Chapter 35

THIRTY-FIVE

The mountain air pressed in, dense and suffocating, as fog began to snake its way between the trees. Every breath felt sharp, every sound magnified by the stillness of the forest. Hatch stood motionless, the weight of her Glock hanging at her side like a lifeline. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, but outwardly she was calm, her every move calculated.

Rook, the squad's pulse-checker, knelt beside Bishop, performing a quick inspection, though Hatch knew he hadn't been thorough. Grateful he’d made that mistake, one she planned to capitalize on. But they weren’t stupid, and mistrust simmered beneath the surface. She could almost hear their thoughts: What’s wrong with this picture?

Hatch remained still, every nerve in her body quivering with the anticipation of what might come next. She calculated the distance between her and the man closest to her. If she made a move, she might be able to disarm him, but the others would gun her down before she got halfway. The odds were bleak. Then again, when weren’t they?

A small twitch caught her eye—Bishop’s fingers, just the slightest movement. It was barely perceptible, but enough to let her know the patch was working. He was playing his part perfectly, teetering on the line between life and death.

Suspicion swirled behind Stone’s calm exterior. He stepped forward, his suppressed HK416 still pointed downward but clearly ready to swing up at a moment’s notice. Hatch’s pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral. The tension in the air was thick, electric.

“What’s the cleanup plan?” Hatch asked, her voice breaking the silence, casual but probing. She needed to keep them focused on her words, keep the distrust from fully taking root. “Grizzly attack? Rogue militia? How are you selling this to the locals?”

Stone’s eyes narrowed, clearly not interested in banter. He didn’t respond, just pulled out his sat phone and stepped slightly to the side, making a quick call. His team stayed alert, their eyes darting between Hatch and Bishop, their fingers twitching near their triggers.

The soft glow of Stone’s phone illuminated his face in the mist, a sharp contrast against the gray morning haze. The sound of his conversation was low, but Hatch’s ears picked up the words she’d been dreading.

“We’ve got confirmation,” Stone said, his voice steady. “Bishop is down.”

There was a brief pause, a heartbeat of silence that stretched into eternity. Then, the cold voice of command cut through the static, sharp and decisive. “And Hatch?”

Stone glanced at her, eyes narrowing further as if weighing something. “She’s alive. Took out Bishop before we arrived.”

Another long pause. The silence seemed to stretch the seconds into hours, every muscle in Hatch’s body coiled tight, ready to spring. Then, the final command came through the line, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence:

“Clean slate.”

Maggie perched on the edge of the chair, her fingers clenched tight around the firefly keychain. The cold, sterile environment of the police station did nothing to calm the rising dread crawling up her spine from the moment she arrived. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, and her eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Each slow, deliberate tick amplified her anxiety, hammering home the fact that time had run out.

Pearl, the kindly dispatcher, had tried to comfort her earlier, offering coffee and making small talk. But the warmth in her tone had felt artificial, and Maggie could sense that Pearl didn’t understand the depth of her fear. She appreciated the gesture, but what she needed now was action, not pleasantries. Every second wasted felt like another nail in her coffin.

Her eyes locked on the door of the interview room. Sheriff Tuck had been in there for what seemed like hours, and she was growing increasingly desperate. She needed to tell him, to warn him. If they didn’t move fast, everything could fall apart.

Then the door opened. Maggie straightened, her heart thudding in her chest. The soft murmurs behind the door signaled that something serious was unfolding. Sheriff Tuck stepped into view and Maggie felt a sliver of hope. She began to rise from her chair, ready to speak, to beg him for protection.

But the flicker of hope was snuffed out as quickly as it had come.

The door swung open wider, and behind Tuck, another man stepped through. Maggie’s breath caught in her throat, her body freezing as if the air had been sucked out of the room. The man with the scar. The sight of him was like a punch to the gut, his gun pressed into Tuck’s back. Time slowed and for a moment, all Maggie could see was the man who had haunted her thoughts since their last encounter.

Reeves’s presence was an icicle of dread piercing her chest. He was calm—too calm—as he moved forward, the barrel of his pistol pressed against the sheriff’s back. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked toward Maggie, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Sheriff," Reeves said, his voice smooth.

Sheriff Tuck’s reaction was immediate, a low growl rumbling from his throat. "What the hell is this?" His hands were raised in slow compliance, but the anger simmering in his voice was palpable. He didn’t move, but Maggie could see the tension in his shoulders, the barely restrained fury behind his eyes. Tuck was a man used to control, but Reeves had just tilted the balance in his favor.

Reeves’s smirk deepened. His sole focus was on the small object clutched in Maggie’s hand. The firefly keychain dangled, and with it, the thumb drive.

"I think you’ve got something my employer needs," Reeves said, his voice chilling in its quiet confidence.

Maggie’s fingers tightened around the drive, her knuckles white. Her body refused to move, fear paralyzing her in place. She wanted to scream, to run, but her legs felt like lead. All she could do was watch, helpless, as the situation spiraled out of control.

Tuck, ever the protector, spoke with as much confidence as one could muster under the circumstances. "You’re not getting her. You want to hurt someone? You’ll have to go through me first."

Reeves didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed amused by Tuck’s bravado. "I don’t need to kill you, Sheriff. But I will if you force my hand."

Maggie’s heart pounded in her chest. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, the very real possibility that Reeves would kill them both if this went wrong. She had to do something. She had to speak.

"He’s lying, Sheriff. Don’t let him take me!" Her voice was small, shaky, but desperate.

Tuck didn’t take his eyes off Reeves. "That’s not going to happen," he said firmly. But Maggie could hear the tension in his voice, the concern he was trying so hard to mask.

The air in the room grew heavier as the standoff intensified. Reeves’s patience was wearing thin. "You’ve got no idea who you’re dealing with, Sheriff. The people I work for? They’ll burn this town to the ground to get what they want."

The threat hung in the air like a dark cloud, and Maggie’s terror grew. She knew Reeves wasn’t bluffing. She could feel the weight of his words, the cold reality that there were forces at play far beyond her understanding.

Tuck remained stoic, his mind clearly calculating. But Maggie could see the brief flicker of his eyes toward the gun against his hip, and then to the door. There were deputies outside, but they were out of reach. No help was coming.

"I’m getting impatient. I’d hate for this to end with a bullet in the wrong place." Reeves tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. "Can you live with that? One pull of this trigger, and it’s over."

The tension in the room was suffocating. Maggie was frozen in place, her body trembling, pleading with Tuck to do something—anything. The moment stretched unbearably, both sides locked in a dangerous game of chicken.