Chapter 10
GABE
The descent takes longer than the climb.
Darkness is complete now, only starlight to navigate by, and my body protests every movement. The conversation with Crane replays in my head on an endless loop—his threats, his revelations, the photograph of Mara that proved how thoroughly they've infiltrated our lives.
Seventy-two hours. Three days to remember something my own mind won't let me access.
My phone vibrates again. Another message from the unknown number:
She's beautiful when she's scared. Try not to take too long.
The photo shows Mara at the window. Recent. Maybe minutes ago.
My boot slips on ice and I slam into a tree trunk, ribs screaming in protest. The pain clears my head, focuses me. Getting killed on this mountain won't help anyone.
Slowing down helps. Testing each foothold. Using the techniques my body remembers even if my mind doesn't. Move with purpose, not speed. The cold seeps through my jacket but the exertion keeps me warm enough. Barely.
More memories surface as I descend—not the critical ones about the files, but fragments of my life before.
Training exercises. Mission briefs. The camaraderie of the unit before I realized what we'd become.
And one memory that keeps recurring: a woman's face, terrified, begging.
My own hands steady on a weapon. Crane's voice saying "Execute the target. "
Her name was Louise Shrake. Thirty-five years old. Journalist investigating arms deals. I pulled the trigger because I was told to.
That was the moment. The moment I knew I couldn't do that anymore.
The memory won't let go as I navigate the final steep section down to flatter terrain. Louise Shrake. I can see the lodge now, lights off, curtains drawn. Mara is in there waiting, not knowing if I'm alive or dead.
The tree line gives way to open ground. The front door opens before I reach it.
Mara stands there, rifle lowered but still in her hands. Her face is pale, eyes red-rimmed. Behind her, Zara has the shotgun.
"You're alive," Mara says, and her voice breaks on the words.
"I'm alive."
She's on me in an instant, the rifle clattering to the floor as she wraps her arms around me hard enough to make my ribs protest. I hold her just as tightly, feeling her heart pound against my chest, feeling the tremor in her body.
"He called," she says against my chest. "Crane. He threatened the whole town. Said we have seventy-two hours."
"I know. He told me the same thing." I pull back enough to look at her face. Her jaw is set. Her eyes don't waver. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I brought this to your door."
"Don't." Her voice is fierce. "Don't apologize for being in danger. Just tell me what we do now."
Zara closes the door, locks it, checks the security system. "Did you learn anything up there?"
"Some." The window draws me, but I stay back from the glass. "They're watching the lodge. Thermal imaging, probably satellite surveillance. We can't leave without them knowing."
"Can you remember where the files are?" Mara asks.
The question I've been dreading. "No. But I remember why I hid them. And I think... I think I set up a failsafe. Crane claimed I did this to myself. That I set up some kind of psychological trigger that would cause the amnesia if I was captured. To protect the information."
Zara's eyes narrow. "Is that even possible?"
"I don't know. But if it's true..." The implications spin out. "Then forcing the memories might not work. They might be locked behind safeguards I built specifically to resist interrogation."
The thought feels right. Solid.
"Then we figure it out." Mara's voice is calm, steady. "We have seventy-two hours. We use them."
"If I don't remember, Crane will kill everyone in this town."
"Then you'll remember. We'll help you." Her jaw tightens. "And even if you do remember, there's no guarantee he won't kill everyone anyway. But at least we'll have options."
Her voice is certain. My breathing evens out.
"But why did the amnesia kick in. Were you being interrogated," Mara asks.
“I don’t know.”
"You're trying to remember voluntarily."
"Which might not matter if the safeguard can't distinguish between voluntary and forced recall." Ice crystals melt against my skin as I drag a hand through my hair. "I need to talk to Dr. Sage. See if there's a way to unlock whatever I did to myself."
"In the morning," Mara says firmly. "Right now, you need food and rest. You climbed a mountain and confronted a psychopath. That's enough for one day."
The exhaustion is catching up anyway. Adrenaline gone, leaving me hollow. But there's one more thing they need to know.
"Someone's outside right now. Watching."
"Then we give them nothing useful to watch." Zara heads toward the kitchen. "I'll make food. We'll eat, we'll plan, and then we'll see what happens."
Her voice is certain. It helps.
Zara disappears into the kitchen. Mara touches my face, fingers coming away red. "Bathroom. Now."
The cut has reopened during the climb, blood dried on my face. Mara cleans it with gentle efficiency, her hands steady even though I can see the fear still lurking in her eyes.
"He showed me a photograph of you," I say quietly. "Told me everything about Phoenix. About Derek."
Her hands still. "I was going to tell you. I just... I didn't know how."
"You don't owe me your past, Mara. Not until you're ready." I catch her hand. "But Crane knowing about it—that's leverage he'll use. We need to be prepared for that."
"Derek doesn't know where I am." But her voice wavers slightly.
"Crane knows. Which means he could tell Derek. Use him as another pressure point." The thought makes my chest tight. "We need to consider all the angles."
"One crisis at a time." She applies a fresh bandage with careful precision. "First we figure out how to access your memories. Then we deal with everything else."
"Crane said something else. About me being smart. About building failsafes." A thought surfaces, incomplete. "What if the trigger isn't psychological? What if it's physical?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. A location, maybe. Or an object.
Something that would jog the memory without requiring me to force it.
" Dog tags cold against my chest through the shirt.
"These survived. The leather pouch with my mother's picture.
What if there's something else? Something I kept with me that would serve as a key? "
Mara's eyes light up. "Your belongings. When I found you, you had a backpack. We stored it...”
"Where?"
"The storage room. I haven't gone through it. Dr. Sage said we should wait until you were ready."
My pulse kicks up. "Show me."
The backpack is military-grade, weathered and worn. Mara brings it to the central room where the fireplace provides the only light. Zara joins us, and together we lay out the contents on the floor.
Tactical gear. A knife. Rope. Emergency supplies. Everything a professional would carry for wilderness survival. But nothing that screams "memory trigger."
"There has to be something. I wouldn't have left this to chance."
"What about hidden compartments?" Zara asks. "If you were that paranoid about protection..."
She's right. My hands find the backpack's seams, feeling for irregularities. There—a section that's slightly thicker than it should be. I pull out my knife and carefully unpick the stitching.
A small waterproof pouch falls out.
Inside: a USB drive and a photograph. Not the one of my mother—this one shows a woman, younger than me, with dark hair and eyes that mirror my own. On the back, written in my own handwriting: If you've forgotten, she remembers. Trust her.
No name. No location. Just that cryptic message and a face that should mean something but doesn't.
"Do you know her?" Mara asks.
"No." The word scrapes out. "But I trusted her enough to make her my failsafe."
Zara picks up the USB drive. "What's on this?"
"I don't know. But it's encrypted." I can tell just by looking at it—military-grade protection. "I'd need a password to access it."
"Which you don't remember."
"Which I don't remember." The photograph demands attention. "But that woman does. Somewhere out there, someone knows what I did with those files. Someone I trusted enough to leave instructions for if my mind failed me."
"Then we find her," Mara says simply.
"How? I don't even know her name."
"We have her face. In the morning, we show it to Zeke and Nate. They have military connections, access to databases. If this woman was important to you, chances are she's family or served with you. Someone will know who she is."
It's a thread. Thin, fragile, but real. Something to hold onto in the darkness.
"Seventy-two hours," Zara reminds us. "Starting when?"
Phone screen shows the time. The last message from Crane came at 7:43 PM. "About two hours ago. Monday night. So we have until Thursday at 7:43."
"That's not much time," Zara says.
"No. But it's what we have. So we use it."
The food is simple—soup and bread, but it tastes like the best meal I've ever eaten. We eat in silence around the fire, three people trying to find hope in an impossible situation.
After, Mara walks me to her room. Not the guest room where I've been staying, but hers.
"I need you close tonight," she says simply. "Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
We undress slowly, the intimacy of shared fear making every movement deliberate. When she stands before me in just firelight, I can see the tremor in her hands, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"I thought I lost you tonight," she whispers. "When that text came saying you were talking, I thought...”
I pull her to me, cutting off the words with a kiss. She tastes like fear and determination, her mouth hungry against mine. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I'm here," I say against her lips. "I'm right here."
Her hands find my chest, fingers tracing the bruises with feather-light touches. "You're hurt."
"I don't care."
"Gabe...”
"I need this." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I need you. Need to feel something other than fear and fragments."
Understanding floods her eyes. She takes my hand and leads me to the bed, her skin warm under my touch as we lie down together.
"Feel this," she says, guiding my hand to her breast, her heart pounding beneath my palm. "Feel me. I'm real. This is real."
I kiss her again, our lips engaging in a passionate dance, tongues teasing and exploring each other.
My hands eagerly travel across the landscape of her body—the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the silky flesh of her inner thighs.
She gasps when my fingers discover the soft folds of her womanhood, slick with desire.
"Please," she breathes. "I need you inside me. Need to know you're really here."
I position myself between her thighs, the head of my erection nudging against the entrance to her warmth. Our eyes lock as I push inside inch by agonizing inch, feeling her body yield to accommodate me. She's tight and hot and perfect, her velvety walls gripping me as I fill her completely.
"Yes," she moans, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Like that. Don't be gentle."
I'm not. Can't be. The fear and frustration of the night pours out in the relentless rhythm of my hips, each thrust deeper and more forceful than the last. She meets me stroke for stroke, her legs wrapping around my waist to draw me closer.
"Touch yourself," I rasp against her neck. "I want to feel you come around me."
Her hand slides between our bodies, fingers deftly circling and stroking that sensitive nub. I can feel the added pressure, the way her body starts to quiver around me. My ribs protest the exertion but I don't care, too consumed by the electric heat coursing between us.
"Gabe," she gasps. "I'm close. So close."
"Let go," I tell her. "I've got you."
She shatters beneath me, her body convulsing as she cries out my name. The sensation of her climax, the rhythmic tightening of her inner walls, pushes me over the precipice. I drive deep and hold, waves of ecstasy washing over me with such intensity that I'm left quivering in her embrace.
After, we lie facing each other, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Her hand rests over my heart, feeling it slow from the frantic pace.
"I'm scared," she whispers into the darkness.
"Me too."
"But we'll figure this out. Whatever happens, we face it together."
I want to promise her that. Want to believe it's true. But with Crane's deadline ticking down and my memories locked away, I don't know if together will be enough.
She shifts closer, her leg hooking over my hip, keeping me close. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, deepens. Sleep finds her even though it eludes me.
Sleep doesn't come easily. Too many fragments spinning through my head. Too many gaps that need filling. Louise Shrake's face. Crane's cold eyes. The photograph of the unknown woman.
The photograph sits on the nightstand. Dark hair, eyes that mirror my own. Somewhere out there, this woman has answers.
Seventy hours left to find her.