Chapter 23
23
HUNTER
T he Arctic Thundercat 9000 Turbo growls beneath me, a mechanical beast straining against its own power. Its 998cc turbocharged, 4-stroke engine vibrates against my thighs as I guide it through the pristine morning snow. Behind me, James grips the handles at his sides, his body a tense presence against my back.
Each breath burns in my lungs, turning to vapor the instant it leaves my mouth. The storm has cleared, giving way to a deceptively beautiful sunrise—pink and gold light spilling across untouched white peaks, the kind of morning that feels like a lie after the break-in at my home.
I push the throttle harder, and the machine responds instantly. We sail over a drift, momentarily airborne, before landing with a muffled thump in the deep powder. The GPS mounted on the handlebars glows with our position, following the eastern property line toward the pass that leads to Travis’s side of the mountain.
The tracks we follow tell their own story—two sets of snowmobile treads cutting through virgin snow. I recognize the distinctive pattern of Travis’s Ski-Doo Renegade. The other set belongs to a heavier machine with a wider stance and a deeper tread—Deacon’s ride, no doubt. Travis wouldn’t go anywhere without his loyal attack dog.
The property line appears ahead, marked by the ancient lightning-struck pine my grandfather used as a boundary marker years ago. Half dead, half alive, the massive tree stands sentinel between two worlds—my domain and Travis’s territory. My grandfather’s attempt at Solomon’s justice, splitting his legacy between two warring descendants, hoping the division would eventually heal our rift.
It only deepened it.
As we approach Travis’s hunting ranch, I cut the engine, gliding the last hundred yards to a dense stand of blue spruce. The sudden silence after the machine’s constant roar makes my ears ring. In the distance, smoke rises from the cabin’s chimney—a thin gray line against the brightening sky.
“They’re here,” I whisper, swinging my leg over the machine and nodding toward the cabin. “Probably nursing their wounds, thinking they got away clean.”
James pulls his ski mask down further, only his storm-gray eyes visible. Blood has frozen in small dark crystals along the fabric where it covers his reopened cut.
We push through knee-deep snow toward the tree line’s edge, staying low beneath the branches. The ranch emerges into full view—not the rustic hunting shack most would expect, but a substantial structure of logs and stone stretching out to a decent size. Two snowmobiles sit parked haphazardly out front, confirming our targets are inside.
I tap James’s shoulder and point toward the rear of the structure. “Back entrance,” I mouth.
He nods, then pats his own chest twice before pointing ahead—offering to take the lead. We circle the clearing, staying within the shadows of the pines. Morning light lights up the cabin’s windows, making them flash gold, then orange as the sun crests the eastern ridge. We reach the back door unseen, pressing ourselves against the rough-hewn logs on either side.
Through the small window, I make out movement inside—three figures moving around the main room. Travis is easy to recognize, even from behind, his lanky frame and slouched shoulders unmistakable. Deacon towers beside him, a bull of a man with hands like sledgehammers and a mean streak to match. The third man is unfamiliar—shorter, wiry, moving with the restless energy.
James raises three fingers in question. I nod, then point to myself and hold up two fingers, then to him and hold up one.
He shakes his head and reverses the count.
I almost smile despite everything. He wants blood.
Silently testing the handle on the back door, I feel it turn with resistance. Holding up three fingers, I count down.
Three. Two. One.
I drive my shoulder into the door with all my weight behind it. Wood splinters around the frame as it flies inward, crashing against the inner wall. We surge through the opening together before the occupants can react.
The interior is dim despite the morning light, with heavy curtains drawn across most of the windows. A fire roars in the stone hearth, casting restless shadows across the rustic space. The place reeks of wood smoke, whiskey, and sweat—with the metallic undertone of blood.
Travis stands by the fireplace, one arm in a makeshift sling, his face a mottled canvas of purple and black from his earlier encounter with James. Deacon looms beside him, a mountain of a man in a flannel shirt stretched tight across a massive chest. The third man stands slightly apart—lean, hard-faced, with flat eyes.
“What the fuck—” Travis begins, his voice cracking in surprise as he’s pushing toward me.
I’m fuming at seeing my cousin. To think, he entered my home, hurt my friend, and was about to strike Thor. What if he found Lily? Lava burns through my chest with fury.
“You think you can break into my home and steal from me?” I launch myself at Travis without hesitation, driving my shoulder into his gut. Despite his injured arm, he grunts from the strike but shoves away quickly, leaving me to stumble sideways. Behind me, I hear the scuffle of feet and glance back quickly to find James confronting both Deacon and the lean stranger simultaneously.
Travis recovers and swings his good arm in a wild arc toward my head. I duck under it, coming up with an uppercut that catches him square in the jaw. His head snaps back, but he doesn’t go down.
“Your map belongs to me,” he snarls, blood speckling his lips.
A crash from across the room draws my attention for a split second. I glimpse James rolling across a table, the lean man slashing a knife through the air where his head had been a moment before. Deacon charges in from the side, trying to pin James against the wall.
Suddenly, Travis’s boot connects with my knee, sending a shock of pain up my leg. I stagger but stay upright, blocking his follow-up punch and countering with a jab to his injured arm. He howls in pain, lurching backward toward the fireplace.
“I should have ended you a long time ago,” he spits, reaching for something propped against the hearth—a shotgun with a weathered wooden stock. My grandfather’s Remington.
Heart in my throat, I lunge forward, grabbing the barrel just as his fingers close around the stock. We grapple for control, the weapon between us. From the corner of my eye, I spot James dropping to the floor and sweeping the lean man’s legs from under him. The stranger crashes down as Deacon throws a punch that misses James and hits the wall instead, plaster cracking under the impact.
Travis twists the shotgun, trying to wrench it from my grip. My hands slip on the metal barrel, and I realize with cold clarity that I’m losing the struggle. In desperation, I drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose. There’s a sickening crunch, and Travis reels backward, blood streaming down his face, but he doesn’t release the weapon.
“Hunter, get down!” James shouts.
I drop instinctively as something heavy sails over my head—a wooden chair that crashes into Travis. His grip on the shotgun falters, and I tear it from his hands, spinning it around and backing away.
The lean man has recovered and now has James in a headlock, knife edging toward his throat. Deacon circles them, looking for an opening.
Fuck!
Travis charges at me again, roaring with rage. I sidestep, swinging the shotgun like a baseball bat. The stock connects with his arm with a solid thunk, and he goes down hard, sprawling across the floor, wailing.
In the same movement, I flip the shotgun, aiming it at Deacon. “Party’s over, Sasquatch!” I shout.
The big man hesitates, hands halfway raised. Behind him, James rolls his eyes even while struggling.
“Sasquatch? Really?” James grunts.
“What? He’s hairy and huge,” I shoot back without taking my eyes off Deacon.
The big guy hesitates, hands halfway raised. That split second is all James needs. He drives his elbow back into his captor’s solar plexus, then twists violently in the loosened grip. The knife flashes, but James is already inside the man’s guard. There’s a sickening crack as James slams the man’s head against the edge of a table. The knife falls from his suddenly limp fingers as he crumples to the floor.
Deacon glances from his fallen companions to the shotgun in my hands, calculation clear in his eyes. Blood still streams from his nose into his beard.
“Don’t,” I warn, tightening my grip on the weapon. “Just don’t.”
The room falls silent except for our ragged breathing and the crackling of the fire. The fight has lasted barely a few minutes, but my body throbs with every heartbeat, adrenaline making my hands shake. Travis groans and tries to get up, moaning louder in pain.
James moves to Deacon and slams a fist in the middle of his face, sending the asshole falling backward, and he cries out, clutching his bleeding face.
Travis stumbles to his feet. “You want everything, don’t you, you fucking selfish asshole?” he roars, spittle flying from his lips. “It’s never been enough!”
I hear the ache in his voice, even after all these damn years.
“This is all about what you think I took from you. A childhood. A family. Love.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Travis hisses. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I take a cautious step forward. “I was there, remember? I saw what your mother’s family did to you. I begged Grandfather to take you in.”
“Liar!” Travis shouts, but there’s uncertainty in his eyes now. “You wanted me gone! You were glad I was sent away!”
“I was young,” I state quietly. “Same as you. I had just lost my parents, too. The only difference is where we ended up.”
For a moment, something flickers in Travis’s eyes—a flash of the frightened boy he once was before bitterness and resentment hardened him into the man he became. Then it’s gone, replaced by the same cold hatred that’s defined our relationship for so many years.
“Deacon, fuck, get up, you pussy,” he says, looking toward his fallen ally. “Take care of my cousin. Break whatever you want.”
Deacon struggles to his feet, face drenched in blood from his busted nose. His huge frame sways unsteadily.
I lift the shotgun, leveling it at Deacon’s chest. “Just stay the fuck down.” Glancing back at Travis, I snarl, “Next one who moves gets a hole where their lungs used to be.”
Something in my voice—a darkness I rarely let surface—makes the two men freeze. The third one hasn’t moved since James put him in his place.
I turn the full intensity of my gaze on Travis. “You need to back the fuck off,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “Let go of the past. Shit happened to both of us, but holding on to it is only going to ruin your damn life.”
Travis’s face contorts with rage. “Easy for you to say?—”
“Shut up,” I cut him off. “I’m moving on, and you should, too. Maybe one day we can find a way to patch up our differences, but it won’t be now.” I take a step closer, the shotgun never wavering. “I came for my half of the map, and you’re lucky I leave you breathing with how fucking furious I am.”
The room falls silent except for our ragged breathing. Travis stares at me, hatred warring with something else in his eyes.
“You don’t understand,” he finally says, his voice cracking. “You got everything. Everything that should have been mine.”
“Pull your head out of your ass,” I snap. “You got the eastern ranch, a huge piece of land, and half a map. You’re too blinded by jealousy to see how good you have it.”
“It’s not the same!” Travis shouts, a hint of desperation in his voice. “That land is worthless compared to what you got! The treasure is on your property?—”
“There might not even be a treasure,” I interrupt. “And if there is, we split it fifty-fifty. That was Grandfather’s wish.”
For the first time, I see exhaustion beneath Travis’s anger. He stares at me as though he didn’t hear me right.
I gesture toward Deacon with the shotgun. “Bring me my half of the map. Now, you fucker!”
Deacon stares at Travis, who finally nods after a long moment. “Fine. It’s in the desk drawer.”
Deacon, with James close behind, retrieves the map piece. He examines it briefly, then nods to me. “This is it.”
James grabs it and checks it out, then gives me a nod.
I back up toward the door, keeping the shotgun trained on Travis. “We’re neighbors. We’re cousins. Consider that your saving grace today. But I see you on my property again, and I will use this shotgun. Got it?”
Travis actually nods, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Fuck, I got it. Now, get the fuck out of my house.”
“Gladly,” I say. “James, let’s go.”
We back out slowly, never turning our backs on them. Only when we’re outside do we turn and move toward our snowmobile, the precious map piece secured in James’s pocket.
As we climb onto the machine, James looks at me. “You think he’ll stick to his word?”
I start the engine. “We’ll see. I’m setting up more security systems around the property. Camera traps at every boundary line.”
“And the map?” James asks.
I glance back at the cabin, where Travis now stands in the doorway, watching us with unreadable eyes.
“Let’s get it somewhere safe,” I say. “And then figure out what the hell my grandfather was trying to tell us.”
The snowmobile roars to life, and we speed away across the snow-covered landscape, leaving Travis and his wounded pride behind us.