Chapter 1 #2
Here, there's nothing. No one. Just me and the wilderness pressing against the windows like something alive and waiting.
I walk to the window, peer out into the gathering dusk.
Trees. Snow. More trees. The landscape doesn't care that I'm here.
Doesn't care if I live or die. That realization should terrify me, but instead it's almost liberating.
No one's watching. No one's judging. No one knows Sierra Vale exists except Nate, and he's miles away by now.
I could disappear out here. Really disappear. Not like the cover identity that burned in Chicago, not like the fake death I sometimes wished for when the undercover work got too deep. Just... gone. Swallowed by white and cold and silence.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes my chest tight.
I turn away from the window, force myself to move. Unpack mechanically. Hang clothes on wall pegs, set up my laptop, arrange the case files. Keep moving. Don't think about how far I am from anything familiar. Don't think about the warehouse, the gunfire, my cover burning.
Don't think about the fact that maybe I chose Alaska because running away is easier than facing what I left behind.
The sun drops below the tree line. Darkness floods in. I light the oil lamps, supplement them with a battery-powered lantern. The cabin feels smaller in the dark, shadows pressing against the windows.
I should eat something. Should review the files. Should check the perimeter, make sure I know the layout before I'm stuck inside for the night.
The perimeter. Right. That's smart. Tactical. Get my bearings while there's still a very little light left.
I pull on the parka, grab the satellite phone, clip a knife to my belt. The cold outside is shocking even after just an hour indoors. My breath plumes. Frost is already forming on the cabin windows.
The marked trail loops around the cabin, fifty yards out, packed down by previous use. I follow it, boots quietly crunching on frozen snow, scanning the tree line. Threats. Landmarks. Anything that might matter.
The satellite phone beeps as I walk, searching for a signal. I hold it up, watching the bars climb. Testing range.
My boot catches something.
There's a sharp tug, a metallic snap, and the world tilts. My ankle jerks sideways, yanks me off balance. I hit the ground hard, snow cushioning the fall but not enough to keep my head from bouncing off frozen earth.
Stars burst across my vision. Pain lances up my leg.
I look down. Wire snare, hidden under fresh snow, wrapped tight around my boot just above the ankle. The more I pull, the tighter it gets. Professional work. Meant to catch and hold.
Panic floods my system. I reach for the knife at my belt, but the angle is wrong, the snare has me twisted. My fingers fumble with the snap, can't get leverage.
Then I hear it.
Heavy breathing. Low and rhythmic. Coming from the trees twenty feet away.
A shape moves in the shadows. Massive. Dark fur catching the last light. Black bear, emerging from the brush.
Big. Maybe two hundred pounds, lean from hibernation. hungry and dangerous. Its head swings toward me, nose working the air.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Blood roars in my ears. This isn't like facing down a gangbanger with a gun—I know guns, I know how people think, how they move, what they want. This is pure animal. Pure instinct. No negotiation. No talking my way out.
Scent markers. There must be bait near the trap.
The bear huffs, a sound like a locomotive releasing steam, and I feel it in my bones. Predator. I'm not a federal agent out here. Not a forensic linguist. Not even a person with rights and options. I'm just meat. Prey caught in a trap.
It takes another step closer.
My hand closes around the knife handle. I yank it free, slash at the wire. The blade skitters off the metal, barely scoring it. Wrong angle. Can't get leverage. The snare bites deeper into my boot.
The bear moves closer. Ten feet now. Close enough that I can smell it—musky, wild, the scent of something that hasn't bathed in months, mixed with the copper tang of old blood on its breath.
Close enough to see muscles bunch under thick fur.
Close enough to see the way its small eyes fix on me with something that might be curiosity or might be hunger.
The bear takes another step. Eight feet.
Every instinct screams to fight, to scramble away, but the snare holds me pinned. Can't run. Can't get leverage to cut the wire. My fingers are numb, shaking. The knife feels useless in my hand. Bears chase. Movement triggers prey drive. But staying still might just mean dying slower.
My vision tunnels. The bear fills my entire world—dark fur, massive shoulders, claws that could gut me with one swipe.
Seven feet.
This is it. Two hours in Alaska and I'm going to get mauled because I couldn't follow simple instructions. Stay on the trail. Don't wander. My body will be another statistic, another idiot city transplant who thought she knew better.
Six feet.
I can see the individual hairs on its muzzle now. Can see the way its breath makes small clouds in the frigid air. Can see death walking toward me on four legs, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
A shadow moves in the trees behind the bear.
Then a voice cuts through the silence, low, rough and commanding.
"Don't. Move."
The bear swings its massive head toward the sound. I catch a glimpse through the gathering dark—a man stepping from the tree line. Tall, broad-shouldered, beard covering half his face, carrying a rifle.
His eyes lock on mine.
And something in my chest goes still.