Five snowmobiles sped ahead, spraying mud as they went. Soon, a few tall derricks came into view, with several white mobile cabins scattered haphazardly around them. The closest one was about the size of a shipping container and seemed to function as a guard post. Not far away, a few other cabins had been joined together to form a long, rectangular structure, which appeared to be the security staff's dormitory.
As the snowmobiles approached, a man dressed in a black uniform who had been waiting there jumped into a four-wheeled tracked vehicle parked at the entrance and came out to greet them.
"Hey, good morning, guys," the man said warmly.
"Good morning. How should we address you?" The group stopped their vehicles, and the lead officer, an older sheriff, shook the man's hand.
"Sergi Meyers. Is there something I can help you with?" The man smiled, appearing very agreeable.
"Yes, we heard that you've installed a lot of cameras in the area. We'd like to review footage from three days ago. You see, a girl had an accident nearby," Jan said, pulling out her FBI credentials.
"No problem. Our surveillance footage is kept for at least six months," the man replied, surprising everyone with his promptness. Even Jack felt a bit puzzled—had they been wrong in their suspicions?
Just then, two more tracked vehicles approached from the line of cabins and stopped in front of them. Five uniformed security guards jumped out, and Jack's eyelid twitched. It was now six against six, nullifying their numerical advantage, and at least two of the newcomers were carrying shotguns.
He instinctively pulled out his phone from his parka's inner pocket and checked the screen. As expected, there was no signal at all. If he was right, the tribal police's radios probably wouldn't reach the station dozens of miles away either.
It seemed that whenever he found himself cut off from the outside world, something bad was bound to happen.
"Hey, everything okay?" one of the newly arrived men asked.
"Yes, yes, everything's fine. They're here with the FBI to retrieve some surveillance footage," Sergi Meyers, who seemed to be the leader, explained. The others simply nodded and fell silent.
"What's going on with you guys?" Jan noticed something off and frowned as she looked at the men who had just arrived.
"What do you mean?" The atmosphere suddenly became tense, and after a brief silence, someone responded.
"Why are all your faces injured?" Jan nodded towards them.
Among the six men, four had visible injuries on their faces—scratches that looked like they had been clawed by a cat.
"Oh, that? Well, if you were riding a snowmobile at 60 miles an hour through those woods, your pretty little face would end up looking just like ours," Sergi Meyers joked, prompting his companions to burst into laughter.
No one on the other side spoke. Jack and the tribal police officers all wore grim expressions, watching them, making the situation increasingly awkward.
"Haha," Sergi Meyers chuckled awkwardly. "We're required to patrol the borders twice a day. It's a territorial issue."
The faces of the tribal police, including the older sheriff, darkened further. Territorial issues were a sore spot for the Native Americans on all reservations.
As mentioned before, in theory, the Native Americans enjoyed a high degree of self-governance on their reservations, with the right to make their own laws and exercise various rights. However, in reality, even the remote and barren lands forcibly allocated to them could be taken back by the federal government at any time or seized through various means.
For instance, the drilling camp they were in now—when oil was discovered here, the corporations could forcefully lease the land at a low price through the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA).
Thus, this place became a "nation within a nation," with security hired by the corporations maintaining safety, while the tribal police had no authority to enforce the law here. This was one of the reasons why the Native Americans held little fondness for the BIA, which was theoretically supposed to protect their interests and serve them.
"Do you all live here?" Jack suddenly asked, pointing to the long row of connected mobile cabins in the distance.
"Yes, yes, we all live in there," Sergi Meyers continued to smile warmly.
"Can we take a look inside?" Jack's question caused the tribal police officers to glance at him. Was this the polite way of seeking permission that Jan had mentioned?
"Ah, of course. Come on in, it's freezing out here. Why don't we all go inside for a drink?"
To everyone's surprise, Sergi Meyers appeared very open, even enthusiastic, as he invited the group of tribal police officers to walk over.
The distance from where they had parked to the mobile cabins was about four or five hundred meters—an awkward distance. The old sheriff glanced back at the snowmobiles they had arrived on, hesitated for a moment, then led the way, trudging through the snow.
Jack followed closely behind the sheriff, seeming much more at ease now that the other side was cooperating. He struck up a conversation as they walked.
"Only six of you to cover such a large area—that must be tough."
Sergi Meyers hesitated for a moment, as if unsure why this young man, whose identity was unclear, was suddenly being so deferential. He then looked at Jack's unusually young, handsome face and seemed to write him off as a naive youngster, casually replying.
"Yes, but with the help of those cameras, we manage. Otherwise, it would be really difficult. I've asked the manager several times to hire more people, but you know how Texas companies are."
"By the way, are you investigating that girl who froze to death in the snow?"
Jan, walking behind Jack, nodded. "Yes, we suspect she was abducted near the highway. A witness saw a vehicle that might have been involved."
"Wow, that person must have really good eyesight. There are no streetlights on the highway here, so how did they see it?"
Realizing that the man was trying to fish for information, Jack and Jan exchanged a knowing glance. This was a script they had prepared beforehand, and they hadn't expected him to take the bait so easily.
The police report and the local radio station's news broadcast had never mentioned when Natalie went missing. This guy had just given himself away.
"What the hell are you guys up to?" Deputy Sheriff Brandt, who was at the back of the group, suddenly stopped and looked behind him.
"What?" Sergi Meyers, who had been walking in front, also stopped and turned to look at them.
"Why are you surrounding us?" Deputy Sheriff Brandt's expression suddenly became tense. He took several steps back and drew his gun.
"What are you talking about?" The security guard beside him looked genuinely puzzled.
"What am I talking about? You've surrounded us from three sides!" Brandt shouted, pointing his Glock 17 at one of the security guards in front of him.
In an instant, everyone drew their guns, except for Jack. He hadn't brought his Glock today—his FK7.5, fitted with a stock and a red dot sight, was tucked into his waistband, perfectly concealed.
"What are you trying to do?"
"Put down the gun!"
"Drop the damn gun!"
Shouts filled the air as the situation rapidly descended into chaos.
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