Chapter 2
ELI
The axe bites clean through spruce, splitting the round in one stroke.
Wood grain tears apart with a crack that echoes off the trees before dying in the vastness.
I set another piece on the stump, swing again.
Another split, another addition to the pile.
The rhythm's mechanical now. Muscle memory, no thought required.
Stack the splits. Rotate the older wood.
Check moisture. Winter prep that keeps my hands busy and my head quiet.
Spruce sap gums up my palms. I wipe them on my jeans and keep working.
Deep north of Fairbanks means nobody shows up unless they've got serious resources or serious problems. Probably both.
My homestead sits in a bowl of forests with one access route and clear sight lines in three directions.
Solar panels handle power. Rainwater collection keeps me supplied.
Trapline to the east provides meat. I make supply runs twice a year and keep the radio off unless weather demands otherwise.
It's been months since I've had to talk to anyone. Works for me.
The sound reaches me before I see anything. The faint buzz of an engine cutting through the peace of the wilderness. I set the axe against the cabin wall, don't rush. Scan the sky until I spot it.
A bush plane. Single engine. Coming in from the south.
Nobody knows I'm here except Zeke MacAllister, and Zeke doesn't break operational silence without cause. Which means whoever's in that plane tracked me through channels that took work.
I move inside. Rifle comes off the mount above the door. Chamber's already loaded—always is. Back outside, I position near the woodpile where I've got the cabin at my back and clean lines of fire across the clearing.
The plane circles once, drops low, sets down where I take supply deliveries. Two men climb out wearing federal marshal jackets.
My jaw tightens. Marshals flying to the ass-end of Alaska means someone's dead or someone's in deep trouble. I keep the rifle pointed at the ground, barrel angled away but ready to come up if this goes sideways.
The older one raises both hands when they're still across the clearing. Smart. "Eli Vance?"
"State your business."
"Marshal Robert Miller, Anchorage office. This is Marshal Kevin Wright. We need to talk about your niece."
The word hits like incoming fire. Sudden, disorienting. I haven't let myself think about Traci in years. Last time I saw her she was still a kid. Big eyes, scraped knees, asking when I'd be home from deployment. I told her soon. Then Syria happened and soon turned into never.
"Keep talking." My voice stays level. No reaction, no opening.
Miller lowers his hands slowly. He's got me pegged. I'm not hostile yet, but that can change fast. "Can we approach?"
I nod once. They close the distance, stop a few feet out. Close enough for conversation, far enough I can drop them both if needed.
"Your niece was recovered from a trafficking operation three weeks ago," Miller says. Direct, no cushioning. "She's in temporary foster care in Anchorage. You're listed as emergency contact."
Trafficking. The word sits in my head next to other words I don't touch. Children. Casualties. Collateral damage.
"She alive?"
"Yes. Physically healing. Psychologically..." Miller shakes his head. "She's not speaking. Hasn't said a word since we pulled her out. You're listed as her emergency contact. She needs family."
"That listing's five years old."
"Your brother died three years ago. Mother's whereabouts unknown. You're all she's got left."
My brother. Dead years back and I didn't know because I was too busy hiding in the woods. The information lands flat. Just another casualty I wasn't there to prevent.
"How'd he die?"
"Vehicle accident. Single car, icy road outside Seattle. Local PD ruled it accidental."
"You verify that?"
"We did. No evidence of foul play."
I process the timeline. Brother dead three years means Traci was fourteen. "What happened to her after?"
"We searched for you, but you’re not an easy man to find.
When we couldn’t find you, she went into the foster system.
She ran from the first placement after six months.
Kept running. System lost track of her eight months ago.
" Wright pulls out a folder, hands it over.
"Best we can reconstruct, she was recruited at a Seattle bus station.
Promised work and housing. Standard trafficking playbook. "
The folder's weight feels off in my hands. Too light for what it contains. I flip it open.
First photo. Traci at seventeen. Skin stretched over bone, unfocused stare. Hospital gown hanging off a frame that's been starved down to nothing. Bruising at her collarbone disappearing under fabric. Defensive wounds scoring her forearms. Ligature marks circling both wrists like bracelets.
My thumb leaves a print on the plastic sleeve. Hands stay steady but rage builds somewhere behind my sternum. Cold and controlled.
Next page. Medical intake. Clinical bullshit that doesn't hide what they did to her. Malnutrition. Contusions in various stages of healing. Evidence of repeated trauma. Defensive injuries consistent with restraint. The words are sanitized. The meaning isn't.
Treatment for infections. Psychological evaluation pending due to subject's refusal to communicate verbally.
Subject. Like she's evidence instead of a person.
I turn the page. Federal case summary. Network operating Seattle to Vancouver.
International ties suspected. Half a dozen minors recovered in coordinated raid.
Traci Vance, age seventeen, recovered from auxiliary safe house.
Duration of captivity: estimated minimum eight months based on last confirmed sighting in foster system.
Could've been longer. My jaw locks tight enough my teeth ache.
Photos from the raid. Suburban house that could be anywhere. Interior shots showing mattresses on floors, locks on bedroom doors from the outside, windows boarded shut. Standard setup for breaking people down.
Last page. Timeline reconstruction. Brother dies. Traci enters foster care at fourteen. First placement didn't last long. Second lasted even less. Third barely started before she ran. Then nothing until she surfaces in a federal raid.
System failed her. I failed her. Everyone failed her.
I close the folder. Knuckles gone white where I'm gripping it.
"What do you need?"
"Legal guardianship. She's a minor, needs stable placement while we work the investigation." Miller meets my stare. "The network's still operational. If they think she can identify anyone, she's a target."
"Where is she now?"
"Anchorage. We've got her in protective foster placement, but it's temporary. She needs someone who can actually keep her safe." Wright shifts his weight. "We tracked you through Delta Force personnel records. Took some doing. Zeke MacAllister vouched for you."
Of course he did. Zeke believes broken things can be fixed. I stopped operating under that assumption the day I watched children burn because I followed orders instead of trusting my gut.
But this isn't about me. This is about a kid who's been through hell because every adult in her life failed her.
Including me.
"Give me twenty minutes."
Miller acknowledges that with a nod. They head back to the plane.
I go inside and pack with the efficiency of someone who's done this enough times to make it automatic. Go bag: cash, clean IDs, first aid kit, knife, ammunition. Clothes that'll pass in civilization. Lock the weapons safe. Bank the stove. Secure the cabin.
Minutes later I'm walking to the plane with everything I need on my back.
The flight to Anchorage is rough. The weather makes the small plane buck through turbulence.
Wright fills in details: trafficking network operating Seattle and Vancouver, federal task force months into the investigation.
The network moves victims across state lines to disorient them, make escape harder.
Traci was recruited in Seattle but moved to Alaska within weeks.
The raid that recovered her happened outside Anchorage, which is why the marshals here handled the case.
"She give you anything?" I ask. "About the operation?"
"Nothing. Won't speak at all."
"She's afraid talking gets her killed."
"Yeah. Which is why we need her somewhere secure."
The plane lands at a private section of the Anchorage airfield. A dark SUV's waiting. Miller drives us to the federal building downtown. Concrete and glass, standard government design. He leads us through security, up to a conference room.
A woman stands when we enter. Mid-thirties, professional, carrying the weight of too many failed cases. "Mr. Vance? Jennifer Brooks, Child and Family Services."
"Where's Traci?"
"Next room. I need to brief you first." She gestures to chairs.
I stay standing. She understands, stays standing too.
"Traci's been severely traumatized. She doesn't speak.
Communicates with head movements, occasionally writes when necessary.
She needs stability and long-term commitment. Are you prepared for that?"
Fair question. I've spent years isolated because I couldn't handle being around people. Taking responsibility for a traumatized teenager seems like the worst tactical match possible.
"I'm here."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting. She's family. I'm taking guardianship."
Jennifer studies my face. "The marshals mentioned you have Delta Force background. That you understand security."
"I do."
"The trafficking network is still active. If they view Traci as a threat, they'll come for her."
"Let them try."
Her expression changes. She gets it. I mean what I said. "Guardianship paperwork will take a few hours. Legal aid is standing by. Once it's processed, you can take her wherever you think is safest."
"I want to see her first."