She moved in careful bounds between covered positions, counting her steps. Five miles to her emergency cache. Four hours until full daylight. The odds weren't great, but she'd survived worse. Back at the station, Faulner paced in front of six deputies equipped with tactical gear and K9 units. His voice was cold and precise as he briefed them. Subject is armed and extremely dangerous, he barked.
She's already attacked officers and destroyed evidence. Shoot on sight, but make it clean. Self-defense only. He shared a meaningful look with his most trusted men. Rusk hung back in Faulner's office, typing quickly on a computer.
The screen showed a suicide note, carefully worded to paint Trina as unstable and delusional. Boss, got the note ready, he called out. Says she was hearing voices. Got paranoid about trafficking conspiracies. Real textbook stuff.
Meanwhile, Officer Diaz sat alone in the dispatch room replaying the last voicemail from Agent Monroe. Hidden in the standard check-in message was a code. Three seemingly casual words that made Diaz's blood run cold. Sunshine, breakfast, red. The FBI emergency signal for officer down internal threat.
In the woods, Trina moved steadily northeast, using the rising sun to maintain her bearing. She kept to the deepest shadows, freezing in place whenever branches cracked in the distance. The sound of dogs barking carried on the morning air, still far away, but getting closer. Her vision swam occasionally from blood loss and exhaustion, but she forced herself to focus. The cash was close now.
She'd chosen this spot carefully three months ago when setting up her cover, a decrepit farm storage container that looked abandoned, hidden in a grove of old oaks. After another 30 minutes of careful movement, she spotted it through the trees. The container's rusty exterior blended perfectly with the surrounding brown foliage. Trina did a full perimeter check before approaching, looking for signs of disturbance. Everything was exactly as she'd left it.
The locks combination hadn't been touched. She spun the numbers quickly, 8 to 4, 7 to 2. The door creaked open just enough for her to slip inside. Cool darkness enveloped her as she felt her way to the battery-powered lamp. Soft light illuminated the container's interior.
A spartan but well-equipped safe house. Medical supplies, weapons, communications gear, and survival equipment lined the metal walls in neat rows. Trina didn't waste time. She stripped off her mudcaked shirt and cleaned the wound properly using antiseptic that made her hiss through clenched teeth. The cut needed stitches.
She'd done this before, but it never got easier. Her hands remained steady as she sewed the gash closed, mentally reciting old military cadences to stay focused through the pain. With the wound handled, she moved quickly through her gear checklist. A fresh tactical outfit replaced her bloody clothes. Her backup Glock 19 felt reassuring in its holster.
She clipped her spare FBI credentials inside a hidden pocket and powered up a burner phone. The field map showed her position relative to the meatpacking plant, a straight shot east once she got through the woods. In the distance, dogs barked excitedly. The search teams were spreading out, working in a standard grid pattern. They'd reached this area within hours.