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 Falner'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 birdsong 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: 5 meters to her emergency cash. 4 hours until full daylight. The odds weren't great, but she'd survived worse.
Back at the station, Falner paced in front of six deputies equipped with tactical gear and K-9 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 Falner'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. "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 3 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 lock 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 mud-caked 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 bayed 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 agent's 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.
Falner'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. "Hey, boss, what about that FBI guy? The one who kept calling."
"Taken care of," Falner replied flatly. "Focus on finding her before she reaches civilization."
In the container, Trina finished gathering her essential gear; everything else would have to be abandoned. She reached into a hidden compartment and removed a weathered photograph, handling it with unusual gentleness. The image showed a young girl with bright eyes and a gap-toothed smile, standing proudly next to a science fair project.
Emily Martinez, age 13.
Last seen at a rest stop just like the one where Trina had been arrested. That case had brought her here, chasing leads that pointed to a trafficking network protected by corrupt law enforcement. Trina's jaw tightened as she looked at Emily's innocent face. The girl would be 16 now, if she was still alive. All the evidence suggested this region was a major hub for the traffickers, and Falner was clearly their enforcer.
Her expression hardened as she tucked the photo into her vest pocket. Every moment she wasted, that transport truck got further away with its human cargo.
She checked her watch: 5:47 a.m. Time to move.
The fluorescent lights flickered inside the empty gas station as Trina worked quickly at the manager's computer. Her stolen police credentials had gotten her through the back door, and her signal jammer ensured no alarms would reach dispatch. The morning sun streamed through dirty windows, casting long shadows across the empty aisles.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing the regional security network. Years of FBI cybersecurity training had taught her how to navigate these systems blindfolded. The screen filled with camera feeds from every major intersection and business along Highway 15.
"Come on, where are you?" she muttered, scanning through hours of footage. Her side throbbed where she'd stitched herself up, but she pushed the pain aside.
A flash of black caught her eye. There. The transport truck, exactly as she remembered it: no plates, heavily tinted windows, custom exhaust stack. She tracked its movement through multiple cameras, watching it turn east onto County Road 86 before disappearing into an industrial zone.