Chapter 3: Revelations
Marshal Tom Bradley arrives in Cedar Falls exactly twelve hours after I call him, which should have been my first warning sign. When someone in witness protection asks for emergency relocation, it usually takes days to coordinate. Tom showing up so quickly means either he was already nearby, or this was always part of his plan.
I realize which one it is when he suggests we meet at the abandoned grain elevator outside town instead of his hotel room.
"More privacy," he explains when I question the location. "Can't be too careful."
The grain elevator sits on a lonely stretch of highway, surrounded by empty fields and mountains. It's the kind of place where screams wouldn't carry, and bodies might not be found for months. As I park my rental car next to Tom's black SUV, every instinct is telling me to drive away as fast as possible.
But where would I go? Tom Bradley is my only connection to the outside world, my only protection against Marcus Webb's resources. If I can't trust him, I have nothing.
Tom gets out of his SUV, and something about his posture immediately sets me on edge. In Chicago, he was always professional, careful, slightly paternal. Now he moves with the focused energy of a predator, his hand resting casually near his weapon.
"Grace," he says, using my real name for the first time since I've been in Cedar Falls. "You sounded pretty shaken up on the phone."
"Someone broke into my apartment. And I got that text message. You said this place was safe."
"Nowhere's completely safe. You know that." He walks closer, and I notice his eyes keep darting to the empty highway behind me. "But I've got good news. We found Webb's leak in the Chicago office. The security breach has been contained."
"What does that mean for me?"
"It means you can stop running. In fact, it means you need to stop running." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Webb's getting desperate. He's made mistakes, left evidence. The DA thinks we can move up your testimony timeline."
"That's great." But something feels wrong. Tom's too relaxed, too confident. "How much earlier?"
"Tomorrow."
The word hits me like a physical blow. "Tomorrow? Tom, that's impossible. I need preparation time, security arrangements—"
"Already handled. There's a private airfield about fifty miles from here. We'll fly you directly to Chicago, get your testimony, and have you back in protective custody before Webb even knows what happened."
Every alarm in my head is screaming now. This is wrong, all wrong. Federal prosecutors don't change testimony schedules overnight. Private airfields aren't part of standard witness protection protocol. And Tom Bradley is standing too close, blocking my path back to my car.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I say, taking a step backward. "Maybe we should wait, go through proper channels—"
"Grace." His voice has changed, become cold and flat. "We both know there are no proper channels left. Webb's got people everywhere. The only way to end this is to finish it tomorrow."
"By finish it, you mean—"
"I mean tie up loose ends."
The gun appears in his hand so quickly I almost miss the movement. Standard federal service weapon, pointed directly at my chest. Tom Bradley, the man who was supposed to protect me, is going to kill me in this desolate field.
"You son of a bitch," I whisper.
"Nothing personal, Grace. But Webb pays better than the federal government, and my retirement fund needs the boost." He raises the weapon. "Any last words?"
I think of all the things I should say—demands for explanation, pleas for mercy, angry accusations. Instead, what comes out of my mouth is: "Sheriff Morrison knows I'm here."
It's a lie, but it makes Tom hesitate. "What?"
"I told him about our meeting. If I don't check in with him in an hour, he's calling the FBI field office in Helena." I try to project confidence I don't feel. "You kill me, and you'll have the entire Bureau crawling all over Cedar Falls by morning."
Tom's eyes narrow. "You're lying."
"Maybe. But are you willing to bet your life on it?"
For a moment, we stare at each other across ten feet of empty space. I can see him calculating odds, weighing risks. The gun doesn't waver, but his finger eases off the trigger.
That's when I hear the sound of an engine coming up the highway.
Tom spins toward the sound, momentarily distracted, and I run. Not toward my car—he's between me and it—but toward the grain elevator itself. The old building is probably structurally unsound, but it offers the only cover available.
Behind me, I hear Tom curse and the sound of footsteps in pursuit. The engine noise is getting louder, and I pray it's not one of Marcus Webb's people arriving to help finish the job.
I reach the grain elevator and duck around the side just as the approaching vehicle comes into view. It's a sheriff's department patrol car, and Jake Morrison is behind the wheel.
"Jake!" I scream, waving my arms. "Help!"
The patrol car accelerates, gravel spraying from its tires as Jake floors it toward us. Tom Bradley steps out from behind the building, his weapon raised, but he's now facing a dilemma—shoot me and deal with a local sheriff as a witness, or try to explain why a federal marshal is pointing a gun at a protected witness.
He chooses option three.
The gunshot echoes across the empty fields as Tom fires at Jake's patrol car. The windshield spider-webs, but Jake doesn't slow down. Instead, he yanks the wheel hard to the right, sending the car into a controlled skid that puts it between Tom and me.
Jake rolls out of the driver's side, his own weapon drawn. "Federal marshal or not, drop the gun!"
"Sheriff Morrison," Tom calls out, his voice switching back to professional authority. "This woman is a fugitive. I'm taking her into custody."
"Funny," Jake replies, using his patrol car as cover. "She called me an hour ago and said she was meeting with her handler. Didn't mention anything about being arrested."
My heart nearly stops. I never called Jake. Which means either he followed me here, or—
"You've been watching me," I say.
"Since the day you arrived." Jake's eyes never leave Tom. "Lady shows up in my town with a story that doesn't quite add up, federal credentials that seem too convenient, and nervous habits that suggest someone's trying to kill her. I pay attention to things like that."
"She's a witness in a federal case," Tom says. "This is out of your jurisdiction."
"Maybe. But attempted murder isn't." Jake takes a step forward. "I saw you draw on an unarmed woman, Marshal Bradley. That makes you the threat here."
Tom's composure finally cracks. "You don't understand what's at stake here, Sheriff. This goes way beyond your little town. Walk away, and nobody else gets hurt."
"Can't do that."
"Then you've signed your own death warrant."
Tom swings his weapon toward Jake, and everything happens at once. I scream a warning. Jake fires twice, center mass. Tom Bradley, corrupt federal marshal and would-be killer, drops to the ground and doesn't move.
In the sudden silence, Jake approaches cautiously, kicking Tom's weapon away before checking for a pulse.
"Is he—?" I can't finish the question.
"Yeah." Jake holsters his gun and looks at me with concern. "You hurt?"
"No, but Jake—" I'm shaking now, adrenaline and relief making my voice unsteady. "He was going to kill me. He was working for Marcus Webb."
"Who's Marcus Webb?"
And just like that, I realize there's no going back to Emma Davis and her quiet life in Cedar Falls. My cover is blown, my protection compromised, and the only person standing between me and a killer is a small-town sheriff who deserves the truth.
"My name isn't Emma Davis," I say. "It's Grace Parker. And I'm about to tell you a story that's going to change both our lives forever."
Jake looks at Tom Bradley's body, then at me, and nods. "I figured as much. Why don't we start from the beginning?"