3. Hazel
Hazel
I stand in the middle of Brock's outpost and stare at my open duffel like it personally offended me.
Clothes. Notebooks. Protein bars. Laptop charger.
The emergency chocolate stash I never travel without.
The thumb drive zipped into the inner pocket where I can feel its tiny outline against the canvas.
Everything looks so normal dumped on the big bed that it almost makes the whole situation feel fake.
Almost. Except outside somewhere a very large US Marshal is currently sweeping the perimeter for people who want me dead.
I force a breath out and start unpacking because doing something with my hands is better than standing here letting the panic crawl up my throat.
First the clothes. I fold them with way more care than they deserve and stack them on a wooden chair in the corner.
My favorite hoodie. The jeans with the hole in the knee that I refuse to throw away.
A couple of long-sleeve shirts. Socks. Underwear I hope he never sees because they're covered in tiny cartoon pineapples and that is not the vibe for a life-or-death mountain hideout.
I shove those to the bottom of the stack and pretend they don't exist.
Every few seconds my eyes flick to the heavy door. He's still outside. Good. That means he can't see the way my hands keep shaking no matter how hard I try to steady them.
I can handle this. I've handled tough sources and late-night stakeouts and one very angry politician who tried to have me fired. This is just another story. A bigger one. A scarier one. But I can handle it.
Except I can't stop thinking about the names.
Three journalists in the last five years who got too close to similar operations.
One "hiking accident." One "random carjacking.
" One who simply vanished after filing a tip about smuggling routes through the Rockies.
I read those stories when I was researching my article.
Filed them away as cautionary tales. Now I'm living one, and the realization sits heavy in my chest like a rock I can't swallow.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror while setting out my toiletries and almost laugh. Pink cheeks. Wild hair. Eyes a little too wide. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who's one bad news alert away from losing it completely.
I make myself smile at my reflection. Bright. Breezy. Totally unbothered. It looks about as convincing as a Halloween mask.
Back in the main room, I start arranging my notebooks on the small table near the fireplace.
My fingers brush the cover of the one that holds all my notes on the smuggling ring.
Photos. Transcripts. Maps of the trails they use.
The evidence that got me here. I trace the edge of the notebook and feel my stomach twist. This was supposed to be the story that made my career. Instead it might end it.
That's when I notice the wall behind the table.
At first glance it just looks like a cluttered shelf.
Topographic maps tacked to a corkboard. A couple of dog-eared field manuals.
A battered logbook held shut with a rubber band.
But my journalist brain snags on something pinned to the far edge of the board, half hidden behind a stack of topo maps.
A photograph. Grainy and overexposed, like it was taken from a distance in bad light.
It shows a clearing surrounded by dense pines with what looks like a cluster of old structures, maybe cabins or storage buildings, and a dirt track leading away into the trees.
Written in pen along the bottom margin in blocky handwriting: Harker Creek. 6 mo. No movement since.
Harker Creek. I know that name. It was in Cal Hutchins' notes, the ones he passed me at our last meeting before he went silent.
Cal said Harker Creek was a burned-out site the ring had used and abandoned, but he thought there were other sites just like it deeper in the range, still active.
I never found them. I didn't have the access or the time before I had to publish.
I lean closer. Behind the photo there's a hand-drawn map on lined paper, detailed enough that it has to be Brock's own work.
Trail names I recognize. Ridge lines. Two small x-marks in red ink near locations I can't quite place, and a question mark next to something labeled RC North.
Whatever Brock's been doing up in these mountains, it isn't just routine patrol.
He's been investigating the same thing I have. Maybe longer. Maybe deeper.
The thought makes my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
If he has intel I don't have, and I have sources he doesn't, then together we might be able to piece together what neither of us could finish alone.
The journalist in me is already itching to ask him about every mark on that map.
But not tonight. Tonight I need to play it careful and figure out how much he's willing to share before I start pushing.
I step back from the board and arrange my own notebooks on the table, positioning them so the smuggling-ring notebook sits face down. Not hiding it, exactly. Just not advertising it either.
The door opens and I jump so hard I nearly knock the whole stack off the table.
Brock steps inside, snow dusting his dark hair and the shoulders of his jacket.
He stamps his boots on the mat and locks the door behind him with a click that sounds final.
His eyes find me immediately, sharp and assessing.
I flash him my brightest smile. "Welcome back, mountain man. Perimeter all clear of murderous smugglers and grumpy bears? Because I just finished claiming this corner of your fortress and I'd hate to have to repack."
Something softens at the edges of his expression for half a second.
He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it by the door.
"All clear. Generator's good. No tracks that don't belong to me.
" He moves to the fireplace, crouches, and starts building a fire with efficient movements.
Flames catch quickly, throwing light across the room. "You done unpacking?"
"Yep. Officially moved into the wilderness. Do I get a welcome basket or just the tour of where the emergency exits aren't?"
He stands and wipes his hands on his jeans. "No exits you need to worry about. You're safe here. Eat something. Then bed. It's late."
Safe. He keeps saying that word like it's a fact carved into the mountain itself. I want so badly to believe him. My mouth opens with another joke ready to go, something about how I usually need at least three dates before I let a man order me to bed, but the words stick.
Because it's late. The windows show nothing but black night and swirling snow. The wind has picked up, rattling against the glass. And every time I blink I see those three missing journalists' faces from the articles I read.
"Food first. Then sleep. Got it, boss. Any chance this fortress comes with something that isn't an MRE?"
He moves to the kitchen without a word, pulls out a couple of containers, and heats something on the stove.
Within minutes he's setting a plate of actual food in front of me at the table.
Stew. Thick and hearty. Bread on the side.
I sit and eat because it's easier than talking, and because the warmth of the fire and the solid presence of him across from me is the only thing keeping the fear from spilling out of my mouth.
He eats too, quiet and watchful. I fill the silence with stories about terrible coffee from past assignments and the time I accidentally interviewed a goat farmer instead of a city councilman.
I tell him about the stakeout where I sat in a rented minivan for eleven hours and got so bored I wrote an entire short story on gas station napkins.
He doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth moves a couple of times, which I'm counting as a win.
What I don't tell him is that the whole time I'm talking, I'm also thinking about that map on his wall. The x-marks in red. The question mark next to RC North. Harker Creek. He's been building something up here, some kind of case file, and I want to know everything in it.
When the plates are empty he stands and takes them to the sink. "Bed, Hazel. You need sleep."
I nod and push back from the table. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the bed and sit on the edge. I kick off my boots, crawl under the covers still fully dressed, and pull the quilts up to my chin like a shield.
Brock moves around the cabin turning off lights until only the fire and a small lamp near the couch remain. He settles onto the leather couch with a blanket, long legs stretched out, back against the armrest so he can see both the door and me.
I close my eyes and try to breathe evenly.
I count to ten. Then twenty. My body is exhausted but my brain won't stop running.
The missing journalists. The way people disappear when they dig too deep.
The thought of my parents getting a phone call that starts with "We're sorry.
" Cal Hutchins going silent after giving me those coordinates.
The question mark on Brock's hand-drawn map.
My eyes burn. I squeeze them tighter and force my breathing to stay slow.
Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. The fire pops. The wind rattles the windows. My heart won't slow down.
I open my eyes and stare at the dark ceiling beams. My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to, barely more than a whisper.
"Brock?"
He's instantly alert. I hear the couch creak as he sits up. "What's wrong?"
I keep my eyes on the ceiling because if I look at him I might crack completely.
"I know this is going to sound ridiculous and completely against the whole tough-journalist thing I've got going, but could you maybe come lay with me?
Just for a little while. The bed's big enough and I can't seem to make my brain shut up and I'm really trying not to freak out but it's not working. "
Silence. Then the sound of him standing. Footsteps cross the wooden floor. The mattress dips hard as he sits on the edge, then lies down on top of the quilts beside me, careful not to crowd me at first. He's so big the whole bed shifts. Warmth radiates off him immediately.
I turn my head just enough to see his profile in the firelight. Jaw tight. Eyes watching me with that steady focus.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly. The words slip out before I can dress them up or make them funny.
"Really scared. This story is bigger than I thought.
People go missing for less. Three journalists in five years, Brock.
And I keep telling myself I'm fine and making jokes so you don't think I'm falling apart, but the truth is I'm terrified I'm next.
I don't want to disappear. I don't want my last byline to be the one that got me killed. "
His arm lifts. Slow. Careful. Then it settles around me and pulls me in against his side like he's been waiting for permission.
I go willingly, tucking my face against his chest, my hand fisting in the fabric of his thermal.
He's solid and warm and so much bigger than me that I feel almost small for the first time in years.
"I've got you," he says, voice low against the top of my head. "No one's taking you. Not while I'm breathing. You're not disappearing, Hazel. Not on my watch. Sleep. I've got you."
I close my eyes and let the tears I've been fighting slip free, silent and hot against his shirt. He doesn't comment. Just holds me tighter, one hand stroking slow circles on my back.
For the first time since I hit publish, the fear loosens its grip just enough for me to breathe.
I fall asleep thinking about two things. The steady beat of his heart under my ear, keeping me anchored. And the red x-marks on his map that I'm going to ask him about first thing in the morning.
Because I might be scared. But I'm still a journalist. And this story isn't finished yet.