1. Sloane
SLOANE
I ’m running out of places to hide, and I’m running out of time.
“Sloane, they’re coming. They found—” The call cuts off, static replacing his voice in a cruel twist.
“Hello? Hello?!”
And when I try calling back, nothing.
He’s dead.
My source is dead.
My breath hitches as I check my burner phone again. No signal. The thick trees and mountains are most likely jamming my call.
Or maybe, someone’s doing it. Either way, I can’t stop now. Not when they’re coming.
Heavy snow swirls outside the car, thick flakes battering the windshield.
But just before I think that something is, at the very least, working out, the car sputters, its engine letting out a dismal, pitiful wheeze.
Shit.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, urgency making my voice tremble as I crank the key again.
The engine clicks and whimpers before sinking into an ominous silence.
Montana in February isn’t just cold; it’s suffocating.
Pine trees, towering and ancient, stand like sentinels—silent witnesses to my desperation—each branch bowing under the weight of fresh snow, their dark trunks reaching into the gloom like skeletal fingers clawing at the gray.
My hands shake as I yank the key from the ignition and shove it into my pocket.
Six days, four stolen cars, three discarded phones, and no sleep have left me running on fumes.
A part of me wants to give in.
Just lie my head on the steering wheel and just… stop.
But that kind of thinking gets people killed.
As I frantically figure out what to do next, alarm hits me when I glimpse the rearview mirror.
Headlights. Distant, but gaining.
Breathe, Sloane. Think!
I scramble, throwing open my messenger bag, heart racing as I shove in my nearly-dead laptop, the useless phone, and the corrupted thumb drive.
The drive died halfway through decryption, leaving me with just fragments — names, locations, casualty reports from something called “Blackout.”
My source downloaded it all before they silenced him. Before they found me.
Cold air bites at my face when I step outside, the wind ripping through my meager layers like they’re nothing but paper. Should’ve stolen a better coat , I chide myself, panic spiraling as I fight off freezing anxiety.
The headlights grow larger. No time for regrets.
I plunge into the dense trees alongside the road, boots crunching through the snow.
The messenger bag slaps against my hip as I run, each impact a reminder of everything I’ve lost.
The story.
The evidence.
Maybe my last chance to expose the truth before they bury it for good.
Keep moving. Don’t look back.
But dread drags me to glance back.
Once.
Twice.
The headlights have stopped at my dead car.
A door opens, slamming shut. Someone's coming after me.
My lungs burn, each breath like swallowing razor blades.
The trees stretch endlessly ahead, their dark trunks blending together into a twisted labyrinth. My legs tremble beneath me, threatening to buckle with each step.
I’m not going to die in these woods.
Light flickers ahead. Not headlights—something steadier.
A structure. A cabin.
New adrenaline surges through me as I push faster, harder. The trees thin, revealing a small clearing. The cabin sits dark and silent, like it’s holding its breath.
No lights in the windows. No smoke from the chimney.
Empty. It has to be.
I stumble onto the wooden porch, my fingers numb as they fumble for the door handle.
Locked.
Of course it’s locked. As if the universe needs to kick me one more time today.
I rattle the handle again, harder, as if desperation can break metal.
Behind me, a twig snaps. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of my own heartbeat.
I turn slowly, the backup burner phone clutched in my fist like a weapon.
My only real weapon is instinct, honed over years of investigating people who didn’t want to be investigated.
And my instincts scream danger.
He stands at the bottom of the porch steps.
Big.
Quiet.
Still.
Like the trees have birthed him right there. In the dim moonlight, I can make out broad shoulders, a rigid stance.
I don’t think. Don’t speak. My body moves on autopilot, swinging my messenger bag hard toward his head.
He catches it effortlessly, one-handed, like it’s nothing. His grip is strong, unshaken. A hand that knows exactly what it’s doing.
“Easy,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone built like a wall. “I’m not who you think?—”
“Shut up.” My voice cracks like thin ice, sharp and brittle. “You followed me.”
“I didn’t.”
I laugh, though it sounds more like a choked sob. “Y-you think I’m stupid?” I spit, backing away until I hit the door. “You killed my source. You want what’s on the drive.”
Something shifts in his posture, almost imperceptible. I can sense it—a tension thrumming between us.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar!”
He lifts both hands, a universal gesture of peace. Calm and measured.
But it only makes the panic rise higher in my throat. People who stay calm when they should be confused are the most dangerous kind.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he insists, still too soft. It feels practiced, rehearsed.
“Then get out of my way!”
I feint left, then dart right, shoving past him with the last of my strength. Back into the trees. Away from the locked door and the man who stands too still.
Three steps. Four. The world tilts beneath me.
My knee buckles, a betrayal by a body pushed too far. I go down hard, but never hit the snow.
Strong hands catch me, too fast. One moment I’m falling; the next I’m suspended, my back against something solid. Someone solid.
Pure instinct takes over. I twist, driving my elbow toward his throat, but he dodges, barely.
“You’re in shock,” he says, voice clipped now. “You need to?—”
“Don’t touch me!”
My words tear from my throat, raw with fear and fury.
I fight dirty—scratching, kicking, aiming for eyes and groin and pressure points. The way my father taught me before he disappeared.
"Go for the soft parts, Sloane. Make it hurt."
But he moves like smoke, absorbing or deflecting each blow with minimal effort.
Professional.
Trained.
The kind of man who fights for a living.
“You’re not safe out here,” he tries again, still holding me as I thrash. “I’m not your enemy?—”
But my blood roars in my ears, drowning out reason. There’s only the desperate urge to escape. To survive. To complete what my source sacrificed everything for.
His grip shifts. I feel the change, subtle as it is. His arms tighten, not to hurt but to contain. To control.
“I don’t want to do this,” he murmurs.
Our eyes meet—storm-gray, intense. Something lingers beneath the surface. Regret? Resignation? “Sorry,” he whispers.
And then his hand moves toward my neck, quick as a viper. I try to duck, to roll, to shield myself.
Too slow.
Pressure on the side of my neck.
Precise.
Clinical.
The world doesn’t so much go black as dissolve, colors bleeding into shadows, sounds fading into silence. My limbs turn to water. My mind screams as my body betrays me.
The last thing I feel is his grip tightening—strong but somehow not cruel—as I collapse against him.
And the unbearable shame of not getting away in time.
I’ve failed. Again.
I’ll find you, Dad. I promise.