lanced through his arm. “We need to follow.”

“Can’t,” Mal gestured at the surrounding terrain. “No fast way across from here. By the time we reached the meadow, they’ll be long gone. And we’ve got maybe four hours of daylight left.”

“We have to do something.” Worry for Izzy gnawed at him, intensifying with each passing moment.

Mal studied his blood-soaked sleeve. “We need to get down before dark. Once we get a sightline, we can radio for support.”

Cole nodded with a frown. Emotions couldn’t override tactical necessity. Getting trapped up here after sunset would help no one, least of all Izzy.

“Let’s move, then.” Cole got to his feet, Nanook staying close to his injured side.

* * *

Izzy’s stomach dropped as her brain registered the sound of gunfire. She ducked lower behind what remained of the shield, feeling Serena mirror her movement.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, but years of training took over. Time seemed to slow as she processed their situation—exposed on the snowmobile, shooter likely using the terrain for cover, unknown distance but within effective rifle range.

Izzy yanked the handlebars hard to the right. The snowmobile’s track bit into the ice, throwing up a spray of snow as they slid sideways. The engine whined in protest as she brought them to an abrupt stop, positioning the bulk of the vehicle between them and the direction of the shot.

Without hesitation, Izzy reached back with her left arm, grabbing a fistful of Serena’s blanket. “Down!” She pulled Serena sideways off the snowmobile while simultaneously pushing herself off. They tumbled onto the icy snow.

“Oof!” The breath rushed out of Serena as they hit the ground.

A metallic ping rang out as another bullet struck the snowmobile’s frame. Serena flinched beneath her, but Izzy maintained her protective position. A glance confirmed Serena was unharmed, though fear had drained the color from her face.

Izzy pulled up her coat and drew her Glock from its holster. She rose to a firing position, using the snowmobile’s body as cover while scanning the terrain ahead. Through the settling snow spray, she caught movement, a flash of white against white, perhaps Raven, perhaps not. She squeezed off two controlled shots, the reports echoing across the meadow.

Izzy dropped back down behind the snowmobile, listening intently for any sound of movement or return fire. Her breath came out in visible puffs in the frigid air as she pressed herself against the cold metal of their makeshift barrier.

* * *

Izzy’s hands trembled, not from the cold, but from the realization that she had no playbook for this situation. The FBI academy hadn’t covered snowmobile pursuits at ten thousand feet.

“Are you okay?” she whispered to Serena, who nodded mutely.

Izzy unzipped Mal’s pack on Serena’s shoulders. Her fingers found the compact binoculars tucked inside. She kept her body low, using the snowmobile’s bulk as cover while scanning the endless white expanse before them.

The meadow stretched like a frozen sea between towering peaks. Snow sparkled under the early afternoon sun, almost painful to look at even through the binoculars’ tinted lenses. Izzy swept her gaze methodically across the landscape, fighting the urge to rush. She’d seen enough of Raven’s capabilities to know he was a master of concealment.

There—a flicker of movement. She adjusted the focus, zeroing in on what looked like a shadow sliding across the snow. As she watched, the white-on-white outline took shape: a figure on skis, moving toward the fire road that led down the mountain.

Relief flooded through her at finally spotting him, replaced by fresh determination. She had him in her sights now. The rational part of her mind whispered that spotting him was the easy part.

“We won’t catch him on skis, not if he knows what he’s doing,” said Serena.

“He knows.” Izzy breathed in air that didn’t seem to have enough oxygen in it. “But he’ll need to stop and change off the skis and into boots and crampons to get enough grip for the icy road.” She slapped the side of the snowmobile. “We’re riding our grip.”

“But if his using hybrid skis, they have universal bindings. He could just kick them off and keep going.”

“He won’t leave anything behind. So let’s going moving.”

Izzy swung her leg back over the snowmobile’s seat, and Serena climbed on behind her. The machine roared to life, and Izzy followed the faint tracks Raven’s skis had left.

Her hands felt clumsy on the controls. She’d driven plenty of vehicles in her career, but a snowmobile at this altitude was something else entirely. The machine bucked and swayed beneath them as she fought to maintain a steady speed without losing control.

Izzy’s heart pounded, not just from the altitude but from the growing realization of what lay ahead. She’d seen the fire road’s switchbacks on the way up. They’d been terrifying enough then, with Mal’s expertise at the controls.

The edge of the plateau appeared, and Izzy slowed their approach. The valley spread out below them. The fire road carved its way down the mountainside in sharp zigzags, each turn hanging over empty space.

“It’s beautiful,” Serena breathed behind her.

“Yes,” Izzy replied tightly. “And steep.”

She killed the engine, the silence pressing against her ears. The thought of taking Serena down that treacherous path was necessary, but doing it in pursuit of Raven was another thing. The risks were too high.

Serena must have sensed her hesitation. “We have to stop him,” she urged. “If he makes it down there, we might never find him again.”

“He won’t get away,” Izzy said firmly, dismounting. She pulled the radio from Mal’s pack, no longer concerned about Raven overhearing. At this position, she could finally get a clear signal.

“Wahlberg, this is Sheriff Llewellyn. Over.”

The radio crackled. “Go ahead, boss.”

“I need you to get a team to the bottom of the fire road immediately. Suspect is coming down. Be advised—he’s an expert soldier with mountain warfare training. Approach with extreme caution.”

The snowmobile’s track bit into the ice as Izzy guided it onto the fire road’s first switchback. She kept their speed painfully slow, hugging the mountain face where the ice looked most stable. The machine’s weight shifted with each turn, making her stomach lurch despite her iron grip on the controls.

Serena’s arms tightened around her waist as they navigated a hairpin turn. The valley yawned beneath them, a dizzying drop that Izzy forced herself not to look at. Instead, she focused on reading the ice conditions ahead, watching for black patches that signaled deadly slick spots.

Three switchbacks down, Izzy spotted him. In his haste to escape, Raven hadn’t changed into boots and crampons. The white-clad figure moved with confidence on his skis despite the icy slope, maintaining a controlled snowplow descent. Even moving with caution, the snowmobile had better traction, so they were slowly gaining on the soldier.

The thought of his military record tugged at her. How many lives had he saved in those faraway mountains? How many soldiers made it home because of his expertise? But then she remembered Mari’s broken body, and Serena’s fear in the cave.

Medals didn’t excuse monsters.

They got close on the next switchback. Raven glanced back, and for the first time, Izzy saw his eyes. Black as a shark. He was balanced on his skis, even as he drew his handgun. The first shot cracked past them, forcing Izzy to swerve closer to the mountain wall.

“Get off!” Izzy shouted to Serena over the engine’s roar.

“No way!” Serena’s grip tightened. “Get him!”

Izzy pushed the snowmobile faster, closing the gap as they rounded the switchback’s inner curve. More shots rang out, then they stopped. Raven tucked the weapon away, clearly out of ammunition, and pushed his way around the turn.

Izzy’s heart leaped into her throat as Raven swung his rifle back toward them. She yanked her Glock from its holster and squeezed off two shots. Raven twisted around, his own weapon barking as rounds chewed into the mountainside behind them. Ice and rock sprayed through the air as his fire tracked toward the snowmobile.

Serena ducked lower behind Izzy as Raven’s attention snapped to the approaching turn. His ski poles stabbed into the crusty surface, but Izzy saw the moment it went wrong. His skis caught too hard, forcing him to compensate. His body lurched in the opposite direction, fighting for balance, but the correction sent him carving back toward the switchback’s apex.

Time seemed to slow as Raven’s white-clad figure sailed off the edge. One moment he was there, a pale shape against the brilliant blue sky, and the next he vanished into empty space, a mile above the valley floor.

Izzy eased off the throttle, careful not to lock the treads on the slick surface. She guided the snowmobile to a controlled stop halfway down the next stretch, the machine’s weight wanting to pull them downhill. Her legs trembled as she dismounted and crawled across the icy road.

At the edge, Izzy peered down at the next switchback. The snow-dusted pines remained unmarked. She scanned the vast expanse of air, wondering if Raven had somehow concealed a paraglider beneath his winter gear. The thought seemed absurd, like something from a spy movie, but she’d learned not to underestimate him.

Only hawks wheeled in lazy circles far below, dark specks against the golden afternoon light. No sign of a falling figure or deployed chute. Nothing but empty air.

Izzy returned to the snowmobile. The descent took three grueling hours, each turn requiring absolute focus to navigate safely. By the time they reached the bottom, shadows had begun to stretch across the valley, and the emergency lights of Wahlberg’s SUV and a paramedic van greeted them like a mirage.

Chapter Forty-One

Cole’s legs burned with each downward step, his injured arm throbbing in time with his pulse. The late afternoon sun had dropped below the western peaks behind them, casting long shadows across the valley below. As they rounded an outcrop, the lights of Darkness finally came into view, tiny pinpricks in the growing dusk.

“Try the radio,” said Mal.

Cole fumbled for the radio on his belt with his good arm, while Nanook pressed close against his leg. The malamute had refused to leave his side since he was pulled from the ravine.

“This is Dr. Barrow to dispatch.” His voice came out rough.

“Go ahead, Dr. Barrow.” Thompson’s voice crackled back.

“We’re coming down the north trail. Need units at both road access points.” Cole paused to catch his breath. “ETA about two hours. No contact with the sheriff—there was an avalanche. Suspect Raven is armed and dangerous.”

“Copy that.”

Mal adjusted his pack beside Cole, checking their position against the darkening landscape. “We should keep moving. I’d rather be off this rock when it gets dark.”

Cole nodded, tucking the radio away. His boots crunched against loose scree, sending small cascades of rock down the slope. Every few minutes, he found himself scanning the valley below, reminding himself that he was alive.

The sun had fully set by the time they spotted the flashing lights at the trail junction. Red and blue strobes cut through the gathering darkness, reflecting off the snow patches that still clung to the lower slopes.

Martinez stood beside his patrol vehicle, speaking into his radio. Two other deputy cruisers were parked nearby, their headlights illuminating the area where the snowy trail met the access road. The organized police presence felt almost surreal after a long day in the wilderness.

Deputies rushed forward and helped them toward the SUVs. Cole’s legs nearly gave out as he reached Martinez’s vehicle. Every muscle fiber screamed from the descent, but the physical pain paled against the knot of fear that had twisted in his gut since the avalanche.

“Let’s get you to Harris Regional,” Martinez said, reaching for Cole’s uninjured arm. “That wound needs⁠—”

“Where’s Izzy?” Cole cut him off, his voice hoarse. His hands trembled, though whether from exhaustion or anxiety, he couldn’t tell. “Have you heard from her?”

Martinez’s expression softened with understanding. He kept his steadying grip on Cole’s arm. “She’s safe. They made it down the fire road about an hour ago. She’s with Serena at the bottom checkpoint. Wahlberg and the FBI agents are there too.”

The words hit Cole like a physical wave. His knees buckled as the tension that had been holding him upright dissolved. Martinez caught him before he could hit the ground, helping him lean against the cruiser’s hood.

“Ben MacGill is driving them both to the hospital to get checked over,” Martinez continued, maintaining his supportive grip.

Cole pressed his palms against the cool metal of the hood, head bowed as he drew in ragged breaths. The relief coursed through him so intensely it was almost painful. Nanook whined and pressed against his leg.

“She made it,” Cole whispered, more to himself than Martinez. His vision blurred with tears he hadn’t allowed himself earlier.

“Come on, Doc.” Martinez guided him toward the back seat. “Let’s get you looked at too.”

Cole paused at the open door, letting Nanook jump inside first. Leaning on the frame, he glanced at Mal. The ranger offered a stoic nod. The valley had fallen into deep purple shadows, with only the emergency lights providing illumination against the gathering dark.

“Your truck and the snowmobile,” Martinez said to Mal. “We can send someone out tonight to retrieve them.”

Mal shook his head, adjusting the straps on his pack. “Leave them until morning.” His matter-of-fact tone carried the weight of experience. “Equipment can wait.”

A deputy took the ranger’s pack from his back and then led Mal to another SUV for the drive to the hospital in Harris.

The question that had been burning in Cole’s mind finally pushed its way out. “What about Raven?” His voice caught, torn between wanting confirmation of the man’s death and dreading the possibility of his survival.

Martinez’s expression tightened. “According to the sheriff, he went over the edge of a switchback on skis. Must have been nearly a mile up.” He paused, glancing between Cole and the mountain. “We’ve got search teams coordinating for first light, but . . .” The deputy shrugged.

Cole climbed into the SUV, and Martinez slammed the door shut. Before getting in the front. He started the vehicle, then he glanced back at Cole. “I won’t take offense if you have a little nap on the way, Doc.”

Chapter Forty-Two

The Robinson’s skids settled onto the rocky mesa atop the eastern mountains with barely a bump as Cole brought them in for a perfect landing. Izzy watched his hands move across the controls with the same steady confidence she’d seen that first time he’d flown her up here. The late afternoon sun caught the freshly cleaned windshield, still carrying the faint scent of industrial bleach that had stripped away all traces of what had happened in Cole’s hangar.

Below them, Darkness spread out across the valley floor like scattered chess pieces on a dusty board. The town looked small from up here, almost fragile, with Highway 395 cutting through its heart like a silver thread. To the west, the Sierra Nevadas dominated the horizon, their snow-capped peaks blazing orange and gold in the setting sun.

Izzy breathed in the thin mountain air as she climbed out, the familiar crisp chill filling her lungs. This spot held a special weight in her memory—the first time she’d seen beneath Cole’s professional mask and glimpsed the man she would fall in love with.

The breeze carried the scent of sage and pine up from the valley, ruffling her hair as she walked to their spot. From this vantage point, she could trace the route of their recent ordeal—the distant peak of Mt. Mollison stark against the sky, the fire road barely visible as a thin line cutting across the cliff face.

Cole reach into the helicopter’s storage compartment and pulled out a bouquet of desert wildflowers. The purple and yellow blooms looked delicate in his strong hands as he gently cradled them.

The setting sun painted long shadows across the mesa as Cole walked to the edge. He knelt, placing the flowers on the rocky ground. The petals trembled in the mountain breeze, their colors vibrant against the weathered stone.

“Mari.” Cole’s voice was soft but carried in the thin air. “You dedicated your life to helping others, especially women who needed protection and support in places where they had none.” He paused, his shoulders tight with emotion. “Your work made a real difference.”

Izzy’s throat tightened as she watched Cole struggle with his next words.

“I’m sorry you hated me for what happened. I understand why.” His hand brushed the flower petals. “I forgive you for that. I hope wherever you are, you’ve found peace.” Cole’s voice grew rougher. “Now I just need to learn to forgive myself.” His admission hung in the air between them. “I keep wondering if there was another way, something else I could have done.”

The wind picked up, sending a few loose petals dancing across the rocks. Izzy wanted to go to him, to offer comfort, but she held back. This moment wasn’t about her.

As Izzy watched Cole kneel at the edge of the mesa, she hoped he could forgive himself. The search teams had found Raven’s body, broken on the rocks several switchbacks down from where he had fallen. The impact had shattered him, his white tactical gear holding him together like a body bag. The recovery team had treated his remains with dignity—more than he’d shown Mari.

Major Cook told her they would lay him to rest at a veterans’ cemetery with full military honors. The thought twisted in Izzy’s gut. Part of her wanted to protest, to tell them to acknowledge the man beneath the medals, but she’d seen his service record, the lives he’d saved, the missions he’d completed, the Distinguished Service Cross he’d earned. Those facts existed alongside the monster he’d become.

The spring wind caught her hair as she walked to Cole’s side. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly. “What you did for Mari, both then and now. It took real courage.”

Cole looked up at her, his eyes catching the last rays of sunlight. “I wasn’t the one who chased an armed soldier down an icy mountain on a snowmobile.”

“That wasn’t courage.” Izzy felt a smile tug at her lips. “That was pure foolishness. I am never riding one of those things ever again.”

Cole stood and walked back to the helicopter, then returned with a blanket and a cooler. Izzy helped him spread the blanket across the rocky ground. The fabric snapped and rippled until he weighted the corners with stones. The routine of their mesa picnics felt comforting after everything they’d been through.

“How’s Serena doing?” Izzy settled onto the blanket, tucking her legs beneath her.

“The frostbite on her toes wasn’t as severe as they initially feared.” Cole pulled bottles of soda from the cooler. “She’ll need to be careful for a while, but with proper treatment, she should make a full recovery.”

“That’s good news.” Izzy accepted the bottle he handed her. “Though knowing Serena, she’s probably already pushing herself.”

“She showed up at the clinic this morning.” Cole’s expression held a mix of pride and concern. “I told her to take paid leave, that I could manage without her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Said she’d go crazy sitting at home?”

Cole nodded. “Almost those exact words.”

“I get that.” Izzy smiled, acknowledging the parallel.

The sun dipped lower toward the Sierra peaks as Izzy sipped her soda, letting the sweetness wash away the lingering taste of tension from the past few days. The valley stretched before them, peaceful in the golden light, making it hard to believe how much had changed since they’d last sat here.

“How did things wrap up with the FBI?” Cole asked, his voice gentle against the mountain quiet.

“Yoshida and Scacchi headed back to Fresno yesterday.” Izzy sighed. “Yoshida’s report was . . . surprisingly supportive. He backed my handling of the case, specifically noting my professionalism. He even included language supporting our conclusion about Raven being Mari’s killer, even though there won’t be a trial.”

Cole nodded slowly. “I heard the press conference drew quite a crowd. LA and Seattle news teams, LA Times . . .”

“Sacramento Bee too.” Izzy couldn’t help a small smile. “Hawkins wasn’t exactly thrilled with how it played out. He started strong with his opening remarks, but things went sideways fast. The reporters kept directing their questions to me and Scacchi instead.” She took another sip of her soda. “The only time they really focused on him was to ask why he wasn’t involved in pursuing Raven. Someone started a rumor he was playing golf that day.”

Cole’s eyebrows rose. “Golf?”

“No idea where that came from.” Izzy shrugged, though she couldn’t quite hide her amusement. “But it definitely wasn’t the campaign-launching moment he’d hoped for.”

“How was Scacchi in the end?”

“She shook my hand.” Izzy recalled the brief moment. “Said, ‘Pleasure working with you.’ That’s about as close to an apology as I’m likely to get.”

Cole took sandwiches from the cooler and handed one to Izzy. She unwrapped hers, the scent of Tam’s homemade sourdough bread mixing with the brisk mountain air. She watched him take a careful bite of his own sandwich, mindful of his injured arm.

“I wish Nanook was here,” she said, taking a bite.

Cole swallowed and gave her a small smile. “Well, you took his seat in the chopper. But he’s home resting. He won’t admit it, but he got pretty banged up saving my life. Got him on some mild pain meds and strict bed rest orders.”

“How are you doing?” Izzy studied his face, noting the lingering darkness around his eyes.

“The arm’s okay. Feels more like a burn than a bullet wound, honestly.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She held his gaze. “How are you?”

A genuine smile spread across Cole’s face. “I’m not sure I deserve to feel as good as I do.”

He shifted closer, wrapping his uninjured arm around her shoulders. Together they watched as the valley descended into shadow, pinpricks of light appearing one by one in the streets of Darkness below. The sun touched the peak of Mt. Mollison, its golden light fading to purple.

“We should fly before it gets full dark,” Cole said softly.

Izzy nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. I need to get back and give Nanook another hug for what he did.”

* * *

A decades old serial killer case comes back to haunt the county when a podcaster arrives in Darkness in book 4, Darkness Unveiled.

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Also by Zara Evans

Darkness Small Town Suspense Series

Falling Darkness

In Darkness, California, former FBI agent Izzy Llewellyn takes on her murdered father's role as sheriff, only to uncover a web of corruption that threatens everything she holds dear. With a killer targeting her and corruption in her own department, Izzy must decide who to trust before it's too late.

Echoes of Darkness

When a man is found hanged in the library of a small Sierra Nevada town, interim Sheriff Izar Llewellyn suspects murder. With help from the local doctor, she uncovers a deadly legacy dating back to the Gold Rush. But powerful forces want the past to stay buried—and they're willing to kill again.

Light and Darkness

When a woman's body is found in the Sierra Nevadas, Sheriff Izzy Llewellyn's investigation is complicated by unwelcome FBI interference and evidence pointing to local doctor Cole Barrow—the one man she's learned to trust. But in a town called Darkness, nothing is quite what it seems...

Jacaranda Drive Publishing

Los Angeles, California

www.jacarandadrive.com

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Jacaranda Drive

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

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