Chapter 4
CHRIS
The woman is still standing there when I look back, and that's the problem—I have a sneaky suspicion she doesn't just quit.
Most people would've taken the hint. The warning. The explicit threat when I told her to stay away. They would've gone back to their cabin, locked the door, maybe radioed Barrett with information. Smart people know when to back down.
But I don’t think she’s most people.
Even from a hundred yards out, I can see her silhouette against snow. Arms crossed. Feet planted like she's claiming ground instead of standing on borrowed time. The stubborn set of her shoulders tells me everything I need to know about how this is going to go.
Badly. For both of us.
I should've let the bear have her.
The thought comes unbidden and immediately makes me feel like the bastard I've probably become.
But it's true, isn't it? One mauling, one tragic accident, one more statistic about city transplants who don't respect the wilderness.
Problem solved. Sierra Vale becomes another cautionary tale, and I stay dead.
Instead, I saved her life. Showed her my face. Let her say my name out loud for the first time in eleven months. Might as well have lit a flare and sent up coordinates to everyone who wants me buried for real.
Stupid. Reckless. Joel would've torn into me for breaking protocol like this. Except Joel's dead, and I'm the one who got him killed.
I turn away from her silhouette and push deeper into the trees. My shelter's another two miles northeast, tucked into terrain that doesn't show up on any map Barrett would have. Remote enough that even experienced hikers miss it. Fortified enough that I'll have warning if anyone comes looking.
The hike back follows paths worn into muscle memory. Eleven months of walking the same routes in darkness. Left at the split pine. Over the creek where ice is thickest. Through the gully that funnels wind like a natural alarm system. Every step calculated. Every landmark memorized.
Staying alive out here isn't romantic. It's repetition and paranoia in equal measure.
The shelter appears exactly where I left it, which means no one's found it yet.
Good. The structure is basic—reinforced lean-to built into a rock outcropping, camouflaged with deadfall and snow.
From the air, it looks like natural terrain.
From the ground, you'd walk past it unless you knew exactly what to look for.
This isn't a home. It's a hide. And I'm getting real tired of hiding.
The anger hits without warning, hot and caustic in my throat. Fury at the situation. At the mole who set us up. At the system that's supposed to protect people like me but leaves its own compromised. At myself for being too much of a coward to do anything but survive.
"You're a coward hiding in the woods."
Her words cut through the space between my ears, sharp as the cold. She doesn't understand. Can't understand. This isn't about fear—it's about strategy. You don't win a war by charging straight at superior forces. You survive. You observe. You wait for the right moment.
Except I've been waiting eleven months, and the right moment hasn't come. The trafficking network is still operational. Drop sites still active. Encrypted communications still crackling through channels I shouldn't be able to access but do because I've spent nearly a year learning their patterns.
And now Sierra's here to decrypt those same communications, which means someone thinks the network is vulnerable. Someone thinks there's evidence worth finding.
Someone's going to die trying.
I drop my pack and rifle near the entrance, check the perimeter out of habit. No tracks. No disturbance. The cache I marked three days ago is still sealed, which means whoever's been shadowing me hasn't found this location yet.
Yet.
They will eventually. That's why I keep watch, and when they start to zero in, I move. Erase every trace. Brush out tracks. Scatter the fire pit. Redistribute deadfall until it looks natural. Leave nothing that says a human was here.
But for now, this shelter is secure. For now, I can breathe.
The radio sits in its usual spot, wedged between the rock wall and my gear cache. Old military-grade handset, the kind that can pick up frequencies civilian equipment can't touch. Battery's solar-charged, which means limited use, but I don't need much. Just enough to monitor.
Just enough to hear her voice.
Bryn's on wildlife patrol comms sometimes when she's out in the field. She came to Glacier Hollow as a wildlife biologist. Still looking for me. Still refusing to believe I'm dead even though everyone else moved on. Her voice cuts through the static sometimes, and it reminds me why I'm doing this.
Reminds me what I'm protecting.
I pull the radio out, check the charge. Sixty percent. Good enough. The frequency Barrett's people use is easy to find—they're not exactly covert operations. I tune in, adjust the squelch, wait.
Nothing but static.
Most times, there's nothing. Silence. Empty air. But sometimes there's chatter. Sometimes there's laughter. Sometimes there's Bryn's voice cutting through the cold to tell someone the trail conditions are clear or the weather's holding or she's heading back.
And on those nights, for just a few seconds, I remember what it felt like to be human.
Tonight there's only static. White noise that fills the shelter and makes the emptiness louder. I should turn it off. Save the battery. Stay disciplined.
Instead, I leave it on. Let the static wash over me. Pretend it's company instead of proof I'm alone.
The temptation to transmit is always there, hovering at the edge of discipline. Key the mic. Say her name. Tell her I'm alive, I'm sorry, I'm doing this for her even though it feels like dying slowly.
But transmission means exposure. The mole would hear. Everyone I'm trying to protect becomes a target. So I listen instead. Night after night. Holding onto the sound of her voice like it's the only tether keeping me from disappearing completely into these woods.
"You're not hiding. You're fighting. Alone. In the dark. Against an enemy you can't see."
Sierra got that part right, at least. The enemy I can't see. Can't identify. Can't touch without proof solid enough to survive scrutiny from people who might already be compromised.
Someone on the inside fed our coordinates to the trafficking ring.
Someone with access to operational planning, communications, movements.
Someone who knew exactly when and where we'd be vulnerable.
The task force had maybe fifteen people with that level of clearance. Any one of them could've done it.
Which means I can't trust any of them.
And now Sierra's here, sent by that same system, working for Barrett who worked adjacent to that same task force. She could be clean. Could be genuine. Could be exactly what she appears to be—a forensic linguist trying to break a case.
Or she could be the mole's insurance policy. Sent to confirm I'm dead. Sent to finish what the ambush started.
I don't know which, and that uncertainty is going to get one of us killed.
The memory comes without permission, the way it always does. The weight of choosing survival over bringing them home. Joel's gone. Tate's gone. And I'm alive in this shelter because I chose to stay dead.
Some days, I'm not sure I made the right choice.
The static on the radio shifts. Not Bryn's voice—too deep, too male—but someone transmitting on any frequency. I turn up the volume.
"—conditions clear on the north ridge. Heading back to base."
Barrett's voice. Clipped. Professional. Exactly what you'd expect from ex-military running wilderness operations.
He's good. Better than most people realize. Former SEAL, if the way he moves is any indication. Smart enough to survive Alaska's backcountry. Connected enough to pull resources when he needs them.
Also connected to the task force that got my team killed.
Maybe he's clean. Maybe he's been compromised. Maybe he has no idea there's a mole in the system, or maybe he's the mole. I don't know, and not knowing is what keeps me out here instead of asking for help.
Trust got Joel killed. Trust got Tate killed. Trust is a luxury I can't afford.
But Sierra knows Barrett by reputation. Works for him. Takes orders from him. Which means whatever she discovers, whatever she decodes, goes straight back to a system that might already be corrupted.
She's going to get herself killed.
The thought lands hard and stays. Not hypothetical anymore.
Concrete. Immediate. She's smart and trained and capable, but she doesn't know this terrain.
Doesn't know who she's fighting. Doesn't understand that the real danger isn't the trafficking network—it's the people who are supposed to be on her side.
Except warning her means revealing what I know. Means exposing that I've been monitoring the network. Means admitting I've spent eleven months gathering evidence I can't use because I don't know who's safe.
And if she's the mole's plant, warning her means handing them everything.
The radio crackles again. Different voice this time. Younger. Anxious.
"Barrett, this is Jennings. Got movement on the fire road near sector seven. Vehicle, no headlights. Couldn't get a plate."
Sector seven. That's southwest. Near the old logging routes. Near where we found one of the bigger caches last year—medical supplies, cash, encrypted comms gear. The network uses those routes for nighttime drops when weather keeps air surveillance grounded.
Barrett's response is immediate. "Copy that. Maintain observation but do not engage. Report any further movement."
"Copy."
The transmission ends. Static floods back in.
Movement near sector seven. Vehicle running dark. That's not hikers. That's not lost tourists. That's operational activity, happening now, tonight, while everyone's attention is scattered.
While Sierra's alone in that cabin.
The sector seven routes intersect with trails that lead back to her location. Not direct—too many ridges and gullies in between—but navigable for anyone who knows the terrain. Navigable for people who've been using this mountain to move contraband for years.
If they know she's here. If they know she's working communications intel. If they see her as a threat…
My hand moves toward the rifle before conscious thought catches up. Old instincts. Combat reflexes. Protect the vulnerable, neutralize the threat, complete the mission.
Except I'm not on a mission. I'm dead. And she isn't my problem.
She should be Barrett's problem. His operation. His asset. He's got resources, backup, proper channels. Let him handle it. Let the system work the way it's supposed to work. Let me stay out here where I belong.
Where I'm safe.
"You're a coward hiding in the woods."
The words loop back, relentless. Maybe she's right. Maybe this is cowardice dressed up as strategy. Maybe I've been using protection as an excuse to avoid facing what happened. Avoid admitting I failed. Avoid the guilt that sits in my chest like shrapnel I can't dig out.
Joel's dead. Tate's dead. And I'm hiding in a shelter listening to radios while someone else walks into danger.
The engine sound reaches me before I fully process what it means. Faint. Distant. Growing closer. Snowmobile, judging by the pitch.
Too far for standard patrol routes. Too late for recreational traffic. Too deliberate to be coincidence.
Someone's heading toward Sierra’s cabin.
Every tactical instinct I've spent eleven months honing screams at me to move. Gear up. Intercept. Because whatever's coming, it's not friendly. Not at this hour. Not running without lights. Not deviating from established routes.
This is operational. Deliberate. Targeted.
And she's alone.
I grab my rifle, check the magazine. Full. Spare mags in my vest. Knife secured. Comms off because I can't risk transmission. The shelter's secure—I'll come back for the rest later if there is a later.
Right now, Sierra's about to get a visitor she isn't expecting.
And whoever it is, they're not coming to talk.
I move through the forest fast but controlled. Eleven months out here taught me how to navigate in the dark. Where roots reach across trails. Where ice hides under snow. Where terrain funnels sound and where it swallows it.
The engine sound's getting louder. Closer. Whoever they are, they're pushing hard. Moving with purpose. Not worried about noise anymore because they're close enough it doesn't matter.
Her cabin's two miles west from my location. The route they're taking cuts through rough terrain but it's doable if you know what you're doing. And these people know. They've been operating on this mountain long enough to map every trail, every approach, every blind spot.
The same people who killed my team.
My pace increases. Anger makes me sloppy—adrenaline makes me reckless—but right now, both are fuel. Let them come. Let them make a move. I've been invisible for eleven months, watching, waiting, gathering intel with nowhere to put it.
Maybe it's time to remind them ghosts can still bite.
The cabin comes into view through the trees. Lights on inside. Her shadow moving past the window. Oblivious. Working on her laptop or reviewing files or doing whatever forensic linguists do when they should be paying attention to their perimeter.
And there—fifty yards out—the snowmobile. Single rider. Cutting the engine. Going quiet.
Not Barrett. Not anyone with legitimate business at this hour.
The rider dismounts. Checks the cabin windows. Moves toward the door with practiced silence.
Not on my watch.