Chapter 10 Nate
Nate
The swing of the axe is steady. Meditative. The kind of movement that doesn’t need thinking—just force, form, and follow-through. Wood splits with a satisfying crack, the sound echoing off the snow-draped trees like a heartbeat. Stack. Swing. Split. Repeat.
The snow has started again, quiet and unassuming. Fat flakes drift from the sky, melting on my skin, clinging to the cuffs of my flannel shirt. I should be cold, but I’m not. The burn in my shoulders keeps me warm.
Behind me, the cabin glows soft through the windows.
Inside, Greta’s barefoot in the kitchen, humming to some old Christmas song on the radio.
The smell of cinnamon rolls drifts through the air, mingling with the scent of pine smoke from the chimney.
She’s safe. She’s smiling. And for a rare moment, everything feels right.
Then it happens.
A sharp sting at the side of my neck.
Fast. Precise.
It takes me a second to process what it is. My hand flies to my neck, fingers grazing the dart sticking out from under my collar. There’s a hiss in my ears. My legs start to wobble. The axe slips from my hand and thuds into the snow.
I spin—try to see where it came from—but everything blurs. My knees buckle. My muscles go slack.
And then the darkness swallows me whole.
I wake up cold.
Snow seeps into my flannel. My vision’s still hazy, but my brain kicks into gear. I lurch upright, coughing, every muscle screaming in protest.
"Greta," I rasp.
I stumble to my feet. The cabin door is wide open, swinging in the wind. The warmth inside bleeds into the cold around me. My boots crunch across the snow as I limp to the porch and burst through the doorway.
Inside is chaos.
The kitchen table’s overturned. A chair lies broken near the fireplace. There’s shattered glass across the counter, and the cinnamon rolls she was baking are cooling, untouched. Her coat is gone. Her boots. Her bag.
Panic hits me square in the chest. I race down the hallway.
"Greta!"
Nothing.
The bathroom door is ajar. Her clothes are still in the hamper. Her toothbrush. Everything she brought with her, except what she had on her.
I clench my fists, heart pounding. My vision sharpens, narrowing to a single, burning thought.
They took her.
I grab my phone from the counter and call Tom first. He picks up on the second ring.
"Talk to me," he says.
"They took her," I bite out. "Someone hit me with a tranquilizer dart. I woke up in the snow. Greta’s gone."
His end goes quiet. Dead serious. "You okay?"
"I’m upright. I’m breathing. But she’s not here. And I don’t know how long it’s been."
"I’m mobilizing. Sending units now. Sit tight."
"I’m not sitting. I’m hunting."
Next call is Micah.
"Nate," he says immediately. "What the hell happened?"
"They hit me. Took Greta. From the cabin. While I was outside."
"Jesus."
"I need eyes," I growl. "Pull street cams. Gas stations. Traffic feeds. See if any vans or cars left the ridge in the last hour."
"On it. I’m getting Hale on the line. We’ll start triangulating and see what chatter’s popped up. You said dart? That means planning. Coordination. Not just some creep acting alone."
"Travis," I snarl. "It has to be him."
"You said he’s got three buddies? You said he’s manipulative, right? Good at pulling strings?"
"Yeah. But this is new. He’s escalating."
"Then so are we," Micah says. "Sit tight, brother. We’re going to get her back."
I end the call and slam my fist into the wall. Pain rips through my knuckles, but I don’t care.
I head to the closet and drag out the duffel bag I hoped I’d never need again. Inside: everything I didn’t want her to see. The gear I kept locked away in case the past ever came knocking.
Kevlar. Sidearm. Extra mags. A backup burner phone.
I load the Glock with clean, efficient movements. My hands are steady now. Rage has replaced the tremble.
I check the perimeter again. Find faint tracks near the edge of the property—too faint to follow far in this snow. They planned it well. Waited for the moment I was alone. Knew how to take me out without leaving a trace.
That means they’ve been watching us.
They’ve been close.
I dial Micah again.
"Anything?"
"We’ve got something. Gas station camera picked up a black SUV heading north out of town ten minutes ago. Matches the make you described last week. No plates."
"North?"
"Yeah. Remote stretch. Old logging road. Hale’s checking maps now."
"I’m going. Text me coordinates."
"Tom’s mobilizing local units to intercept if they can. But Nate—"
"Yeah?"
"Don’t do anything stupid."
"Too late."
I hang up. “Let’s get her back,” I whisper out loud for no one to hear.
Because this isn’t just about protecting her anymore.
This is about saving the woman I love.
And I will burn the whole fucking world down to bring her home.