Chapter 10
CHRIS
The owl call is off by half a beat, and that's how I know we've got company.
I reach for Sierra's arm, squeeze once. Stay quiet. Stay down. She freezes beside me, every muscle going taut. Smart woman. Doesn't question, doesn't argue, just reads the threat in my touch and responds.
I move to the propane heater, shut off the valve. Darkness swallows the shelter completely. The candle goes next—pinched out between thumb and forefinger, the sting of heat barely registering. In the sudden black, my eyes adjust fast. Eleven months of living nocturnal will do that.
Sierra's breath is shallow beside me. Controlled. She's scared but functional. Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Panic gets you killed.
I crawl to my gear cache, retrieve the night scope. Military surplus, generation three. Cost me two months of rationed MREs and a stolen fuel cache to trade for it, but it's worth every ounce. Out here, night vision is the difference between hunter and prey.
The scope comes up smooth, familiar weight settling against my eye socket. Green-tinted world resolves into clarity—trees, rocks, the slight depression where the deadfall conceals the entrance. And there, on the ridge line two hundred yards out, a thermal signature.
Human-shaped. Still as stone. Watching.
My finger moves to the trigger guard. Not on the trigger—not yet—but close. Ready. I track the figure through the scope, looking for tells. Equipment, weapons, backup. But whoever this is, they're good. No unnecessary movement. No radio chatter I can detect. Just patient observation.
Professional.
The kind of professional who works for people with resources. People like Shepherd.
Twenty minutes pass. Might as well be twenty hours.
My shoulder aches from holding position, old shrapnel wounds protesting the cold and stillness.
Sierra hasn't moved either, pressed against the rock wall where I left her.
I can hear her breathing—slow, measured, the rhythm of someone fighting to stay calm.
The figure on the ridge shifts. Finally. Rises from their position with fluid grace, melts back into the tree line. Gone.
I wait another ten minutes. Count every second. Make sure they're really gone and not just repositioning. When I'm satisfied, I lower the scope.
"Clear," I whisper.
Sierra exhales hard. "What was that?"
"Recon." I relight the candle, keep the flame low. "Someone checking our position."
"Why didn't they attack?"
Good question. The kind that means she's thinking tactically instead of just reacting. "Because they don't know if I'm alone. If I have backup. How well-armed we are. They're gathering intel before they commit."
Understanding wars with horror in her expression. She's smart enough to know what that means. We're not the hunters anymore. We're the prey.
Dawn comes slow and cold. Neither of us sleeps. We sit with our backs against opposite walls, weapons in reach, eyes on the entrance. Waiting for a threat that doesn't come.
When pale gray light finally seeps through the gaps in the tarp, Sierra breaks the silence.
"They know where we are now."
"They've always known roughly where I am. Too much territory to search blind." I stand, work the stiffness from my joints. "But now they have specifics. They'll be back."
"With how many?"
"Enough to be sure they can take us." I start prepping gear—magazines, water, emergency supplies. "Which gives us maybe twelve hours. Twenty-four if we're lucky."
Sierra stands too, tests her injured shoulder with a grimace. The bandage shows fresh blood seepage. Not good, but not critical. Yet. Without antibiotics, infection is just a matter of time.
"So what's the plan?" she asks. "Run?"
"Running just delays the inevitable. They'll track us, wait for weather or terrain to give them an advantage, then hit us when we're vulnerable." I hand her an energy bar. "We need to change the dynamic."
"How?"
The plan's been forming in my head since I saw that figure on the ridge. Risky. Probably suicidal. But it's the only way to force Shepherd's hand.
"You cracked their communications pattern. You know how they talk, what protocols they use." I pull out the stolen sat phone from the dead drop. "We use that."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Plant false intel."
"Make them think we've identified Shepherd. That we have proof, evidence, documentation. That we're preparing to transmit everything to federal authorities." I turn the sat phone over in my hands. "When they move to stop us, we'll be ready."
"That's a great way to get us both killed."
"Yeah." I meet her gaze. "But it's the only way to draw them out. Force them to commit before they're ready. Before they have overwhelming numbers."
Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then she nods. "Okay. Let's do it."
We spend the morning preparing. Sierra works on the sat phone, cracking the encryption with tools on her laptop. I prep our defensive position—sight lines, fallback routes, fields of fire. It's not much. This shelter was designed for concealment, not combat. But it'll have to do.
Midday, Sierra takes a break. Sits beside me while I clean weapons, check ammunition counts. We're running low on everything. Food, water, ammo. Medical supplies. If this doesn't work, we won't last another week.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Shoot."
"If we survive this—" She pauses, corrects herself. "When we survive this. What happens to you?"
The question hits harder than it should. I've been so focused on the next threat, the next day, the next hour, that I haven't let myself think past survival.
"I don't know," I admit.
"You can't stay dead forever." She watches me work, those sharp eyes seeing too much. "Bryn deserves to know you're alive. Even if it's complicated. Even if it's dangerous."
My hands still on the rifle. "What if she can't forgive me?"
"What if she can?" Sierra shifts closer, winces as her shoulder protests. "You won't know unless you try."
The words settle between us, heavy with truth I've been avoiding for eleven months. I left Bryn thinking I was dead. Let her grieve, let her search, let her blame herself for not finding me. All because I thought disappearing would keep her safe.
But maybe I was wrong. Maybe protecting her means something different than I thought.
"I'm scared," I say quietly. The admission costs me, but Sierra's earned the truth. "Not of dying. I've made peace with that. But of coming back. Of facing her. Of seeing the hurt I caused."
"She's stronger than you think." Sierra's hand finds mine, squeezes. "And she loves you. That doesn't just disappear because you made a hard choice."
I want to believe her. God, I want to believe that there's a way back from this. That I haven't burned every bridge, destroyed every connection. That someone like me—someone who's spent a year living like an animal in the woods—can rejoin the world.
For the first time since Joel and Tate died, I let myself imagine it. Not just surviving. Living. Having a future that extends beyond the next firefight.
And when I imagine that future, Sierra's in it.
Her hand is still on my jaw, thumb tracing the scar that disappears into my beard. The touch is gentle, grounding. For a moment we just stand there, breathing the same air, existing in the same space without words or promises or plans beyond this moment.
Then she steps back, practical as always. "We should finish the preparations. If Shepherd's people are coming—"
"They are."
"Then we need to be ready."
She's right. But I'm reluctant to let the moment end, to return to the reality of what's waiting for us. Still, survival demands focus. Romance is a luxury we can't afford until we're not being hunted.
I pull the radio from my pack. The old handheld I've kept but rarely used. It's tuned to the frequency Bryn uses for her survey work. I've listened to her voice for months, never responding, never letting her know I'm alive.
Static crackles. Then her voice cuts through, clear and familiar.
"Nate, this is Bryn. I'm at checkpoint seven. Elk herd moving south, looks like about thirty head. No signs of poaching activity. Over."
My chest tightens. She sounds tired. Worn down. I wonder if she's still searching for me, or if she's finally accepted that I'm gone.
Nate's response follows. "Copy that, Bryn. Weather's turning. Get back home before the storm hits. Over."
"Roger. Heading back now. Over and out."
The radio goes silent. I stare at it, thumb hovering over the transmit button. Just one word. A single phrase. That's all it would take to let her know I'm alive.
But the words stick in my throat. Too much time has passed. Too much hurt. I don't even know where to start. What do you say to someone you let believe you were dead? How do you explain eleven months of silence, of letting them grieve?
Sierra's eyes are on me. Reading the war on my face.
"When this is over," she says quietly, "you're going to talk to her. Promise me."
I meet her eyes. See the determination there, the absolute certainty that I can do this. That I should do this.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I owe Bryn more than silence and absence. Maybe I owe her the truth, even if it hurts. Even if she hates me for it.
"Promise," I say.
Something shifts between us. An understanding that goes deeper than attraction or convenience. We're in this together now. No more lone wolves. No more fighting alone in the dark.
Sierra returns to her laptop, pulling up files and cross-referencing patterns. I should be checking perimeter defenses, setting up fallback positions. But instead I study her while she works.
She's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth, that unconscious tell when she's deep in analysis. Her fingers fly across the keyboard with the same precision she showed field-stripping her Glock yesterday. Everything she does has purpose, economy of motion. No wasted effort.