Chapter 9: Face to Face

The mining road to Copper Creek Falls is a narrow ribbon of gravel that winds through dense forest and steep canyon walls. It's the kind of road where two vehicles can barely pass each other, where cell phone coverage is nonexistent, and where someone could disappear without a trace.

Perfect for Marcus Webb's purposes, in other words.

I drive slowly, partly to give Jake and the federal agents time to get into position, but mostly because I need every minute to prepare myself for what's coming. In Chicago, Marcus was my respected boss, the mentor who taught me the intricacies of forensic accounting. Now he's a killer who's threatened the lives of innocent people to get to me.

The forest presses close on both sides of the road, and I find myself checking the rearview mirror constantly for signs of pursuit. Not that Marcus's people would follow me—they're already waiting wherever this meeting is supposed to take place.

After twenty minutes of climbing, the road opens into a small clearing beside a rushing creek. Copper Creek Falls thunders down a rocky cliff face about fifty yards away, creating a natural sound barrier that would muffle gunshots or screams. Three vehicles are parked in the clearing: a black SUV, a gray sedan, and Betty's familiar blue Honda Civic.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I park next to the Honda and scan the clearing for threats. No movement visible, but I can feel eyes watching me. Marcus Webb's people are positioned in the trees, probably with rifles trained on my car.

I get out slowly, hands visible, and walk toward the center of the clearing. "I'm here, Marcus. Where's Betty?"

"Always direct. I admired that about you in Chicago." Marcus Webb steps out from behind the SUV, looking exactly like the successful businessman I remember. Expensive suit, confident posture, the kind of presence that commands boardrooms and intimidates competitors. Except now I know what he's capable of when that presence is threatened.

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now." He gestures, and two men emerge from the forest. They're both armed, both moving with the kind of tactical awareness that suggests military or law enforcement backgrounds. "But her safety depends entirely on your cooperation."

"I'm here. I'm cooperating. Let me see Betty."

Marcus nods to one of his men, who opens the rear door of the SUV. Betty stumbles out, hands zip-tied behind her back, duct tape over her mouth, but alive and apparently unharmed. When she sees me, her eyes go wide with a mixture of relief and fear.

"As you can see, Ms. Carlson is perfectly fine. She'll stay that way as long as you give me what I need."

"Which is?"

"Everything, Grace. Every account number, every transaction record, every pattern you identified in my business operations. I want a complete debriefing of everything you told the FBI."

I look around the clearing, noting potential cover positions and escape routes. The federal agents are out there somewhere, but they might as well be on the moon if Marcus decides to kill me before they can intervene.

"That's a lot of information, Marcus. It could take hours to go through everything."

"Then we'd better get started." He pulls out a digital recorder and sets it on the hood of his SUV. "Begin with the Chicago accounts."

For a moment, I consider refusing, making him work for the information. But Betty's life hangs in the balance, and I need to buy time for Jake and Agent Torres to get their people into position.

So I start talking.

I give Marcus Webb exactly what he wants to hear: detailed accounts of the financial patterns I discovered, the shell companies I traced, the money laundering operations I identified. But I'm careful to mix truth with misdirection, providing accurate information about accounts and transactions that have already been compromised while giving him false or outdated information about the parts of his operation that might still be salvageable.

Marcus listens intently, occasionally asking clarifying questions or requesting specific details. He's still the sharp financial mind I remember from Chicago, able to follow complex money trails and understand the implications of what I'm telling him.

"The Cedar Falls operation," he says after I finish describing his Chicago network. "What did you find here?"

"Three shell companies: Mountain View Consulting, Cedar Falls Import/Export, and Glacier Peak Investments. Approximately five million in laundered funds over two years, using the grain elevator as a coordination point."

"What else?"

"Property transfers, utility records, business licenses. Enough to prove a pattern of criminal activity, but not enough to identify your other operational centers."

It's partially true. We did find evidence of his Cedar Falls operation, but we also found connections to at least a dozen other small towns across Montana. Information I have no intention of sharing.

Marcus studies me carefully. "You're holding something back."

"I'm telling you everything I know."

"I don't think you are. Grace, you always were too smart for your own good. In Chicago, you saw patterns other accountants missed. You found connections that should have been invisible." He walks closer, and I fight the urge to step back. "What patterns did you find in Cedar Falls that you haven't told me about?"

This is the moment I've been preparing for. The moment when I have to decide whether to trust that help is coming or try to handle this myself.

"There weren't any other patterns," I lie. "Cedar Falls was just one operation among many. I don't know anything about your other locations."

Marcus sighs and pulls out a pistol. "Grace, I really hoped we could do this the civilized way. But apparently, you need more motivation."

He points the gun at Betty, who makes a terrified sound through the duct tape.

"Let's try this again. What other operational centers did you identify?"

My heart races as I stare at the gun pointed at an innocent woman. Betty is going to die because of information I have, because of choices I made, because Marcus Webb values his criminal empire more than human life.

"Billings," I say quickly. "I found connections to Billings."

"What kind of connections?"

"Shell companies with similar structures. Wire transfers from the same offshore accounts. Property purchases that don't make economic sense."

It's true—we did find evidence of Webb's Billings operation. But it's information Agent Torres already has, so revealing it doesn't compromise the federal investigation.

Marcus lowers the gun slightly. "Better. What else?"

"Missoula, Bozeman, Kalispell. At least four other locations, maybe more. All following the same pattern—small businesses that exist on paper but don't actually operate, property purchases in isolated areas, financial transactions that are just below federal reporting thresholds."

"How much money total?"

I do quick mental calculations, mixing truth with conservative estimates. "Conservative estimate? Fifty million over three years. Probably more in locations I haven't identified."

Marcus whistles appreciatively. "Fifty million. Not bad for a small-town operation." He raises the gun again, this time pointing it at me. "Now, Grace, here's what's going to happen. You're going to get in my car, and we're going to take a little drive. Somewhere more private where we can discuss the details of how you're going to disappear permanently."

"What about Betty?"

"Ms. Carlson has served her purpose. She's no longer necessary."

The casual way he dismisses Betty's life—like she's nothing more than a business expense that can be written off—fills me with rage. This is who Marcus Webb really is: a man who kills federal agents and kidnaps innocent women without a second thought.

"Marcus," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "you don't have to kill her. She doesn't know anything, she's not a threat to your operation—"

"She's seen my face, Grace. She can identify my associates. That makes her a liability." He gestures to one of his men. "Take care of Ms. Carlson. Make it look like an accident."

The man raises his weapon, and Betty's terrified eyes meet mine. In that moment, I make a decision that goes against every survival instinct I have.

I run straight at Marcus Webb.

He's not expecting it—nobody expects an unarmed accountant to charge directly at a man holding a gun. I crash into him before he can react, and we both go down in a tangle of limbs. The gun flies out of his hand and skitters across the gravel.

"Run!" I scream at Betty, even though her hands are tied and she can barely move.

Marcus rolls me over and gets his hands around my throat. He's stronger than I expected, and for a moment, I can't breathe. But Deputy Sarah Collins taught me a few things about self-defense, and I drive my knee up into Marcus's ribs as hard as I can.

He gasps and loosens his grip enough for me to break free. I scramble toward his dropped gun, but one of his men kicks me in the ribs before I can reach it. The impact drives all the air from my lungs, and I curl up on the ground, gasping.

"Enough!" Marcus gets to his feet, breathing hard, his expensive suit torn and dirty. "Kill them both. Now."

That's when the forest explodes with gunfire.

Federal agents emerge from concealment on three sides of the clearing, weapons raised, shouting commands. "FBI! Drop your weapons! Get on the ground!"

Marcus's men react like the professionals they are, diving for cover and returning fire. The peaceful mountain clearing becomes a war zone in seconds, with bullets flying and people screaming.

I roll behind the Honda Civic and crawl toward Betty, who's lying on the ground near the SUV. She's not moving, and for a horrible moment, I think she's been shot. But when I reach her, I realize she's just pressed herself as flat as possible, trying to stay below the line of fire.

"It's okay," I tell her, working to untie her hands. "Help is here. We're going to be okay."

The zip-ties are tight and my hands are shaking, but I manage to free her wrists. Betty tears the duct tape from her mouth and gasps for air.

"Grace, what's happening? Who are these people?"

"Bad people who are about to get what they deserve," I say, helping her sit up. "Stay low and—"

A hand grabs my shoulder and yanks me backward. Marcus Webb, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, drags me to my feet and presses a backup pistol against my neck.

"Federal agents!" he shouts over the gunfire. "I have a hostage! Cease fire or she dies!"

The shooting stops abruptly, leaving an eerie quiet broken only by the sound of the waterfall and Marcus's heavy breathing.

"Marcus Webb!" Agent Torres's voice carries across the clearing. "Release the hostage and surrender! You're surrounded!"

"I don't think so!" Marcus backs toward the trees, keeping me between himself and the federal agents. "I'm leaving here with Ms. Parker, and anyone who tries to stop me will watch her die!"

We're almost to the tree line when Jake Morrison steps out from behind a large pine tree, his service weapon trained on Marcus's head.

"Let her go, Webb."

"Sheriff Morrison. I should have known you'd be here." Marcus adjusts his grip on me, making sure I'm completely blocking Jake's shot. "Drop your weapon, or I'll kill your girlfriend right here."

"Can't do that."

"Then you'll watch her die."

Jake meets my eyes over Marcus's shoulder, and I see something there—a question, maybe, or a signal. He shifts his weight slightly, and I realize he's asking me to trust him completely.

I do.

When Jake nods almost imperceptibly, I drop straight down, going completely limp and falling out of Marcus's grip. The sudden dead weight pulls him off balance, and for just a moment, his gun isn't pointed at me anymore.

Jake's shot takes Marcus Webb center mass. The man who killed Agent Chen, who corrupted Tom Bradley, who terrorized an entire region with his criminal empire, drops to the forest floor and doesn't get up.

In the silence that follows, I sit on the ground next to Marcus Webb's body and realize that for the first time in six months, I'm not afraid.

It's over. Finally, completely over.