Chapter 2
CHRIS
The woman in the snare is going to get herself killed, and that's going to be a problem for me.
I've been watching from the ridge since Barrett dropped her off.
Tracked the snowmobile's approach, watched her unpack through the cabin windows, waited to see if she'd have the sense to stay inside. Like anyone with half a brain would on their first night in backcountry, but she didn’t. City people never do.
They show up with their expensive, designer gear and their ignorance and their certainty that the rules don't apply to them. They wander off trails, ignore warnings, treat the wilderness like it's a theme park designed for their entertainment.
And then they die.
Usually I don't care. Natural selection doing its work. One less human stomping through my territory, leaving trash and noise and scent everywhere. The mountain takes what it wants, and I'm not playing guardian angel to idiots who can't follow instructions.
But this one's different; she tripped my snare... and she didn't panic, even when the bear showed up.
I set that trap three days ago after finding fresh boot prints near one of my caches. Someone's been poaching in my territory—checking my traplines, stealing my game, leaving signs everywhere that they're tracking me. Professional work. Deliberate. Not some lost hiker or curious local.
The snare was meant to catch whoever's been shadowing me. Send a message. Make them think twice about coming back.
Instead, it caught her.
I watch through the rifle scope as she struggles with the wire, movements panicked and sloppy. Rookie mistake after rookie mistake. She's pulling, which only tightens the snare. Hasn't figured out she needs to push slack into the loop first.
Then the bear emerges from the brush.
Son of a bitch.
I recognize him—old male, territorial, den's about a quarter mile east. He's not hunting.
Just doing his evening rounds, checking the scent markers I've been using to keep other predators away from the trap site.
But he's curious about the commotion, and a bear's curiosity can kill just as dead as its hunger.
The woman freezes. Smart. Finally some sense.
But the bear keeps coming. Ten feet. Eight. Six.
I should let this play out. Let nature handle the problem. She's in my territory, caught in my trap, and her dying means one less complication. One less witness. One less person asking questions I can't answer.
But I'm not a murderer.
I've killed. Combat doesn't leave room for clean hands. But there's a difference between war and letting a woman get mauled because I couldn't be bothered.
Damn it.
I bring the rifle up, sight on the sky above the bear, squeeze the trigger.
The shot cracks through twilight like thunder. Birds explode from trees. The bear's head jerks up, massive body going still as it processes the sound.
I'm already moving, crashing down the slope through snow, making noise, making myself big. "Hey! Get! Go on! Get!"
The bear swings toward me, huffs once. I can see the calculation in its eyes—is this threat worth the trouble? Is whatever curiosity drew it here worth tangling with something that makes loud noises and smells like gunpowder?
It decides no.
The bear drops to all fours and lumbers back into the brush, disappearing fast for something that size. I keep shouting until I'm sure it's gone, then silence crashes back down.
Just me, her, and the wind in the trees.
I approach slowly, rifle still in hand but pointed down. She's watching me with wide eyes, chest heaving, one hand gripping the knife she was using to saw at the snare wire.
Up close, she's smaller than I expected. Five-four maybe, dark hair pulled back and tucked up under a knit cap, features that suggest Mediterranean heritage somewhere back. Pretty, in a sharp-edged way that has nothing to do with softness and everything to do with survival instincts.
City pretty. Doesn't last long out here.
I kneel beside the snare, pull my knife from my belt. "Hold still."
"What...”
"I said hold still." I hook the blade under the wire loop, twist, and the snare releases with a metallic snap. The wire falls away from her boot.
She scrambles backward the second she's free, gets her feet under her, stands in a fighting stance. Like she thinks I'm the threat now. Maybe I am. Her hand's on that knife.
"What the hell kind of trap is that?" Her voice shakes, but there's anger underneath. Good. Anger means she's thinking instead of just reacting. "You could've killed me!"
"Could've killed a lot of things. That's the point." I stand, sheathing my knife. "What are you doing out here?"
"What am I...” She stops, remembers breathing. "I was checking the perimeter. Getting my bearings. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Know your surroundings?"
"Not by wandering off the marked trail your first night here." I gesture at the path, visible even in fading light. "You were twenty yards off. In unmarked territory. Where traps get set."
"There was no sign. No warning."
"The warning is the trail. You stay on it, you're safe. You leave it, you take your chances." I turn, ready to head back to my own camp before this gets more complicated. "Go back to your cabin. Stay inside. Don't come out here again."
"Wait." She steps forward, taking me in now that panic has passed. Eyes scanning my face, my gear, the way I move. "Who are you? You're not Wildlife Protection. Nate didn't mention anyone else working this area."
"Nate doesn't know everything."
"He seems to know enough to warn me about predators. He didn't warn me about you."
"Maybe he doesn't know I exist."
"Or maybe you don't want him to." She's sharp. Too sharp. Wheels turning behind those dark eyes. "I’m Sierra Vale. I’m working with Nate.” She stops. Goes completely still, and I know what’s coming before she says it.
“Wait a minute. I've seen your face. In the file.
The briefing materials they gave me in Chicago.
" Her eyes go wide. "Holy shit, you're Chris Calder. "
Every muscle in my body locks down. My hand drifts toward the knife, not as threat but as anchor. Something real to focus on while my mind races through options and none of them are good.
She knows my name. Knows my face. Means she's seen the reports. Mission logs. Witness statements from the trafficking investigation that got my team killed.
Which means she knows I'm supposed to be dead.
"You're supposed to be dead." She says it out loud. "You went missing almost a year ago. Everyone thinks—your sister thinks...”
"I am dead." My voice comes out flat, hard, no room for argument. "And you're going to forget you ever saw me."
"Like hell I am." She takes another step forward, and I see the investigator in her now. The person who doesn't let go once they've caught a thread. "What are you doing out here? Why fake your death? What happened on that mission?"
"None of your business."
"It's exactly my business. I was sent here to investigate trafficking routes through this territory. Routes that got your team killed. If you know something...”
"I don't know anything." I turn, start walking toward the tree line. "Go home. Do your job. Stay away from me."
"Wait!"
I don't wait. I move through the trees with eleven months' practice, letting shadows swallow me. Behind me, I hear her calling out, demanding answers, but her voice gets fainter with every step.
She'll go back to her cabin. Tell Barrett she saw someone in the woods. Maybe she'll even say my name. And Barrett will tell her what everyone believes—that Chris Calder died in the backcountry almost a year ago. That stress and isolation make people see ghosts.
He won't believe her.
But she'll believe herself. And that's the problem.
I move faster, putting distance between us, heading deeper into territory where she won't follow. Can't follow. Not without better gear, better training, a death wish.
The moon rises over the ridge, painting everything silver and black. My camp is two miles northeast, hidden in a ravine where satellite surveillance can't reach and human eyes won't find it unless they know exactly where to look.
I've stayed hidden this long. Stayed dead. Being dead keeps everyone safer—Bryn, Barrett, anyone else who might get pulled into the mess I left behind.
The traffickers think I'm gone. The mole feeding them information thinks I'm gone and no longer a threat. And as long as they think that they'll stay quiet. Stay put. Won't escalate.
But now she's here.
She must be some kind of fed Barrett called in. The kind who solves puzzles for a living, who doesn't stop digging until every bone is uncovered.
And she's seen my face.
I reach my camp just as full dark settles over the mountain. The shelter is invisible from ten feet away—reinforced tarp stretched between two boulders, camouflaged with branches and debris, entrance hidden behind a deadfall that looks natural until you know the gap behind it.
I duck inside, seal the entrance with the insulated flap I rigged from an old tent, light a candle.
The space is small but efficient, dug down two feet into the earth for better insulation.
Sleeping platform raised off the ground, layered with pine boughs, foam pad, and a zero-degree sleeping bag with a bivy sack over it.
Gear cache secured in waterproof containers.
Emergency supplies. Radio I never use, because transmitting means being found, but I can listen and sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
The real key to surviving Alaska winter is the subterranean heating system I spent two months perfecting.
Vented propane heater, small enough to be portable, connected to a five-gallon tank I refill from cached supplies every three weeks.
The vent tube runs up through a crack in the boulder, dispersing exhaust where it won't be visible from below.
Not enough heat to make it comfortable, but enough to keep the temperature above freezing. Enough to stay alive.
I light the heater, feel the first wave of warmth. It'll take thirty minutes to bring the shelter up to a livable forty degrees. Until then, I stay bundled.
And pinned to the rock wall, a photograph. Bryn, from three years ago, long before everything went to hell. Laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, completely unguarded. Happy.
I stare at that photo every night. Remind myself why I'm doing this. Why I can't go back. Why staying dead keeps her safe.
But tonight, all I can think about is the woman in the snare. The way she looked at me when she said my name. The determination in her voice when she said like hell I will.
She's not going to let this go.
And I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about it.
I blow out the candle and sit in the dark, listening to the wind howl outside, the propane heater humming steady, knowing tomorrow everything gets more complicated.
Because tomorrow, she's going to come looking.
And I'm going to have to decide whether to disappear completely or do something I swore I'd never do again.
Trust someone.
The thought alone makes my chest tight. Trust got my team killed. Trust put Bryn in danger. Trust is a luxury I can't afford.
But keeping her from digging too deep might mean giving her just enough truth to satisfy curiosity. Just enough answers to make her think she's solved the puzzle.
Just enough rope to hang myself if I'm wrong about her.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. But all I see is her face. Those dark, sharp eyes that saw through a year of hiding in thirty seconds.
And behind her, the ghosts of Joel and Tate. The women in those trafficking photos we never saved.
All of them watching me. Asking the same question.
Was hiding worth it?
She's going to be a problem.
And problems out here get people killed.