Chapter 4
Pain. Fire.
Griff’s eyes streamed. His nose ran. His face felt like he'd kissed a blowtorch. Years of black ops missions, and he'd been taken down by an accountant with bear spray.
"I'm trying to save your life!" He managed to choke out between coughs.
"By breaking into my cabin? In tactical gear?" Her voice had hit a pitch that could probably shatter glass. "That's breaking and entering. Assault. Probably some other crimes I can't think of right now because someone just brOKE DOWN MY DOOR."
Griff tried to open his eyes. Big mistake. The burning zoomed from incineration to molten. He stumbled backward, hands pressed against his face. "Lady, we need to—" Another coughing fit seized him.
"How do I know you're not here to kill me?"
"Because if I was—" He wheezed, trying to breathe through the chemical fog. "You'd already be dead."
"That's NOT reassuring."
Despite the searing pain, Griff almost laughed. Here he was, former Navy SEAL, trained killer, protector of democracy, completely incapacitated by a woman who probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and thought designer boots were appropriate wilderness footwear.
"Please," he gasped. "Just... water. Help me rinse my eyes, and I'll explain everything."
"Oh sure, I'll help the armed intruder. That seems smart." But he heard her moving around, heard water running. "Stay right there. Don't move."
"I couldn't move if I wanted to. You hit me with enough spray to stop a grizzly."
A bottle of water appeared in his field of burning vision. "Here. And keep your hands where I can see them."
Griff grabbed the water and poured it over his face, the relief immediate but nowhere near sufficient. His eyes were on fire. Every breath brought a fresh wave of capsaicin into his lungs.
The water ran down his cheeks in burning rivulets, orange residue streaking onto the floor. His eyelids felt like they’d been sandblasted, every blink dragging grit across raw skin.
Through the blur he caught Sarah’s expression—shock first, then guilt, sharp and unguarded. She looked from his swollen eyes to the empty can in her hand.
“I—I did that,” she whispered.
He managed something between a cough and a laugh. “Better me than you.”
She still clutched the canister, knuckles white, eyes wide with regret. For a second she looked ready to drop everything and apologize.
“Save it,” he rasped, forcing himself upright. “Apologies won’t keep you alive. Moving will. There's a hit team coming. They'll be here in minutes."
"Oh, naturally. Because this day wasn't weird enough." Her laugh had an edge of hysteria. "First I get dragged to Montana for wilderness training I never asked for, and now there are hit teams. What's next, aliens?"
"You're Sarah Winters, right? FBI financial crimes?"
The silence that followed was deafening. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its panic and gained something harder. "How do you know my name?"
"Because you've been digging into things people killed my best friend to keep buried." Griff risked opening one eye. Through the blur of tears, he could see her silhouette. "Stillwater Defense Solutions. The biological passport scheme. Tell me I’m wrong."
She went completely still. "Who are you?"
"Someone who's been hunting the same people you have." He straightened, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. "Griffin Hawkins. Former Navy SEAL. Current... freelance problem solver."
"Freelance problem solver? Is that what we're calling vigilantes now?"
"We can debate job titles later. Right now, we need to move.
" He headed for the window, blinking hard to clear the tears that wouldn't stop coming.
His nose was still running, and he could taste the capsaicin in the back of his throat.
Even with his vision compromised, he caught a glimpse of headlights in the distance.
Multiple sets, moving fast up the mountain road.
The rest of the hit team. "That's them."
Sarah looked toward the window, and Griff saw the moment reality hit her. Her face went pale, the bear spray can lowering slightly. "This is really happening."
"Yeah, it is. And unless you want to find out what interrogation techniques they learned in wherever they crawled out from, we need to go. Now."
She stared at him for another heartbeat, then something shifted in her expression. "Fine." She hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, staggering as the oversized case pulled her sideways.
"Are you serious right now?" The only advantage they had was speed. And the fact that they didn't know he was there. Yet.
"No way I leave anything behind for them to find."
Griff wanted to argue, but the headlights were getting closer. He could make out individual vehicles now—three SUVs, all black, all moving in perfect formation. His eyes watered constantly, making it hard to judge distance, but they had maybe two minutes. "Fine."
"Where exactly are we going?" She grabbed her purse. "In case you haven't noticed, we're on a mountain. In the almost dark. And I'm wearing boots from Nordstrom Rack."
"I noticed." Griff moved to the door, scanning the darkness.
His compromised vision made everything blur at the edges, shadows dancing where there shouldn't be movement.
He'd have to rely on instinct and muscle memory.
He hefted his own well-stocked gear bag.
"Stay close. Move when I move. Stop when I stop. And whatever you do, don't make noise."
"Don't make noise? I'm a forensic accountant, not a ninja. I trip over flat surfaces."
"Then try really hard not to." He glanced back at her. Despite everything—the spray attack, the panic, the designer boots—she was holding it together. "Ready?"
"No." She clutched the pack’s straps. "But apparently that doesn't matter."
The vehicles were pulling into the lodge property now, engines rumbling in the night air. Griff's ears, at least, were still working perfectly. He could hear doors opening, boots on gravel, low voices conferring. These weren't amateurs—they moved with military precision.
"On three," he whispered. "One... two..."
"Wait" Sarah grabbed his arm. "I should pray first."
Griff stared at her. "You want to pray? Now?"
"It'll only take a second." She closed her eyes. "Lord, I know this isn't the wilderness retreat I had in mind, but apparently You have other plans. Please keep us safe. Give us wisdom. And maybe a miracle that doesn't involve running through the woods in the dark. Amen."
She opened her eyes. "Okay, now I'm ready."
Despite everything—the burning eyes, the approaching death squad, the complete insanity of the situation—Griff felt his lips twitch. "That's your prayer? 'Maybe a miracle that doesn't involve running'?"
"Would you prefer something more formal? 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death' seems a bit on the nose right now."
The SUVs had stopped. Doors were opening. Dark figures emerging. Through his watering eyes, Griff counted at least eight men, all armed, all moving with purpose.
"Three," Griff said, and pulled her out into the night.