2. Logan
LOGAN
T he woman slumps against me, her body going limp, yet an ember of defiance flickers in her, even in unconsciousness.
Snowflakes cling to her lashes like fragile jewels, and I can see the way her chest heaves—shallow, desperate breaths that scream of exhaustion and cold.
Beneath that exterior, I sense a terror that runs deeper than the frigid air.
I don’t know her name. I don’t need to.
One thing is clear: trouble follows her. Trouble is the last thing Iron Hollow can afford right now.
I've seen her kind before, back in my Navy SEAL days. People who move like prey, darting as if they’re being hunted.
Their eyes scan exits, not faces, as if they’re aware they can’t afford to let their guard down.
They fight first, never asking questions, because such distractions get you killed.
I lift her carefully, cradling her against my chest. She's lighter than she should be; I feel her fragile bones pressing against my forearms through the thin fabric of her clothes.
She’s not dressed for a Montana winter—her jacket is worn and inadequate, city boots that are no match for the icy ground.
This isn’t a lost traveler—not with the careful way she moved before I caught her.
She’s calculating, guarded. She was afraid of me.
But more than that, she was afraid of someone else.
Carrying her doesn’t invoke regret; it’s a decision made on rationale.
She needs help. That much is clear.
I push open my cabin door, the wood creaking under the strain as I enter the meager warmth inside.
I lay her on the old leather couch and pull a blanket over her, careful to make as little noise as possible, careful not to touch more than necessary.
Her breath catches when I do, a small hitch that speaks volumes.
Even unconscious, she's bracing for an attack.
I settle into the armchair across from her, elbows resting on my knees, tension stretching my muscles.
I watch her closely; she’s coiled tight, ready to snap. My pulse races, steady but distant—never calm since Echo-13 reshaped my existence.
Yet here I am, risking everything. I should have sent her back into the snow, maintaining the balance of safety Iron Hollow represents.
But staring at her, I find that instinct overriding the instinct for survival.
Why didn't you walk away, Logan?
The question hounds me.
It’s a logical answer that fights against the nagging tug of wanting to help.
I know the stakes of caring, that it often leads to pain.
But that thought can’t hold against the urgency in the air.
She needs help. That’s enough reason to act.
The notion that sometimes, even the most strategically-laid plans are unceremoniously torn apart by instinct lurks in the back of my mind.
As she shifts again, hands curling into fists beneath the blanket, I catch a glimpse of that dormant strength within her.
I push myself up, needing distance, needing to think about what this all means. The cabin walls seem to constrict, reminding me of choices I’ve made, ghosts I haven’t shaken.
In the kitchen, I grab a clean towel, running it under cold water.
Her forehead feels hot; feverish.
How long has she been running? Days? Weeks? Or maybe… months.
The shadows beneath her eyes tell a story of sleepless nights and relentless travel.
As I wring out the cloth, I catch my reflection in the fogged window. I've grown used to the man staring back at me.
Five years since Echo-13. Five years of burying the past. Five years of building and protecting my new home in Iron Hollow, The Forge.
And now this woman, crashing into my life like a human hand grenade.
She mentioned a drive. Said I killed her source. Said I wanted what was on the drive. And saw me as the supposed pursuer hunting for data.
Classic reporter playbook.
My jaw clenches at the thought. Journalists and their righteous crusades for truth —as if military operations care about their deadlines and column inches.
They circle ex-soldiers like vultures, pecking away at classified details, digging into wounds that should stay buried.
The familiar itch crawls up my spine, the one that sends me walking the other direction when press badges flash.
There's a reason I chose Iron Hollow. A reason I keep to myself.
A journalist. Here. Now.
I should've left her in the snow.
But the fear in her voice was real. Raw. The kind that comes from watching someone die.
Turning back to her, I grip the cold towel between calloused fingers, my mind already mapping contingencies with military precision.
If she's a journalist—and that fear in her voice screams investigative—she'll have backup files somewhere.
Dead drops. Insurance policies. She'll try to make contact the moment she wakes up.
I need to sweep her phone. Check for tracking devices. Map every camera in a ten-mile radius that could've caught her arrival.
When she wakes— when , not if, because failure isn't an option—she'll either bolt or attack.
The way she moved in the snow, even injured, suggests training.
Not military, but something adjacent. Self-defense classes.
Maybe Krav Maga. She'll go for vulnerable points first: throat, eyes, groin.
I position myself by the door, calculating angles. If she fights, I'll need to contain without causing harm.
Right arm to block, left to restrain. Keep her away from the window. Away from anything she could use as a weapon.
The fireplace poker. The ceramic mug on the counter. The letter opener in my desk drawer.
Keep her alive. Keep her controlled. Keep her from bringing hell down on Iron Hollow.
Because journalists don't just stumble into Montana wilderness with pursuers on their tail.
They chase stories. And stories like that—the ones worth dying for—they don't end when the reporter disappears.
They explode.
Three steps ahead. Always three steps ahead.
But when I step into the living room, ready to check on her?—
She’s gone.