12. Chapter 12
Riley
“You gotta be kidding me. You brought them back?” Gunnar muttered as Mangus and Athena climbed out of the plane, followed by Jamie and Freda. The hellhounds hadn’t enjoyed the flight, and Mangus vigorously shook his head, sending strings of sulfurous slobber flying.
Freda eyed the troll. “Thanks for picking us up, but you smell like you haven’t showered since we left.”
“Because I haven’t. At least you got rid of Bennion.”
“You’re always a delightful ball of sunshine,” Jamie grinned as he took in Gunnar’s green-tinged, grumpy face.
Freda glanced around. “We’re sitting ducks out in the open. Let’s move.” They started toward the SUV.
“Why does your Alpha think you need so much protection?” Gunnar muttered.
Jamie adjusted his aviator sunglasses and glanced around. “Maybe because during your last investigation, she ended up kidnapped, tortured, branded, and with a fucking implant that’s slowly freezing her emotions.”
Gunnar’s massive shoulders tensed. “That wasn’t my fault, GQ boy.”
“It still happened, Shrek.”
I stepped between them when Gunnar’s eye started to twitch. “The coordinates from Viggo’s receipt point to an area near Mary Mountain, about four hours from here. Gunnar, can we get a head start today? We still have six hours before sunset.”
Gunnar eyed Mangus and Athena balefully. “Are the devil dogs coming too? Mangus smells like three-day-old roadkill.”
There was the pot calling the kettle black. “They’re cadejos,” I corrected. “And yes, they’re coming.” Mangus pressed his head against my leg, leaving a smear of drool on my pants.
Gunnar stared down at Athena, and she stared back. “Fine. But they ride in the cargo area.”
I loaded my gear while Gunnar and Jamie bickered about how far we could get before we’d have to camp for the night. I also pulled out my notes as Freda drove and Jamie rode shotgun.
“Drew sent me a few satellite maps of the area. The coordinates are deep in the backcountry, near an old thermal area that was closed to the public in the seventies after a series of unusual seismic events.”
Gunnar grunted as he studied the images. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.” He wasn’t wrong.
The landscape shifted from dense pine forests to open meadows, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the valley floor.
As Freda turned onto a less-traveled road, Gunnar pulled out his own notes.
“While you were in Denver, I looked up a few things too. There have been more disappearances around Mary Mountain over the years than in most other parts of the Park. Hikers, mostly. The authorities wrote them off as getting lost, dying from falls or exposure, or even wildlife attacks.”
“You think they’re connected to whatever’s out there,” I guessed.
He nodded grimly. “Something’s off in that area. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of Yellowstone. Beau mentioned a few Shoshone Tribe members think the area is cursed with Skinwalkers.”
“That’s a cheery thought,” Jamie muttered.
My father’s journal had mentioned “thin spots,” where the Earth’s core energy caused massive fluctuations, and that Yellowstone sat atop a supervolcano.
The road narrowed as we climbed higher, and switchbacks cut through dense forest. Patches of steam rose from the ground in spots, a reminder of the volcanic forces sleeping beneath the park.
The trailhead parking lot appeared ahead, a small gravel area with a weathered sign marking the start of the Mary Mountain Trail. The area was remote enough to discourage most hikers, and the parking lot was empty, with an abandoned feel.
My mind automatically began calculating distances and scanning for threats. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the pines, painting long shadows across the gravel. Mangus pressed against my leg and let out a soft growl. Something about this place got his hackles up.
“We need to move quickly so we can find a spot and set up camp before dark,” Freda reminded us.
Jamie pulled out his pack and slung it over his shoulder. “The area’s been off-limits for decades, according to the Park website. Any patrols or inspections scheduled we need to know about?”
Gunnar shook his head as he strapped on his own pack. “Beau said it’s between inspections, so if anyone’s out here, they shouldn’t be.”
Freda checked their weapons, her eyes constantly scanning. “What’s our cover story if we do encounter anyone?”
“Research,” I answered, slipping on my own pack. “We’ll say we’re studying geothermal microsystems in the Park. I know enough that it’ll hold up if anyone asks.”
My pack held basic survival and camping gear, three days’ worth of food, water purification tablets, a first-aid kit, and my father’s journal. I’d analyzed everything with brutal efficiency, including weight distribution and caloric requirements.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Jamie asked.
I shrugged. “We don’t know, but we’re fairly certain something is there. It might be buried or camouflaged.”
We set off down the trail with Gunnar taking point. The Mary Mountain Trail wound through dense lodgepole pines, occasionally breaking into small meadows where summer wildflowers grew. Under different circumstances, I would’ve thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful hike.
I gave the dogs a drink in a collapsible rubber dog bowl, and Mangus slurped and splashed slimy water everywhere.
Gunnar eyed him. “I have full-blood troll relatives, and he makes them look civilized.”
I patted Mangus’s head. “They help me so the implant doesn’t suppress my emotions as much.”
Jamie’s lips twitched. “It’s ironic that the thing responds positively to sulfurous demon dogs.”
I gave Mangus a good ear-scratching. “He’s not a demon dog, he’s a sweet, good boy. Aren’t you?” The hellhound sat, his huge tongue lolling as black smoke curled from a nostril.
As we climbed higher, the forest grew denser and the trail narrower. Occasional steam vents appeared, releasing thin clouds into the air.
The area vibrated with palpable energy, and my body buzzed in response. “Yellowstone sits atop a massive magma chamber,” I explained, gesturing broadly. “It’s the continent’s largest supervolcano, and the Earth’s crust is thin in spots around here.”
“You’re such a nerd, Sparky,” Jamie teased.
I held my sweaty hair off my neck. “And you look like you’re modeling for a high-end outdoor clothing catalog. We all have our quirks.”
The sun dropped lower, and dusk was approaching. My legs burned, my pack feeling twice as heavy as when we started.
“Let’s find a campsite within the next mile,” Freda suggested. “We’re losing daylight.”
I checked my watch. It was just before six, and the temperature was beginning to drop. I’d previously identified a few potential campsites based on visibility, defensibility, and proximity to water sources.
Freda pointed ahead. “According to the map, there should be a stream about half a mile ahead. That would be ideal.”
We walked in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Athena ranged ahead, her white form ghosting among the trees, while Mangus stayed closer to me.
The forest grew quiet as we continued. The usual chirping of birds and small animals rustling in the underbrush faded away. My implant registered it first. Something had disrupted the wildlife.
Mangus suddenly froze beside me, his massive body going rigid.
His hackles rose along his spine, and a low, subsonic growl vibrated through his chest, like the rumble before an earthquake.
Athena materialized from the trees ahead, her crimson eyes fixed on something none of us could see, her white fur standing on end.
“Listen,” I whispered to Jamie. “What do you hear?”
He paused, head cocked slightly. Then he straightened. “Nothing.” His hand drifted toward his weapon.
“Gunnar,” Freda called softly. “Hold up.”
The troll stopped and turned his massive head. “What?”
“The forest is too quiet.”
He nodded slowly, his expression grim. I rested my hand on Mangus’s neck, heat radiating through his fur.
A dry leaf crunched underfoot ahead, faint but distinct.
My head jerked toward the sound, every sense heightened.
Mangus pressed against my leg, his body vibrating with a silent growl.
Jamie held up a fist, signaling the others to freeze as I strained to hear.
Low, clipped, professional voices drifted through the trees.
The cadence was too disciplined to be hikers.
Freda appeared beside me and gestured to have us move off the trail. We crept into a dense thicket of undergrowth and melted off the path, the hellhounds following. My mouth went dry as I slid into the shadow of a massive fallen pine, its trunk partially hollowed by insects and time.
Jamie pressed his back against the rough bark beside me, his breathing shallow and controlled. Gunnar’s massive form disappeared behind a cluster of boulders, and Freda slipped into the shadows as she tucked her light hair beneath a dark cap.
I calculated our odds. There were four of us plus two hellhounds, and right now we had the element of surprise. I silently pulled my sidearm out.
We could hear them better now. Not the casual gait of hikers or the more measured stride of rangers, but the synchronized movement of trained operatives. My body tensed.
They came into view through gaps in the foliage. Four figures in black tactical gear, moving in almost synchronized formation. The one in front bore that vacant look of the operatives in Roswell. Two carried modified assault rifles with suppressors.
And then I saw him.
Commander Marlowe was in the center of the formation, his silver-streaked hair gleaming in the dappled evening sunlight.
His posture was impeccable as always, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised.
He wore the same charcoal uniform I remembered, the fabric so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it.
Air left my lungs, and my vision tunneled as the present dissolved in my mind.