Chapter 5
SIERRA
The power cuts out just as I'm decrypting the third message, and that's when I know I'm not alone.
My laptop screen goes dark. The oil lamp flickers. The low hum of the generator that's been my constant background noise for the past six hours dies into silence so complete my ears ring with it.
Coincidence. Has to be. Generators fail. Fuel runs out. Equipment seizes up in extreme cold. Standard Alaska problems.
Except the fuel gauge read three-quarters full when I checked at sunset.
And the silence outside isn't just quiet—it's watchful.
I sit frozen at the small desk, staring at the blank laptop screen, listening. Wind in the trees. Something small skittering across the roof. My own breathing, too loud in the stillness.
No engine sound. No mechanical whir trying to restart. Just... nothing.
My hand moves to the Glock secured in the shoulder holster under my fleece.
Cold metal. Familiar weight. The same weapon I carried in Chicago when things went sideways, which they did.
But Chicago had streetlights. Backup. Radio chatter and sirens and the constant pulse of a city that never really slept.
Here, there's only wilderness pressing against the windows and the sudden awareness that I'm miles from the nearest person who knows I exist.
Except Chris is somewhere out there in the dark.
The laptop's battery backup kicks in, screen glowing back to life. The decrypted message fragment stares at me—three lines of text that made my pulse spike before the power died.
—drop site charlie, 0300—
—package secure, moving north on foot—
—watch the fed bitch—
That last line. Fed bitch. The same phrase a Chicago enforcer used right before he tried to put a bullet in my back during the warehouse raid a month ago. Distinctive syntax. Regional marker. The kind of linguistic fingerprint that doesn't migrate randomly across two thousand miles.
Someone from my old case is here. Operating on this mountain. Coordinating drops and shipments and using the same verbal patterns that got them caught in Illinois.
Which means this isn't just Alaska's problem anymore. This is my problem. The case that nearly killed me followed me north, and whoever's running it knows I'm here.
I save the file, close the laptop, grab the flashlight from the desk. The beam cuts through darkness, illuminating the small cabin interior—wood stove still radiating heat, gear hung on wall pegs, rifle Barrett issued me propped beside the door. Everything exactly where I left it.
Except the generator's dead, and generators don't die on their own when they're three-quarters full.
The flashlight feels inadequate in my hand. Forty lumens against wilderness and whoever might be out there. But it's what I have, so I move toward the door, checking the Glock's chamber as I go. Round loaded. Muscle memory from years of field work taking over.
The cold hits the second I step outside. Brutal. Immediate. The kind of cold that steals breath and makes exposed skin ache. I sweep the flashlight beam across the clearing before going behind the cabin to the woodpile and the lean-to covering the generator, trees pressing close on three sides.
No movement. No sound except wind.
The clearing feels bigger in the dark. More exposed. In Chicago, I knew every alley, every doorway, every potential threat vector. Here, the wilderness is a living thing with too many hiding places and too many ways to die.
I move toward the generator, boots breaking through the frozen crust. Each step feels exposed. Vulnerable. Like I'm walking across a stage with spotlights tracking me while the audience sits hidden in darkness.
Halfway there, I stop. Listen.
Nothing. Just wind in the pines and my own breathing, too loud in my ears.
The generator sits under its lean-to exactly where it should be, metal housing coated with frost. I crouch beside it, run the flashlight beam along the fuel line, following the rubber tubing from the tank to the engine.
There.
A clean slice through the rubber tubing. Straight edge. Deliberate. No way that happened from wear or cold or bad luck. Someone cut it. Recently, judging by the diesel still pooling dark on the snow beneath, the sharp chemical smell cutting through the pine scent.
My throat goes tight. My hand moves to the Glock without conscious thought, drawing it from the holster, checking angles. This isn't equipment failure. This is sabotage.
This is someone sending a message.
I stand fast, spinning with the flashlight, sweeping the perimeter. Trees. Shadows. Shapes that could be stumps or could be something worse. The beam doesn't reach far enough. Doesn't penetrate deep enough. Everything beyond twenty feet might as well be a wall.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Training says assess the threat, secure the position, call for backup. But backup is miles away and the satellite phone is inside and every instinct is screaming that standing out here with a flashlight makes me a perfect target.
I kill the light. Let darkness swallow me.
For three seconds, I'm blind. Completely blind. My eyes need time to adjust, time I don't have, time that feels like an eternity while someone could be lining up a shot or closing distance or—
That's when I hear it.
Boots. Heavy treads breaking through snow crust. Steady rhythm. Deliberate. Coming from the tree line to my left.
Not trying to hide. Not sneaking. Just... walking. Like whoever it is doesn't care if I hear them coming.
That scares me more than stealth would.
I drop into a crouch, weapon up, finger near but not on the trigger. My breath comes in short bursts, each one a white cloud in the frigid air. In Chicago, I learned to read situations fast. Learned when to talk and when to shoot and when to run like hell.
Right now, all three options feel equally terrible.
The footsteps stop.
Silence stretches. Thick. Heavy. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure whoever's out there can hear it. Cold seeps through my jacket, my jeans, making my fingers start to go numb around the pistol grip. I force myself to breathe slower. Controlled. Like they taught me at the academy.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay alive.
My eyes adjust. Shapes emerge from the darkness. Trees. Stumps. The woodpile. And there—movement. A shape separating from the tree line.
Big. Too big to be an animal unless it's a bear, and bears don't walk upright carrying equipment.
Bulky parka making them look even bigger.
Face completely obscured by a balaclava, only eyes visible in the ambient starlight.
They're carrying something—a pack, maybe, or a container.
Something bulky enough to need both hands.
My training catalogs details automatically. Height: maybe six feet. Build: heavy, could be muscle or could be layers. Gait: steady, confident, someone comfortable in this terrain. Armed: can't see a weapon but the parka's bulk could hide anything. Threat level: extreme.
They take three steps toward the cabin. Slow. Measured. Like they're in no hurry. Like they have all the time in the world and I'm just an obstacle to be removed.
I rise from the crouch, weapon steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Stop right there!" My voice cracks the silence like breaking glass. "Identify yourself!"
The figure freezes. We're maybe thirty feet apart. Close enough I could hit center mass if I had to. Close enough to watch them weigh options, calculate angles. Close enough to see their head tilt slightly, considering.
For three heartbeats, neither of us moves.
Then they shift. A subtle change in stance that screams wrong to every instinct I have. Weight transfers to the balls of their feet. Shoulders square toward me instead of the cabin. The container drops from their grip, lands in snow with a muffled thump.
"Don't move!" I adjust my grip on the Glock, finger sliding to the trigger. "Federal agent! I said don't—"
They pivot and run.
Not toward me. Away. Back into the trees, moving fast, crashing through underbrush with zero concern for noise or subtlety. Just pure flight response.
Every instinct from my undercover days screams at me to chase. Don't let them escape. Don't lose the lead. Follow until you get answers or backup or both. I take two steps, weapon tracking their movement through the trees.
Then training kicks in over instinct.
This isn't Chicago. This is wilderness. Unknown terrain in complete darkness. Perfect ambush country. Every tactical instructor I ever had is yelling in my head to stay put, hold ground, don't run blind after an unknown threat who might be leading you exactly where they want you.
I plant my feet. Hold position. Keep the weapon up, covering the tree line where they disappeared.
My lungs burn. My hands shake. Adrenaline makes everything feel sharp and immediate and too fast.
"Stop! Federal—"
A rifle cracks from deeper in the trees. Loud. Close. Not at me—the shot comes from farther back, and the running figure staggers, catches themselves, keeps going. The shooter wasn't aiming for me.
Which means there are at least two people out here.
And one of them just shot at the other.
I drop into a crouch, weapon up, sweeping for targets. Wind in my ears. My boots breaking through the frozen surface. Every sound magnified. Every shadow a potential threat.
My throat is tight. My mouth tastes like copper. Training took over for the confrontation, but now that I'm standing here in the dark with at least two armed hostiles somewhere in these trees, the reality hits.
I could die out here. Right now. Tonight. No backup. No cavalry. Just me and whoever's hunting in these woods.
Then footsteps. Different rhythm than before. Heavier. Coming from where the shot originated, moving through underbrush with the kind of control that speaks to years of experience in rough terrain.