Chapter 8
CHRIS
The storm's over, but the danger isn't, and now I've got a former undercover cop/linguist with a death wish following me into the field.
Sierra sits on my sleeping platform, lacing up her hiking boots with methodical precision.
Three days of forced proximity in this cramped shelter have stripped away the careful distance we tried to maintain.
She knows where I keep the spare propane canisters now, how I rig the ventilation system, which corner holds the emergency supplies.
She's seen me wake from nightmares, watched me check my weapons obsessively, caught me staring at Bryn's photograph when I thought she wasn't looking.
And I've learned she's stubborn as hell.
"You're still not dressed for backcountry patrol," I say, pulling my spare cold-weather gear from the waterproof container. The jeans and fleece she's wearing won't cut it in the high country.
She glances up from her boots. "What's wrong with it?"
Everything. But I don't waste time explaining. "Put these on. More layers. The fleece stays, but you need a base layer underneath and a shell on top."
She catches the gear I toss her way, turns it over in her hands. "This is serious equipment."
"It's a serious mountain." I grab my tactical pack from where it hangs on a makeshift hook—a branch wedged between the boulder and the tarp.
Start loading it with essentials. Water purification tablets.
Emergency blanket. First aid kit with combat gauze and tourniquets.
"The dead drops are in the high country.
Four miles in, rough terrain. If you can't keep up, you stay here. "
"I can keep up."
The way she says it, chin lifted despite the exhaustion shadowing her eyes, almost makes me smile. City-trained but stubborn. I've worked with worse.
She strips off her jacket, pulls on the thermal base layer.
I turn away, give her privacy in the cramped shelter.
Focus on checking my weapons instead. The Glock goes in my hip holster, concealed under my jacket.
Extra magazines go in my pockets. The rifle—my old service M4—gets a full cleaning and fresh magazines.
After the last encounter, I'm not taking chances.
"Okay," Sierra says behind me. "How's this?"
I glance back. The gear's too big on her, sleeves covering her hands, but she's rolled them back and cinched the waist tight. She looks like a kid playing dress-up in military surplus.
"Better. Now the boots."
I dig through the gear cache, pull out a pair of Salomon trail runners—size seven, women's. Found them on the side of a trail months ago after a group passed through. Told myself it was strategic planning. Extra gear for emergencies, which is ridiculous because they’d never fit me.
Sierra takes them, surprise flickering across her face. "These are—"
"Close to your size. Yeah." I turn away, check my rifle to avoid whatever question is forming on her face. "Put them on."
She sits on my sleeping platform, laces them up. Her fingers move quickly, efficiently. When she stands, she tests her weight, bounces slightly on the balls of her feet.
"They fit perfectly," she says quietly.
I don't answer. I shoulder my pack, adjust the rifle sling. "Ground rules. You follow my lead. You stay quiet unless I tell you otherwise. You see something, you signal me—no shouting, no sudden movements. If I tell you to run, you run. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And if shooting starts, you get down and stay down. I'll handle it."
Her jaw tightens. "I was a cop in Chicago. I'm not helpless."
"Didn't say you were. But you're not trained for combat, and I am. So when the bad guys show up, you let me do my job."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
Good enough.
We head out just after dawn. The sky is clear, brilliant blue stretching from horizon to horizon. The storm left two feet of fresh powder that whispers and shifts under our boots. Beautiful and deadly—the kind of conditions that kill unprepared hikers every season.
But Sierra keeps pace. I set a moderate speed, watching her from the corner of my eye. She's breathing hard by the first mile, but she doesn't complain. Doesn't ask for breaks. Just puts one foot in front of the other, following the path I cut through the snow.
At the ridgeline, I stop. Let her catch her breath while I glass the valley below. No movement. No tracks except deer and elk. The mountain looks pristine, untouched.
It's a lie.
"How much farther?" Sierra asks, voice strong despite the altitude and exertion.
"Another mile. We drop down into that drainage, follow it north." I point toward a narrow ravine cutting through the forest. "The first dead drop is in a cluster of aspens. Old growth, hollow trunk."
She studies the terrain, committing it to memory. "How many dead drops total?"
"Three that I've mapped. Could be more." I lower the binoculars, meet her eyes. "These people are careful. They rotate locations, use encrypted communications. But they're not perfect. They leave traces."
"Everyone does," she says softly.
We descend into the drainage. The forest closes in around us, aspen and pine blocking the sky. Shadows stretch long and cold. I move slowly now, watching for signs—broken branches, disturbed snow, anything out of place.
Sierra stays close, matching my pace. She's learning to read terrain, to step where I step, to avoid the noisy patches of ice-crusted snow. Adapts fast. Better than I expected.
The dead drop sits in a hollow at the base of an ancient aspen. Someone carved out the rot, created a hidden compartment behind a section of loose bark. From ten feet away, it's invisible. But I've been watching this site for three months.
I signal Sierra to hang back, then approach the tree. Gloved hands pull away the bark panel.
The cache is active. Fresh supplies—energy bars, chemical hand warmers, a satellite phone in a waterproof case. And underneath, wrapped in plastic, a notebook.
"Sierra," I call quietly. "Get over here."
She kneels beside me, camera already in hand. Photographs the cache from multiple angles while I flip through the notebook. It's a logbook—dates, coordinates, coded messages in tight handwriting. Cyrillic letters mixed with English.
"Can you read this?" I ask.
She leans in, studies the text. Her finger traces a line of writing. "It's Russian. But the syntax is off. Like someone learned it as a second language."
"What's it say?"
"Delivery confirmed. Next drop—" She pauses, squints at the coordinates. "These numbers. That's near my cabin."
Cold settles in my gut. "You're sure?"
"Yes." She pulls out her phone, opens a map app. Her finger hovers over a location less than half a mile from her property. "Right there. I think that’s the clearing where I thought I saw lights the first night."
I take the phone, memorize the coordinates. Then I photograph the entire notebook, every page. Evidence. Proof that this network isn't just operating on the mountain—they're escalating. Planning something bigger.
"We need to find that site," Sierra says.
"Not today. We're exposed out here, and now they’ll know someone's been through their cache." I replace everything exactly as it was, seal the bark panel. "We map the other drops, then we plan our next move."
We're halfway through the ravine when I spot it.
Tripwire.
Fresh installation, nearly invisible against the snow. But the angle is wrong for an animal trap. Too high. Too precise.
I freeze, raise my fist. Sierra stops immediately, doesn't question it. Good.
The wire runs from a tree trunk to a metal stake fifteen yards away. Following the line, I spot the camera rig—small, weatherproof, mounted in the branches above. Motion-activated, probably broadcasting to a remote receiver.
Someone's watching this route.
I signal Sierra to stay put, then low-crawl toward the setup. The wire is connected to a simple pressure trigger. Professional work but not sophisticated enough to avoid detection. These people are skilled, but they're not military.
It takes me three minutes to disarm the trigger without tripping it. But the camera's already active. The moment we entered its range, it started recording.
Whoever set this up will know it's been compromised.
"Time to move," I say, returning to Sierra. "Fast."
"What did you find?"
"Surveillance. We're blown." I grab her arm, pull her into a crouch. "We're taking the high route back. Stay low, stay quiet."
We move upslope, using the terrain for cover. The forest is too quiet now. Birds have gone silent. The kind of stillness that comes before violence.
I've felt it before. Iraq. Afghanistan, Right before the attack on my team. The seconds before an ambush when the world holds its breath.
The crack of the rifle shot echoes off the rock face.
Bark explodes from a pine trunk six inches from my head.
"Down!" I tackle Sierra behind a boulder, cover her body with mine. Another shot shatters stone above us, sends fragments raining down.
Two hundred yards. Ridge line. I spotted the muzzle flash from the corner of my eye.
"Stay here," I order, and unsling my rifle.
"Chris—"
"Stay. Here."
I pop up, sight through the scope. The shooter's repositioning, moving along the ridge. I send three rounds toward his last position—not trying to hit him, just force him to keep his head down.
It works. He ducks behind cover.
I drop back to Sierra. "We're moving. Low crawl through that brush to our right. Keep the boulder between you and the ridge."
She nods, face pale but focused.
We move. Snow and dirt grind into my jacket as I pull myself forward on elbows and knees. Sierra follows, breathing hard. Another shot cracks overhead, too high.
Amateur. Professional sniper would've had us by now.
But amateur doesn't mean not dangerous.
The brush is thick enough to provide concealment. We low-crawl for thirty yards before I risk rising to a crouch. Sierra's right behind me, moving well despite the fear I can see in her eyes.