Standard procedure would be to call it in, but something felt off. The driver's movements were too deliberate, too calculated. Monroe reached for his radio, but before he could key the mic, headlights blazed to life in his rearview mirror. A truck roared out of the darkness, engines screaming. His last thought was that he should have waited for backup.
Back at the station, Trina pressed her shoulder against the emergency exit. The metal groaned in protest. Decades of rust fighting against her. Behind her, flashlight beams danced across the walls as officers searched the basement room by room. "Where are you, you sneaky [ __ ]?"
Rusk's voice echoed off the concrete. "Come out, and maybe we won't have to hurt you too bad." Trina threw her full weight against the door. It burst open with a shriek of tortured metal, triggering alarms throughout the building. Cold night air rushed in as she stumbled out into the darkness.
Sirens wailed to life, painting the world in alternating red and blue. Dogs barked in the distance. The woods beckoned, offering cover less than a hundred yards away, but her injuries slowed her down. Each step sent fire through her ribs and bare feet. There, by the emergency exit, someone shouted.
Flashlight beams swept toward her as she ran. Taser clutched tightly in her bloody fingers. The pre-dawn mist clung to the ground as Trina moved through the dense pine forest, each step calculated and precise despite her injuries. Blood had soaked through her black t-shirt, where Faulner's questioning had reopened a wound in her side. The fabric was sticky and warm against her skin.
She paused behind a thick tree trunk, listening intently. Distant sirens still wailed back at the station, but out here only the earliest bird song broke the silence. Her bare feet were cut and bruised from running across rough terrain, leaving a trail she needed to hide. Fast. Trina dropped to one knee beside a fallen log, scooping up handfuls of dark mud.
The cool earth felt good against her burning skin as she methodically covered her arms and legs, breaking up her silhouette. She lifted her shirt carefully and packed mud against the bleeding wound, gritting her teeth at the sting. It wasn't sterile, but it would help slow the blood loss until she reached her cache. "Just like Ranger training," she muttered, remembering similar exercises in Georgia's swamps. "Use the terrain. Become invisible."
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.
Officer Diaz paced nervously in the evidence room, Monroe's message playing over in his mind. He'd tried calling the agents phone repeatedly, straight to voicemail every time. The tracking system showed Monroe's last known location on County Road 23, but the signal had gone dark hours ago. This was bigger than a simple arrest gone wrong. People were dying.
Faulner's voice crackled over the radio. Team two, push northeast along the creek bed. Team three, set up containment along the highway. She's out here somewhere. Rusk joined the search, eager for action.