Chapter 7
Seven
Ava
I’m standing at the stove, clutching a wooden spoon like a surgical instrument I don't quite know how to calibrate. I’m a neurologist. I can map the lateral geniculate nucleus with my eyes closed; I can navigate a cerebral hemorrhage with a laser focus that most people find chilling.
Put me in a kitchen, and it's a masterclass in why takeout exists.
The recipe said it was for beginners. Apparently, "beginners" assumes a level of basic life skills I bypassed in favor of organic chemistry and residency.
I dish out two plates of penne and what I can only describe as "autoclaved" chicken. The pasta is a clumped, starchy mass, and the poultry has been cooked into something with the structural integrity of a pencil eraser.
As I present the offering, Silas doesn’t flinch. He sets down the slide of his gun, clears a small patch of space among the hardware, and accepts the bowl with a steady hand.
"It’s nutritionally adequate," I say, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "I’m fairly confident it won't give us Campylobacter. I scorched it until any potential cellular life was extinguished."
He looks at the bowl, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "Looks fine to me."
"I'm serious, Silas. We might be better taking our chances with—"
“If you cooked it, I’m eating it," he says, his voice dropping into a low, grounded register that makes the kitchen feel less like enemy territory and more like a shelter.
I go to sit, but before I can even pull my chair out, he sets his fork down and bows his head. The transition is so quiet, so natural, that I’m caught mid-breath. I’m not sure if he’s praying or just bracing his stomach for the impact of the overcooked noodles.
"Lord, thank You for this food and for safe travels today," he says, his voice low and unhurried. "Thank You for Your protection and provision. Bless this meal and the hands that prepared it. Amen."
I sit frozen, caught off guard by the simple, unvarnished sincerity of it. When he looks up, there’s no performance. No judgment. Just a man ready to eat.
He takes a bite. I do the same and immediately regret it.
It’s a failure. The pasta is a paste, the chicken is rubber, and the sauce tastes metallic and tired.
"It's awful," I say, dropping my fork.
He swallows a mouthful without a single flicker of distaste. "I've had worse."
I raise an eyebrow, my medical brain momentarily overriding my embarrassment. "When? During a clinical study on sensory deprivation?"
He spears another piece of the rubbery chicken without hesitation. "Try a month in the Hindu Kush on nothing but 'Vegetable Crumbles' and local goat milk that had turned three days prior."
"I've heard about military rations," I say, trying to find a rhythm that isn't just me apologizing. "They're designed to be indestructible, aren't they?"
"They’re designed to keep a man moving at four in the morning when he hasn't slept in forty-eight hours," he says.
"Flavor isn't part of the contract. I once spent a week in a hide site in Somalia where the only thing we had was a case of lemon-lime electrolyte bars that had been stored in a tin shed for three summers. "
"How were they?"
"Like eating a scented candle." He takes another bite of my pasta, looking entirely unfazed. "Compared to those, this is Michelin Star."
"You're humoring me."
"I'm really not." He meets my eyes, his expression deadpan. "In survival training, they taught us how to find grubs in rotting logs. There was a specific type of beetle that tasted like burnt hair and bile."
I stare at him, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. "You actually ate them."
"Twelve of them. To pass the course." He shrugs, then looks down at his plate. "They didn't have the benefit of a marinara sauce."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it—short, surprised, and real. It’s the first time the weight in my chest has felt even slightly lighter.
He smiles, just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth, and continues eating the disaster I created as if it’s a steak dinner. Not once does he push his plate away or suggest we open a can of something else.
The kitchen grows quiet, the only sound the rhythmic scrape of a fork against ceramic. It’s a domestic sound, ordinary and safe, yet it makes my skin prickle.
The more time I spend with him, the more the image of the cold, tactical operator shifts. He’s not just a soldier; he’s a man who finds grace in the wreckage.
For the first time since this nightmare began, fear isn’t the only reason my heart rate is accelerating.
Silas
While the sound of the shower hums behind the bathroom door, I turn the cabin into a fortress.
It’s a study in contradictions—the steam of a hot bath in one room, the cold steel of a lockdown in the next.
I start with the truck, parking it for a quick getaway and scrubbing the snow to hide our timeline.
I don’t just want us inside; I want us invisible.
I circle the perimeter, stepping only where the ground is frozen hard enough to deny a footprint. Inside, the routine is mechanical: window latches checked by touch, curtains angled to kill the silhouette of a woman against the glass.
I keep one ear on the water as I retreat to my room. The hidden gun safe is tucked away, a secret waiting in the wall. As I pull the door open, my stomach tightens. Axel wasn’t kidding about his cousin; the man doesn't just own weapons, he’s ready for war.
The safe has been built on fear and worst-case scenarios.
A full-length AR-15 with a mounted optic sits beside a shorter upper stored separately, both oiled and ready.
A .308 bolt-action rifle rests on its folded bipod, the scope already zeroed for distance.
In the corner, a twelve-gauge pump shotgun leans with a grim, utilitarian purpose—set up for stopping power, not sport.
Two Glocks are shelved with their magazines grouped in neat, lethal rows, ammunition boxed and separated by caliber.
I take what the night might require—the .308, the sidearms, and the trauma kit. I slide the rifle and the boxed rounds under the bottom bunk, positioned where a sleeping hand can find them in the dark.
By the time the water shuts off, I’m positioned close to the door, trying to look relaxed when I feel anything but.
Ava exits the bathroom, minus her glasses and wearing a pair of flannel Snoopy pajamas, a pale blue terry cotton robe, and sheepskin slippers. She looks like she’s all set for a slumber party while I’m wearing my holstered sidearm and boots that still hold the grit of the driveway
Neither of us blinks.
The cabin shrinks to the distance between us. No white coat, no professional distance—just Snoopy pajamas and a shy smile that's making it hard to remember this is professional.
I clear my throat and force myself back to the reason we're here. “Before you go to bed,” I say, “I need you to leave your phone with me.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“It is. If he calls,” I say, “I want to be the one who deals with it.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You think he will.”
“I think he’s going to want as much information as possible on your location,” I say. “That means calling. He'll want a handshake from a network tower.”
She winces. “Will you answer?”
I shake my head. “I’d like your permission to ask Delilah to put a passive trace on your phone.”
“Passive how?”
“Nothing that tips him off,” I say. “No pickup. No interaction. Just a listener that logs the call metadata the moment it hits the network—tower, routing path, timing. Enough for her to start pulling thread without him knowing he’s exposed.”
“You have my permission. But please wake me if anyone else calls.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course.”
She turns to go, but faces me instead. “I spied some cocoa in the cupboard when I was destroying dinner. Dare we risk it?”
I chuckle. “Cocoa sounds perfect.”
And it does. Probably a little too perfect given the circumstances.
Ava
When I return to the living room, two steaming mugs of cocoa in my hands, I find Silas in the chair by the fire. He has a book in his hands: The Pilgrim’s Progress.
I stop short, a sudden tightening in my chest as I place a mug on the coffee table. "My father used to read that to us."
He meets my gaze and smiles, a quiet invitation for me to share the memory.
"He'd do all the voices—Christian, Evangelist, even Apollyon. My sister and I would beg him to keep going, just one more page." I smile despite the ache. "He never could say no."
"Sounds like a great father."
"He was." I settle into the chair across from him. "He died five years ago from a myocardial infarction."
"I'm sorry."
The words are simple, but there's genuine compassion in them. No platitudes or awkward fumbling for what to say.
"He would have been pleased I asked you for help," I say quietly.
“So would my father. This is the closest thing to a break I’ve had in years.”
“Tell me about him,” I say. “About how Hightower came to be.”
He pauses, his face unreadable for a moment. “I don’t usually… we have strict rules around sharing information.”
I shift in my chair, feeling the heat of the mug against my palms. “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
His hand twitches around the book, then he places it to one side. “No. It’s fine. It isn't as if you're asking me for operational details or client information."
I suppress a laugh. “Well, no. I was just curious about your father and how he fits into what you do.”
I don’t say aloud what I’m actually thinking—that I’m mostly curious about the man who raised a son who would lay down his life for others.
He clears his throat and smiles. “Who Justus Hightower is isn’t a state secret. How we came about isn’t really either. Some things are a matter of public record.”
“I must confess I couldn’t find much information online. I’m assuming that’s intentional?”
Silas chuckles. "My father spent his career at the seams where the military, intelligence agencies, and private contractors overlap. He doesn’t like the spotlight, and Delilah works pretty hard to keep him hidden.”
I let the corner of my mouth quirk upward. “I was beginning to think he wasn’t a real person.”
He laughs again. “He’s real. Just not interested in being the face of the company.
He started in Army logistics and learned how operations actually function, then moved into senior civilian work for the Department of Defense.
His job wasn't to run missions—it was to make sure missions could happen.”
I settle deeper into the chair, surprised he’s sharing this much.
He pauses, looking toward the fire. “We started with a few small government contracts, but when the need grew, and we realized there was a place for more, I started calling on favors. It grew into something much bigger than they ever expected.”
“Sounds like you’ve built an incredible legacy.”
He shakes his head. “God built Hightower; we just gave it a name. He did the rest.”
The humility in his voice catches me off guard. There's no way Hightower would be what it is without his vision and his willingness to fight for men others had given up on, yet he refuses to take the credit.
“My father would have liked you,” I say.
Silas meets my eyes, and for a moment neither of us speaks. The fire crackles, and outside, the wind moves through the pines.
"I wish I could have met him," he says finally.
The words are simple, but they land with unexpected weight. I can almost see it—my father and Silas, talking over coffee and finding common ground in faith and quiet strength.
Another thought comes with its familiar pain.
My mother would have loved him, too.
Silas
By ten, steady, thickening snowfall is already blanketing the driveway, erasing our tire tracks—a trade-off that provides cover but blinds me to the tree line. At this rate, an intruder could be within twenty yards before I’d catch a flicker of movement through the whiteout.
I pick up the sat phone and key in Axel's direct line. He answers immediately.
"You good up there?"
I’m in a remote valley with a woman I'm barely keeping at professional arm's length. The weather is closing in, and my visibility is dropping to nothing.
Nothing about this is “good.”
"Snow's setting in," I say, keeping my voice low. "Talk me through the terrain when it gets buried."
"The bowl fills fast," Axel says, the line crackling with static. "Snow stacks against the north wall first. You won't see the drift from the windows."
I turn toward the kitchen, my jaw tightening. A blind spot. "Copy."
"Wind eddies off the ridge, too. The acoustics drop out early. It gets quiet enough to mess with your sense of distance. You’ll hear things that aren't there, and miss the things that are."
"Noted."
"Generator's solid, but the intake's on the lee side. If the wind shifts, it’ll ice over. You'll hear it strain before it quits."
I picture myself clearing ice in the dark while trying to keep eyes on the door. My hand flexes on the receiver. "Good to know."
"Well's deep. Cold like this, the pressure dips—nothing's wrong, just a slower recovery if you're pulling water hard."
I think of the steam from Ava's long shower earlier. I should have told her to keep it short. “What’s in the shed?”
“A Ski-Doo. It was turning over last time I was up, but you’ll want to check the plugs.”
“Roger that.”
"That enough to hold the line?" Axel asks.
"It gives me margins," I say. "That's all I need."
I end the call and set the phone on the heavy oak table, but the restless energy doesn't dissipate. I trace the perimeter of the room again—the window locks, the deadbolt, the single point of entry that still feels too porous for my liking.
The cabin groans under the weight of the accumulation, the wood shifting in the plummeting temperature. It’s the kind of isolation that doesn't feel like safety; it feels like being boxed in.
I take a steadying breath, trying to force my pulse to drop. There are too many variables shifting in the dark, too many ways for this to go sideways before the sun hits the snow.
I turn toward the bunk to check the .308 I’ve staged, but the movement dies in my throat.
Ava’s phone, tucked near the base of the lamp, chirps.
I stay frozen for a beat, watching the blue light bleed into the room, then step closer. A message notification is glowing on the screen, clear and cold against the darkness.
Unknown number.
My thumb hovers over the glass. When I finally swipe, the three words waiting there are enough to turn my blood to ice.
Think of me.