Chapter 8
GABE
After Zeke and Nate leave to coordinate the security rotation, the lodge feels both safer and more vulnerable.
Mara moves through the kitchen with sharp, precise movements—flour, yeast, salt measured out in perfect lines.
The scent of rising bread dough fills the air, warm and domestic and completely at odds with the tactical discussion we just had.
Zara sits at the kitchen table, her laptop open, coordinating communication protocols with the watch teams. "Finn's got the south approach covered," she says without looking up.
"And Mrs. Lancaster—yes, the sweet kindergarten teacher—apparently keeps a hunting rifle and knows how to use it. She's watching the eastern trail."
"This town," Mara says, shaking her head as she kneads dough with more force than necessary. "I knew people here looked out for each other, but this..."
"They're protecting you," I say quietly. "That's what matters."
"They're protecting you too," Zara points out, finally looking at me. "Whether you planned on it or not."
The words lodge in my chest, warm and uncomfortable. Less than a week ago, I didn't even know my own name. Now I have a community willing to put themselves in danger to protect me.
"I need to check the perimeter." The restlessness is getting worse. "Get a feel for the sight lines before dark."
Mara's hands still in the dough. "Take the radio. And Gabe? Don't go far."
The radio clips to my belt. I tuck Zeke's borrowed handgun into my waistband and pull my jacket over it. The knife is already in my boot.
Outside, the afternoon light is beginning to fade—winter days are short this far north—and the temperature is dropping fast. My breath fogs in the air as I walk the property line, my body automatically cataloging defensive positions and approach vectors.
The lodge sits in a natural bowl—three sides of forest, one steep rise toward the mountain. Private. But indefensible if they come in numbers. Too many places for attackers to hide, too many angles to cover. If the people hunting me come in force, we'll be badly outnumbered.
A cluster of boulders catches my attention—good cover, decent sight lines to the main approach. I'm examining the angles when the radio crackles.
"Gabe." Nate's voice, sharp and controlled. "We've got movement on the north trail. Single individual, approaching on foot. Not trying to hide."
My pulse kicks up. "Description?"
"Male, six feet, dark clothing. Moving like he knows exactly where he's going."
Already moving, I head back toward the lodge at a fast jog. "Keep eyes on him but don't engage. I'm coming to you."
"Copy that."
Mara meets me at the door, her face pale. She heard the transmission. "What do we do?"
"You stay inside. Lock the doors, arm the security system." I check the borrowed handgun Zeke left with me—loaded, safety on, one in the chamber. "Where's Zara?"
"Right here." Zara appears from the kitchen, her own weapon—a compact 9mm I didn't know she had—held with surprising familiarity. "And before you tell me to hide, remember I grew up in Anchorage. I know how to handle myself."
Zara's already moving before I can argue. "Fine. You watch the east approach. Anything moves that isn't on our comm network, you call it in. Do not engage alone."
She nods and moves to the window with practiced efficiency.
The radio crackles again. "Subject has stopped at the tree line. He's... he's just standing there. Watching the lodge."
"Can you see his hands?" I ask.
"Negative. Too many trees in the way."
I move to the front window, staying back from the glass. Through the trees, I can barely make out a dark shape. Human-sized. Motionless. Just watching.
"This is a message," I say. "He wants us to know he's there."
"Why not just attack?" Mara's voice is steady despite the fear I can see in her eyes.
"Because they're professionals. They're gathering intelligence, testing our response time, seeing how we organize." I key the radio. "Nate, how long before you can get backup to your position?"
"Three minutes. Maybe less."
"Do it. But tell them to approach quietly. I want to see what this guy does when he thinks we're not watching."
The figure at the tree line doesn't move. Just stands there, a dark smudge against the snow, patient as death.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I answer on the third ring.
"Gabriel." The voice is smooth, educated. Dangerous. I know this voice. My body knows it even if my mind doesn't—every muscle tenses, ready for violence. "I see you've made friends up there. Touching, really. The little innkeeper and her broken soldier."
"Who is this?"
A soft laugh. "You don't remember? How disappointing. Though I suppose that makes things simpler." A pause. "We need to talk, Gabriel. Face to face. Just you and me."
"Not happening."
"No? Then perhaps we'll have a different conversation. With the woman who runs the lodge. Mara, isn't it? She has such an interesting past. Phoenix, Arizona. An abusive boyfriend named Derek. Very sad story. I wonder what Derek would think if he knew where to find her?"
My hand tightens on the phone until the case creaks. "You touch her...”
"I don't want to touch anyone, Gabriel. I want to talk. Alone. Unarmed. Thirty minutes. The old mining equipment at Widow's Peak Overlook." His voice hardens. "If you bring friends, people will die. Starting with the charming teenager who keeps glancing out the east window."
The line goes dead.
Mara is staring at me, her face drained of color. "What did he say?"
"He knows about your past. Phoenix. Someone named Derek." I watch her face go from pale to ashen. "He's threatening to tell Derek where you are. And he's threatening Zara."
"It's a trap," Zara says flatly. "Obviously."
"Obviously. But I believe him about the consequences if I don't show. These aren't the kind of people who make empty threats."
"So we call Zeke," Mara says. "We coordinate a response, set up our own trap...”
"And they kill someone to prove they're serious.
Maybe Finn, maybe Mrs. Lancaster on the eastern trail.
Maybe they burn down the café in town." I set down the gun, my hands surprisingly steady.
"This is what they do, Mara. Leverage. They find what you care about and they threaten it until you comply. "
"Then what do we do?" Her voice cracks slightly.
I look at her—this fierce, beautiful woman who saved my life and gave me a home—and I know exactly what I have to do.
"I go talk to him."
"No." Mara steps between me and the door. "No, that's insane. You go up there alone and they'll either kill you or take you, and either way we lose."
"If I don't go, people in this town die. People who are only at risk because they're protecting me." I take her hands, feeling how cold they are. "I can't live with that."
"You can't die for it either!"
"I don't plan to." I pull her close, memorizing the feel of her against me. "Thirty minutes up to Widow's Peak. If I'm not back in two hours, tell Zeke everything. Tell him about the call, the threats, all of it."
"Gabe...”
"Two hours." I kiss her, hard and desperate. "I love you. Remember that."
Her hands fist in my jacket. "Don't you dare say that like it's goodbye." Her voice breaks. "You don't get to tell me you love me and then walk away to die."
"I'm not planning to die."
"You're not planning to come back either." She pulls me down, kisses me fiercely and desperately. When she breaks away, her eyes are wet but fierce. "I love you too. Which is why you're going to be smart up there. You're going to survive. And then you're coming home to me."
Zara watches from the window. "This is the stupidest thing you could possibly do."
"Probably." I check the knife in my boot, then tuck the handgun into the small of my back under my jacket. He said unarmed, but I'm not stupid. "Keep Mara safe. That's all that matters."
"You keep yourself safe," Mara says fiercely. "You come back to me, Gabriel Andrews. That's an order."
I want to promise. Want to tell her everything will be fine. But somewhere I learned not to make promises I might not be able to keep.
Instead, I kiss her once more and walk out into the cold afternoon.
The figure at the tree line is gone when I start up the trail.
But I can feel eyes on me—professional eyes, tracking my movements, making sure I'm alone.
My body moves with unconscious efficiency through the snow, taking the steepest route toward the overlook because faster is better than careful right now.
The first hundred yards are deceptively easy, following a game trail that winds through dense evergreens.
Snow weighs down the branches, creating a tunnel of white and green that muffles sound.
My breathing evens out, finds a rhythm my body knows even if my mind doesn't. This is familiar territory—not these specific trees or this particular mountain, but the act itself.
Moving through hostile terrain toward an objective. Every sense alert for threats.
A branch snaps somewhere to my left. I freeze, hand moving automatically toward the gun at my back.
But it's just a clump of snow falling from an overladen pine, the branch springing up with a soft whoosh.
I force myself to keep moving. They're watching, making sure I'm alone, but they won't interfere. Not yet.
As I climb higher, the trail deteriorates into barely more than a suggestion through the snow.
The terrain steepens, forcing me to use my hands as much as my feet, grabbing exposed roots and rock faces for purchase.
Ice makes everything treacherous—what looks like solid snow might be a thin crust over air, ready to give way and send me tumbling back down the slope.
The mountain is quiet except for the muffled sound of my boots in the snow and my own controlled breathing.
As I climb, fragmented memories surface—not complete scenes, just flashes.
Training exercises in terrain just like this.
An instructor's voice: Move with purpose, not speed.
Speed gets you killed. My hands know how to test handholds, how to distribute my weight, how to read the slope for avalanche risk.
Skills drilled into muscle and bone until they become automatic.
I pause at a narrow shelf to catch my breath, my ribs protesting the exertion. The lodge is visible far below, smoke rising from the chimney into the darkening sky. From up here, it looks peaceful. Safe. A haven carved from the wilderness.
Mara is down there. Zara. People willing to risk their lives because they've decided I'm worth protecting, even though they barely know me. The weight of that responsibility sits heavy in my chest, making it hard to breathe in the thin mountain air.
A raven calls from somewhere above, harsh and mocking. I look up to see it circling, black wings stark against the gray sky. Watching. Always watching.
The climb gets harder. What little trail existed disappears entirely, forcing me to forge my own path up increasingly steep terrain.
My legs burn, my lungs ache, and the cold seeps through my jacket despite the exertion.
I'm sweating underneath the layers, which will make me colder later when I stop moving.
Another lesson surfaces: Always regulate your temperature on approach. Sweat is the enemy in cold weather.
Whose voice is that? I can't see a face, can't place the memory. Just disembodied instruction, rising from whatever dark well my past is buried in.
The wind picks up as I near the overlook, no longer buffered by trees.
It cuts through my clothes, finds every gap and seam, steals the warmth my body is desperately trying to generate.
My hands are numb despite my gloves. I flex my fingers as I climb, trying to maintain dexterity.
If this goes sideways—when this goes sideways—I'll need my hands working.
Another memory surfaces, this one sharper: A different mountain, different weather, but the same sense of walking toward something dangerous. Someone beside me, their face obscured but their presence solid. A partner. Someone I trusted with my life.
The memory dissolves before I can hold onto it, leaving only the ghost of that trust and the hollow certainty that whoever it was, they're probably dead now. Or they're one of the people hunting me.
Widow's Peak Overlook would be a brutal climb even in good weather.
In winter, with ice coating the rocks and wind cutting like knives, it's treacherous.
The final approach requires actual climbing—pulling myself up over snow-covered boulders, finding handholds in rock that's slick with ice.
My ribs scream in protest. The cut on my temple throbs in time with my heartbeat.
But I push through, driven by the image of Mara's face and the certainty that hesitation will cost lives.
I haul myself over the last boulder and onto the overlook shelf, muscles shaking from exertion and cold. For a moment I just kneel there in the snow, catching my breath, letting my body recover enough to stand. The wind is fierce up here, unobstructed, strong enough to make me lean into it.
When I finally look up, I see him.
The overlook opens up suddenly—a flat shelf of rock jutting out over the valley, ancient mining equipment scattered around like the bones of dead machines. And standing at the edge, silhouetted against the darkening sky, is a man.
Not the figure from the tree line. Someone else. Someone whose posture screams military authority even from a distance.
"Gabriel." He doesn't turn around. "Right on time. I knew you wouldn't disappoint."
I stop twenty feet away, hands visible, no weapons drawn. "I'm here."
He turns slowly, deliberately. Even in the fading light I can see the gray hair, the cold eyes, the face that triggers a cascade of memories so intense I have to lock my knees to stay standing.
Commander Vex Crane.
The name surfaces with a flood of images—briefing rooms, kill orders, missions that never made it into official records. The Chimera Protocol. Three heads of the beast: Intelligence, Enforcement, Acquisition. A rogue unit that answers to no one but him.
My former CO. The man who built it all. The man I tried to destroy.
He's holding something in his right hand. Not a weapon—a photograph. Even from here, I can see auburn hair and green eyes.
"Let's talk about Mara," he says.