Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
SLOANE
When Rhys leaves, the smell of pine and sandalwood goes with him. Must be his soap. Or maybe just him.
Then, I notice the quiet, broken only by the rhythmic crackling of the hearth.
I study the room more closely, committing the layout to memory. Everything in this space is controlled, contained. Everything has a purpose, too.
The hearth with wood stacked neatly nearby. The pantry lined with canned goods, dry provisions, and MREs.
Enough silverware for three meals, one person. Same with plates, cups.
A small stack of books near the cot for reading. First to Fight. The Art of War. Gates of Fire. Starship Troopers.
That one stops me. My fingers slide over the bent cover. Phoenix loved this book. The movie, too.
It feels too intimate for this place. For him. I almost throw the book into the fire.
I remind myself that I don’t know anything yet. Nothing except the reports. The ones Rhys wrote himself.
My eyes flick back to the picture of First Recon. The tattoo flashes in my mind.
Nothing’s here that isn’t useful. Or, at the very least, purposeful.
The coordinates.
I could use the sat phone. Call my parents and ask them to Google the numbers. I could. Instead, I make a note on my cell phone. Just in case.
Because I want to hear it from his mouth. Whatever significance it has.
I head outside, eaves still dripping with rain, walking out toward the flood-ravaged side of the mountain. My breath stalls as I draw closer to the edge, the ground soft, giving way under my feet.
I want to look over the edge. See how far down the Jeep washed. Appraise if there’s any hope for recovering it. But another slip of my boots, and I step back.
Now’s not the time to tempt fate.
I text my parents using the sat phone. I don’t expect a reply.
All’s good. Safe. In contact with Phoenix’s commanding officer.
I know what they’re thinking. That I’m meeting Rhys Ward over coffee in town. Public locations only. No stone unturned, but no risk taken either.
That’s never been this career, though. And they don’t need to know any different. It’s not worth the worry.
I walk around the property again tentatively. A small shed to one side stands like a miracle, weathered and mossy. I crack the door. It’s filled to the brim with neatly stacked tools. Wood working. Basic home repairs. Chainsaws. Axes.
Traps. Lots of hunting traps.
A shiver climbs my spine before I can explain it. Everything here is what I expected. Nothing out of place. But it all feels so forlorn. So final.
It’s more than survival or punishment. It’s control.
What I don’t find shocks me more than what I do. No truck or off-roading vehicle, just an ATV and a snowmobile. It’s not surprising. Many people get around that way up here. But it fees like he’s not planning on leaving.
A shallow, brick-lined storm cellar behind the cabin leads down into a modest, dry space where he stores pelts. My fingers run across the soft fur of a bobcat. Why the rain didn’t bleed through here, I don’t know. But the ground is higher, out of the path of washouts.
Never thought Phoenix’s commanding officer would be a… I don’t even know what to call him.
A hermit? A recluse?
A mountain man?
In town, they said he guides hunters in the fall. They probably pay him well enough to disappear comfortably. Surrounded by posh mountain towns—Telluride, Ouray, Durango.
Still, it seems like an unnecessarily hard life. Not that I care. Not that it matters.
When I feel eyes on me from some distant location, I head back inside. I sit in a corner, jotting down observations and notes in my journal. Nothing earth-shattering.
Just the character study I’m developing on him.
Obdurate. Cold. Calculated.
I startle slightly when Rhys enters, the cabin’s shadows growing long in the waning afternoon light. He eyes me suspiciously. His energy feels different now. More controlled. Quieter. Far more guarded.
He lights a kerosene lamp. The air fills with the pungent smell of oil. I can’t believe it. I feel transported to another time. Rustic. Removed from reality.
Escapism.
That’s what this is.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asks, clearing his throat.
“Research,” I answer with a frown, tapping my pen against my bottom lip.
His gaze drops for one moment, just a second too long. The air thickens. He runs a hand over his beard, eyes locked on my face. “Your eyes are a problem. You have his eyes.”
“I know.”
He leans against the wall, sliding to the ground, still watching me. “Same color. Same fire. But less jaded.”
“Less jaded?” I arch an eyebrow. “I don’t know how that can be.”
“It is.”
The room goes quiet. Too quiet.
“Your reports…” I look away, staring at the wall, then back at him. I have to gauge his reaction. “…were sanitized.”
“They were accepted.”
My laugh is strained. “You and I both know that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Don’t speak for me.”
“Fair enough.”
Silence settles, but my mind races for an angle. A way to get him to open up.
“You spoke for Phoenix… in the end.”
His face darkens, warm light from the lamp and hearth washing over his hard features.
His next words come out slow, measured. “Better than the alternative.”
That gets my attention.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I try to speak again. I have to exhale first. “What does that mean?”
“You know, embed.”
I shake my head. “Only sometimes… to track down the really bad guys.”
“That your hobby, then?”
“You could say I don’t stop,” I answer, voice steel.
“You have the guts of an embed,” he says, snorting and looking away.
I don’t take the bait. Not switching topics.
“I’m not here officially.”
He shrugs.
“That means what you tell me stays between us.”
He laughs, letting his head fall back against the wall. “And your parents and your cousins, your uncles and aunts, your friends, Facebook, Instagram?”
“I understand you’re not at liberty to say certain things. But this is off the record. Between you and me. That’s it.”
He lifts his head, eyes locking on me. “Not at liberty. What don’t you understand?”
“Need to know. I get it.”
He opens his mouth, but I shake my head.
“It is need to know for me.” My voice sounds too raw now, too close to giving me away. I cast my eyes to the side, swallowing hard.
“Easy to be brave with other people’s families. Not your own.”
“You should know.”
“That’s why I said it.”
Silence. It stretches with the shadows as night closes in.
I feel it again. The claustrophobia. I’m stuck in this place. With this man.
I study his face for a long moment. Square-cut jaw, symmetrical features, haunting eyes. Mahogany color, like the earth where I’m from—SoCal. Not Colorado red clay.
His nose is aquiline and proportionate. I can’t tell if that’s natural, or he’s had it broken before. A thin, silvery scar runs down one side of his face and neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
“It’s obvious you don’t want me here,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move beyond breathing.
“If you just give me what I want, I promise I’ll leave. That’ll be the end of it. Our secret.”
Rhys’s gaze fixes on me, harder now. Colder. “You don’t know what you want.”
It comes out final. Like there’s nothing to argue. But a flicker of something burns behind his eyes. I can’t name it. But it’s there. Undeniable.
Fear maybe. Hope. Something harder to identify. I can’t name it yet, but my gut tells me it matters. So, I try again. “How long have you been up here?”
He chuckles, leaning his head back against the wall. “What month is it? What year?”
I tell him. He calculates.
“A little over two years.”
“You look disappointed,” I say.
“I was hoping it’d been longer.”
“Why?” I ask.
“More of your deep, probing questions,” he laments sarcastically.
“If you don’t like my questions, why don’t you ask some of your own?”
He inhales through his nose, then lets it out slowly. “What do you want to believe about Phoenix?”
Is he trying to piss me off? Is this question serious?
“Why are you asking me that?”
He tips his head enough to look at me. “Because, yeah, I want you to leave.”
“And I want the truth.”
“Roger that.”
His voice goes flat again, as if he’s shutting this down.
“I’m as stubborn as you are,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “Two years stubborn?”
The blood drains from my face.
He sees it. But he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t register anything except maybe sadness.
“You eat meat?”
An awkward pause follows.
I nod.
He rises to his feet and heads for the door. “Better over the pit.” Then, he disappears outside, and that’s when it hits me.
Something about him doesn’t match the version I came here to confront. And that’s a problem.