Chapter 10
Ten
Ava
Guilt is a constant, sharp reminder I have responsibilities I feel I’m shirking. David’s patient still needs a consult, my mother is alone, and Carla has no idea where I am.
I’m stuck. Powerless. I can only hope they understand my absence isn't a choice—that I'm here because I don't have the freedom to leave.
Outside, the snow has turned vicious. The steady fall from earlier is now a white-out—thick, wind-driven sheets slamming against the windows hard enough to make the glass tremble.
The world beyond the porch is gone. Even if Silas were willing to risk the drive, the storm has locked us in. Leaving now would be a death sentence.
The cabin seems to shrink. The wind howls through the eaves, testing the walls of our sanctuary.
Silas is back to working on a battered laptop that appears to have seen as much combat as he has.
“I’m starting to regret not packing my MacBook.”
He spares me a glance. “You can borrow mine if you like. I’m just drafting emails. I’ll send them as soon as we have a stronger connection.”
“Internet connection,” he hastily adds.
I nod, wishing I could ask him what the subject matter is. His address book must be filled with interesting characters.
“I’m surprised you use email. It seems a little too ordinary for Hightower.”
He holds my gaze, the faintest flick to the corner of his mouth. “They’re encrypted end-to-end and routed through our own servers. It’s not standard email.”
“Impressive.”
“Necessary,” he says.
Above me, the lights flicker.
It isn’t a gentle dimming; it’s a total cut, followed by a harsh, buzzing surge as the power claws its way back.
Silas is on his feet before the bulbs steady. He snaps from relaxed to lethal in one motion, his eyes sweeping the room.
“Probably too much load on the grid,” he says, already moving toward the window to study the storm.
“Will we lose power?”
“If it keeps up, yes.”
“And if we do?”
“We’ve got the generator. Enough fuel for several days if we’re smart about it.” He moves into the kitchen and pulls two heavy-duty flashlights from a drawer. “But it won’t power everything. Just the essentials.”
He tests each light twice. His movements are methodical—the actions of someone who expects the worst possible timing. He sets one light on the counter near me and the other by the door. Next, he pulls out a headlamp and batteries, lining them up with the practiced precision of a surgeon.
“I need to check the generator,” he says. “Make sure it’s ready. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
A quiet dread coils in my chest. “Are you sure you want to go out in this?”
He shrugs into his coat. “Better now than when the lights are already gone.”
The wind slams against the cabin as he opens the door. Snow swirls through the gap before he pulls it shut. I listen to the storm batter the walls and breathe out a prayer. Lord, watch over him.
I move toward the window, but a distinct buzzing draws my attention to the couch.
My phone. It must have slipped out of his pocket.
I peer at the screen, and my heart rate jumps.
Unknown Number. Silas would tell me to leave it—let it go to voicemail so he can check it.
But hospitals don't always call from recognized numbers. Nurses use personal phones; consults get routed through whatever line is available. If it’s about Mom and I ignore it…
I grab the phone before I can talk myself out of it. “Dr. Morrison.”
Nothing. No one speaks.
I hold my breath.
“Guilford’s not the same without you, Doc.”
I bite back a retort. He set the trap, and I walked right into it.
“Anything I should take care of while you’re away?”
I’m too furious with myself to speak. He laughs, a sound that slices through me like ice.
“You must have been in a hurry,” he says softly. “You left your Bible on the nightstand.”
The words crush the air out of my lungs. He’s mocking me.
“Get. Out. Of. My. House,” I say.
All I hear is his breathing before the line goes dead.
Silas
The second I step back inside, I see my mistake.
Ava's standing in the middle of the room, trembling, face drained of color.
Her phone.
I forgot to take it with me.
Sloppy.
I strip off my gloves, the snow from my coat melting onto the floor as I bridge the gap between us. I don’t wait for her to find her voice. I take the phone from her hand, my thumb already swiping to the call log.
The "Unknown" entry stares back at me. A ten-second connection. Ten seconds was all it took for him to reach through the storm and touch her.
"Ava." I grip her shoulder, grounding her. "Look at me. What did he say?"
She finally meets my eyes, her breath coming in shallow hitches. "He’s in my house, Silas. He’s standing in my bedroom."
The air in the cabin suddenly feels as cold as the wind outside. He's taunting us with how easily he can dismantle the life she left behind.
"He told me I left my Bible on the nightstand," she whispers.
I scroll past the missed call and use the tracking device to see if he stayed on the line long enough for us to get a location.
Not even close. Not a carrier hit. Just a handshake—fragmented, dirty. The kind you get when someone routes through disposable layers and bounces before the system can settle.
Whoever called her didn’t want to stay long enough to be seen.
The sat phone buzzes. Caleb’s name fills the screen.
Timing couldn’t be worse—but ignoring him isn’t an option. Not now.
“I have to take this,” I tell her. “Sit down. I’m right here.”
She lowers herself onto the couch, arms wrapped tight around her middle, eyes never leaving me.
I answer. “Talk to me.”
“We found someone who matches the profile,” Caleb says, voice clipped, all business.
“Tell me.”
Caleb's voice crackles through the speaker, each word precise and clipped.
"Name's Reagan Mitchell. Former Special Forces—5th Group.
Combat tracker, trained in SERE, advanced surveillance, and counter-surveillance.
He was part of a direct action team—specializing in close target reconnaissance and high-value target elimination.
" Caleb's voice drops. "Multiple confirmed kills. "
A cold weight settles in my chest. I glance back at Ava, then at the receiver still blinking on the console. "Go on."
"He's got explosives training, knows how to breach and clear, and here's the kicker—he was cross-trained with the CIA's Ground Branch before his discharge. 'Other than honorable' separation three years ago after a psych eval flagged him for violent ideation and obsessive behavior patterns."
Caleb’s words aren’t just information. They’re a threat assessment. SERE. CIA. Fifth Group.
And I’m standing between him and the woman three feet behind me.
I tighten my grip on the radio. I’ve fought men like this before. Just never on my own ground.
"After that, he went private. Black contract work. Delilah found sealed records connecting him to a kidnapping case and two assaults where witnesses recanted. He knows how to isolate targets, disable security systems, and operate in hostile territory without leaving traces."
My eyes sweep the cramped cabin interior, and suddenly the cedar walls feel like paper. This isn't a sanctuary anymore; it’s a kill box with too many windows and not enough exits.
"Current location?"
Caleb hesitates. "Dark. Completely dark since two days ago."
I don’t dwell on what his words might mean. They don’t tell a story. Not yet.
Instead, I start running the math of a siege—calculating the narrow line of sight from the porch and the blind spots created by the tree line pressing against the glass.
If Mitchell doesn't leave traces, it means the first time I see him will be the split second I have to put him down.
I’m no longer Ava’s bodyguard; I’m a countermeasure against a ghost who knows every trick I do.
Ava
You left your Bible on the nightstand. Reagan’s voice is ringing in my ears, playing on a loop.
Whatever his phone call was about, Silas is even more tense now, his eyes tracking the windows with a ferocity that makes my breath hitch. He’s angry for me, I know it, but anger isn’t going to help either of us.
I move to the kitchen and start grabbing boxes and cans with a frantic, uncoordinated energy, stacking them like a barricade.
While I risk poisoning us again, he ducks outside to bring in more firewood. Through the window, I watch him make efficient trips, stacking logs by the fireplace like he’s done it a hundred times before.
The door opens, and he comes back in with the final armful, shoulders dusted with snow. He drops the logs beside the hearth—one catches, and he jerks his hand back slightly before setting the rest down.
“Last of it,” he says, a little too sharply.
He grits his teeth and lifts his palm. Blood wells from a deep splinter embedded in the flesh below his thumb.
“Let me see that,” I say, already moving toward him.
"It's fine," he says, but doesn't pull his hand away when I take it.
"It's not fine. That's deep." I guide him toward the kitchen, where the light is better. "Sit."
He obeys without argument, which tells me it hurts more than he's letting on.
I retrieve my medical bag from the bedroom—force of habit, I never travel without it—and return to find him examining the splinter with the same detached focus he brings to cleaning weapons.
"Don't touch it," I say, setting the bag on the table and pulling out a chair beside him. "You'll just push it deeper."
I angle his hand toward the light, studying the entry point. The splinter is thick, embedded at an angle beneath the skin. It'll need to come out cleanly or risk leaving fragments behind.
"When's the last time you had a tetanus shot?" I ask, opening the bag.
"Two years ago. We keep current."
"Good." I pull out antiseptic wipes, tweezers, a small magnifying glass, and sterile gauze. His hand settles on the table. Broad. Scarred. The kind of calluses that come from tools and hard use.
Dark hair runs along his strong forearm, the muscle cording as he holds still for me.