Chapter 35
Marco
The second we’re beneath the trees, I’m running protocol.
Not because I’m worried. Not because I think anything will actually happen. But because now the mise en place is survival.
You prep right or you fail.
And I don’t fucking fail. Not with my kid.
“Ben,” I crouch so we’re eye level. “Two whistle blows, you look at me. Three blows, we freeze. Got it?”
She nods. Frederick is tucked under one arm, but her face is serious. Good. This isn’t a game.
“Show me,” I instruct. I lift my own whistle and blow twice. Clean, sharp sounds that cut through the pine smell and afternoon quiet.
Ben’s head snaps toward me immediately. Eyes locked on mine.
“Perfect.” I ruffle her hair. “Now start walking. And show me what you do when you hear this.”
She obeys.
This time I blow three blasts. She freezes mid-step. Doesn’t move a muscle. Just stares at me waiting for the next instruction.
“Excellent.” I lower my whistle.
“What about mine?” she touches the whistle hanging from her lanyard.
“Your whistle is only for emergencies, remember? If you get separated or you’re scared and need help. Three blows means ‘come find me.’ Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Show me you know how to use yours.” I wait.
She lifts the orange whistle on its lanyard. Blows three times. The sound carries through the trees.
“Good. But only if you need help. Otherwise, you listen for my signals. Two blows, look at me. Three blows, freeze. Got it?”
“Got it,” she confirms.
Jess is standing a few feet back. Close enough to hear but not crowding. Her arms are crossed and she’s looking around at the tree line like it might sprout teeth.
I catch her eye. “Your turn. Bear spray demo.”
She reaches for the canister clipped to her bag. Fumbles the carabiner release. Her fingers slip.
Tries again. Same result.
She can’t even get the damn thing unclipped.
These woods must have her really unsettled.
“Here.” I move behind her. Not touching but close enough that my chest nearly brushes her back. “Squeeze the gate. Twist. There.”
The canister comes free. She holds it like it might explode.
“Now the safety,” I continue. “Pop the clip off. Then you’d aim and press the trigger. But we’re not actually spraying. These cans lose range every time you test them. Plus the residue can contaminate the area.”
I pull out my own canister. Show her the mechanics. Safety clip. Trigger position. Proper grip. “See? Simple. But you need to be able to do it without thinking. Muscle memory.”
She tries again. She unclips it, and gets the safety off this time but her hands are shaking when she tries to position her grip properly.
Not from cold. The afternoon’s warm.
No. This is fear.
I’ve seen enough line cooks freeze during a Friday rush to recognize panic when it’s trying to hide.
“Again,” I tell her quietly.
She resets. Clips the bear spray back. Unclips it. Removes the safety. Positions her hands. Her breathing’s getting faster. Shallower.
Fuck.
I step closer. Close enough that my breath hits her temple when I whisper. “Breathe, Jess. In, out. Three times.”
We take three deep breaths together. She seems to calm, a little.
I’m still close to her, so I add, for her ears only: “Who hurt you, Jess?”
The question comes out harder than I intended. Angrier.
Because someone did this to her. Someone or something made this woman who reorganizes mudrooms at dawn and builds breathing systems for anxious five year olds into someone who can’t hold a fucking bear spray canister without shaking.
She doesn’t look at me. Stares straight ahead at the trees. “The woods.”
Two words. A half truth wrapped in honesty.
Not a person then. The place itself.
I want to press. Want to demand the full story. But that’s not how you handle fear. You can’t force someone through a walk-in freezer door if they’re not ready. You just keep the exit visible and let them choose.
“Okay.” I step back. Give her space. Take in both her and Ben. “Let’s check redundancies.”
I run through the list out loud. For Jess. For me. The invisible checklist that lives in my head like a prep station layout.
“Satphone. Charged. Programmed.” I hold it up. “Backup whistle in the glove box. Three bear sprays. One each for Jess and I, one in the Range Rover. Laminated rules in Jess’ bag. Vehicle staged nose-out for fast exit.”
Jess nods at each item. Her hands are still shaking but less now.
“I’m going to check in with Jag.” I grab the Satphone and fire off the scheduled check-in text: Green. All clear. Next window 1800.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Jag’s reply: Copy. Standing by.
Jag and Felipe stopped the second Range Rover at a hotel in the nearest town, about forty minutes out. Close enough if we need them. Far enough away to give us the space Ben needs for this trip. The local ranger’s the closest outside contact now.
I turn to Ben. “Ready for the shotgun talk?”
Her whole face lights up. “Yes! Can I hold it?”
“Not today, piccola.” I keep my voice firm but kind. The same tone I use when explaining why we can’t serve raw eggs to a pregnant customer. “Today you learn the rules. Next year, maybe you touch. But first you have to prove you can listen.”
“I can listen!” she insists.
“Prove it.” I gesture toward the Range Rover where the gun case is locked in the back. “Come on.”
Jess follows us. I can feel her tension radiating like heat from a pizza oven that’s been running too long.
I unlock the case. Don’t open it yet. Just show Ben the exterior.
“This is a tool,” I tell her. “Like a chef’s knife. Dangerous if you’re stupid. Safe if you’re smart. Which one are you?”
“Smart!” Ben bounces on her toes.
“Then you follow the rules. Always.” I tap the case. “Rule one. Muzzle never points at anything you don’t want to destroy. Ever.”
“What’s muzzle?” she asks, blinking.
“That’s the tip of the gun. Understood?”
“Okay.”
“Rule two. Finger stays off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. That’s the little lever you squeeze with your finger.”
“Like a water pistol?” she asks.
“Similar. But you keep your finger off the trigger until you want to shoot.”
“Okay.”
“Rule three. The chamber stays empty until I say otherwise. That means no bullet inside. Not ever. Not until we’re actually hunting. Understand?”
She nods. Very serious. Reading my tone.
I open the case. The lock code is mine alone. Four digits I haven’t shared with anyone. Not even Jess. Some protocols don’t get delegated.
The Remington 870 sits inside. Matte black. Chamber flagged with the orange safety indicator clearly visible through the small inspection window.
Jess makes a small sound behind me. Not quite a gasp. More like she just tasted something that might be spoiled.
I don’t turn around. Just keep my focus on Ben.
“See this orange thing?” I reverently point to the chamber flag. “That means it’s empty. Safe. If you ever see a gun without one of these, you walk away. You don’t touch. You find an adult. Got it?”
“Got it,” Ben repeats. “Orange means safe.”
“And this.” I show her the trigger guard. “Remember, your finger never goes here unless you’re ready to fire. Not even to feel what it’s like. Not even if someone dares you. Never.”
“I won’t, ever,” she promises.
“Good girl.”
I close the case. Lock it. Return it to the Range Rover.
The whole demonstration took maybe three minutes. But it’s enough. Ben knows the gun exists but stays hands-off.
That’s the point. Demystify it. Make it boring. Just another tool with protocols attached.
Like learning to break down a chicken or deglaze a pan or separate ice. You respect the sharp edges but you don’t fear them.
“Can we explore now?” Ben asks.
“Short loop only,” I tell her. “Stay in sight of the vehicle. Jess and I are right behind you.”
She takes off. Not running exactly. More like an excited walk with Frederick bouncing against her side.
Jess and I fall into step behind her. Close enough to see her but giving space.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
“Define good.” Her voice is tightly controlled. The same way she sounded during the press siege when she was absolutely not fine but pretending otherwise.
“Can you make it through the weekend good?” I clarify.
She looks at me. Those warm brown eyes that usually sparkle with some joke or observation are flat and scared.
But she nods. “Yeah. I can make it.”
“If you can’t, we leave. No shame. No judgment.”
“Marco.” She stops walking. Forces me to stop, too. “I’m here for Ben. I’m staying for Ben. Whatever I’m dealing with, I can handle it.”
The words are steady but her hands tell a different story. She’s gripping the straps of her bag like they’re the only thing keeping her upright.
I want to pull her close. Want to kiss her until that fear melts into something manageable. Want to drag her back to the Range Rover and drive straight back to Manhattan where the trees are contained in parks and the threats are photographers instead of whatever the fuck happened to her out here.
But I can’t. Because Ben’s twenty feet ahead picking up pinecones and narrating their qualities to Frederick.
And because Jess asked me to let her handle this.
So I do.
Still, I’m starting to wonder if this whole thing was a bad idea.
“Okay,” I tell her. “But the second you need out, you say the word. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
We keep walking. The afternoon light filters through pine branches in that golden way photographers probably lose their minds over. It smells like earth and sap. I love it, honestly. The steel and glass of the city can be so sterile, sometimes.
But I have to be mindful of Jess, I remind myself.
Ben finds a fallen branch. Insists it’s a “treasure.” Adds it to her collection of pinecones and smooth rocks.
Jess counts breaths when she thinks I’m not looking. One, two, three. The Brave Rules she taught my daughter now keeping her own panic at bay.
We do the loop. Nothing bad happens. No threats. No other hikers. Just trees and dirt and the sound of Ben asking Frederick if snails eat pinecones.
By the time we circle back to the Range Rover, some of the tension has left Jess’s shoulders. Not all of it. Not even most of it. But enough that her hands aren’t shaking anymore.
“See?” I tell her as I unlock the vehicle. “Boring.”
“Boring is good,” she agrees.
I load Ben into her seat. She’s already half asleep. The fresh air and excitement hitting her like a full stomach after Thanksgiving dinner.
“Daddy?” Her voice is drowsy. “Can we come back tomorrow and actually hunt?”
My eyes meet Jess’s over the roof of the Range Rover.
Tomorrow. Saturday. The real test.
“We’ll see, piccola,” I tell Ben. “Rest now.”
Jess climbs into the back beside her. I take the driver’s seat. Unclip my bear spray and set it down in the cup holder of the center console. We’ve got a ten minute drive along the dirt road to the cabin itself.
Plenty of time to think about what tomorrow means.
Plenty of time to wonder if I’m making the right call here.
If bringing my daughter hunting is about teaching her courage or proving something to myself.
If insisting Jess come along is about safety or something darker. Some need to push her past her fear because I don’t know how else to connect with people except through controlled crisis.
Control masquerading as care.
I push the words down. Lock them away with every other doubt I can’t afford right now.
I’ve got a weekend to execute. A daughter to protect. A woman I’m falling for who’s terrified of the very place I’m dragging her into.
Standard Friday service.
High stakes.
Tight margins.
I can handle this.
I fucking better.