Twenty-One
The storm erased the road in minutes. By the time Charlie Team crested the ridge, the convoy’s fire was just a dull orange bruise under drifting snow and splintered branches. Wind dragged the smoke sideways, smearing the battlefield into memory—ghosts and violence swept clean by weather and time.
It was exactly how operators preferred it.
Anya moved to Justin’s side along the winding ridgeline trail, her rifle resting across her chest as her eyes darted toward the dense tree line lurking behind them.
Ice had the unconscious convoy driver slung over one shoulder with casual efficiency, as if the weight barely registered.
Frosty swept their rear flank.
No pursuit—yet. But the hunters were out there, patient as winter itself, waiting in the silence between heartbeats. This was a hunt, not a chase.
Justin slowed as they reached the narrow crest overlooking the next valley, then raised a hand.
Charlie Team halted instantly.
Ice lowered the prisoner into the snow. “Tell me we’re not climbing again.”
Justin ignored him and looked toward Anya. “You see anything?”
She lifted the rifle to her shoulder and peered through the scope.
The storm turned the valley below into a shifting wash of gray and white. Snow swept the land in restless sheets, swallowing the road and burying the burning convoy beneath new, indifferent layers. Fire and violence, erased as if they’d never happened.
There was no movement—no heat flashes and no vehicles yet.
“They’re regrouping,” she said quietly.
Justin nodded.
Devon’s voice chimed in through the comm. “She’s right. Satellite shows convoy two slowing near the blast site.”
Ice sat down heavily on a rock. “They’ll bring friends.”
“Yes,” Justin said.
“Lots of them.”
Anya lowered the rifle. “They won’t chase immediately.”
Justin glanced at her. “Why not?”
“Because Sokolov doesn’t waste hunters on chaos.” Her voice was quiet, certain. The real predators were always disciplined, always patient.
Ice groaned. “I hate when you two talk like that.”
Justin crouched next to the unconscious driver and checked his pulse. He was still alive, still unconscious. “Good,” he said.
Ice tilted his head. “You planning to interview him?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
Justin shook his head. “No.”
Anya studied the surrounding terrain again.
The ridge stretched east to west along the valley wall, gradually narrowing into a rugged corridor that beckoned toward an old forestry road three kilometers ahead—an exit. Temporary, yes, but undeniably useful.
“We move,” she said.
Justin agreed instantly. “Two kilometers east. Then we stop.”
Ice lifted the prisoner again. “Finally.”
The team moved quickly. Snow devoured their tracks, wind erasing every sign they’d ever been there—as if the mountain itself conspired to keep them hidden.
Justin kept a steady but aggressive pace, weaving through pine stands and narrow rock breaks that forced them into single file.
Anya stayed close behind him. Not intentionally. It just happened.
The terrain demanded tight spacing, and the wind demanded awareness. And Justin moved like someone who understood both.
A sudden gust knifed through the trees, driving snow sideways and stealing sight in a white surge. Justin slowed, one hand reaching back without looking—
Finding her. A touch that said, even here, you’re not alone.
His fingers closed briefly around her wrist, steadying her footing as the ground dipped under the drift. Solid. Certain. Gone again in the next step.
Anya adjusted without breaking stride, her grip tightening once on the rifle as she matched his pace exactly. No acknowledgment. None needed.
After fifteen minutes, the ridge widened slightly, and Justin slowed again. “Here.”
Ice dropped the prisoner beside a fallen log.
Frosty took a position farther downslope.
Anya moved uphill, set the rifle on a natural rock rest. Eyes on overwatch—her world narrowed to wind, snow, and the threat that never left.
Justin knelt beside the convoy driver and pulled a knife from his belt.
Ice raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic.”
Justin ignored him and used the knife to cut the zip ties binding the man’s wrists. Then he slapped the prisoner lightly across the face.
The man groaned. Blinking. Confused. Cold air hit his lungs, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Where—”
Justin grabbed his collar and hauled him upright.
“Easy,” Ice muttered.
The man’s eyes focused, recognition hitting—a flicker of hope, snuffed instantly by fear. He knew exactly who he was dealing with.
Justin’s voice stayed calm. “You’re transporting supplies to Dawn Wing.”
The man’s jaw clenched.
Justin didn’t raise his voice. “Your convoy just got destroyed.”
Still silence.
Ice leaned down. “Look, man, we can do this two ways.”
The driver looked at him.
Ice smiled pleasantly. “Fast or painful.”
Justin didn’t even look at Ice. “Where is the facility?”
The man spat blood into the snow. “I don’t know.” The words trembled, half a lie, half a plea.
Justin believed him. Partially.
“You know the route.”
Silence.
Justin nodded slightly. “That’s fine.”
He reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out a small black device—tracking beacon, convoy nav unit, the kind of thing that always tells more than its owner intends.
“Devon,” he said.
“I’m here.”
Justin held the device up. “Pull the route history.”
“Already on it.” Keys clicked rapidly.
The prisoner’s face drained of color. Even the bravest men fear what they can’t control.
Justin watched him carefully.
“Last three routes,” Devon said. “Cross-referencing.”
Anya listened from the ridge above, watching the tree line through the scope as the conversation played out below. Wind carried their voices faintly upward.
Then Devon spoke again. “Oh.”
Justin didn’t like that sound. “What?”
“I’ve got it.”
Ice leaned closer. “Got what?”
Devon’s voice sharpened with excitement. “The corridor. All three supply routes converge at the same point.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“Montenegro border.” The words cut through the cold, drawing a new front line on the map and in their minds.
The words hung in the cold air.
Anya lowered the rifle slowly.
Montenegro: ragged mountains, silent military dead zones—terrain made for ghosts and secrets. A perfect place for something like Dawn Wing to hide and breed.
Justin looked at the prisoner again. “You’re running supplies into the Balkans.”
The man’s silence confirmed it.
Ice exhaled. “That’s…inconvenient.”
Justin released the prisoner and stood. “We’re leaving.”
Ice blinked. “That’s it?”
Justin looked down at the driver. “Storm will finish the job.” Cold justice—no more, no less.
The man’s eyes widened.
Justin didn’t look back. “Move.”
Charlie Team fell into formation again.
Anya slid down from the ridge and joined them as they moved east along the mountain trail.
Justin handed her the navigation unit. “Devon’s pulling everything from it.”
She examined the device, feeling its coldness, weight, and usefulness.
“Montenegro,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
“Sokolov built Dawn Wing there.”
Justin nodded. “Looks like it.”
Ice groaned again. “You realize what that means.”
Justin didn’t slow. “We’re leaving the country.”
“Exactly.”
Frosty spoke from the rear. “That’s a long road.”
Justin’s answer came instantly. “Then we start driving.”
****
Far across the valley, Irina watched from the shadows as snow swirled around her.
Charlie Team vanished into the mountains.
She didn’t flinch or chase. She studied the lines of their retreat, already mapping where and how to spring the next trap.
The hunt was just beginning, and she was the storm’s patient architect.
Orlov joined her moments later. “They escaped.”
“Yes.”
“You let them.”
Irina’s smile was thin, predatory. “Sokolov wanted them moving.” She relished the precision—the way a single move could herd even the most dangerous prey exactly where she wanted them.
Orlov glanced toward the burning wreckage far below. “They took the convoy tracker.”
“Yes.”
Orlov’s brow furrowed. “That leads straight to Dawn Wing.”
Irina’s smile widened—cold, triumphant. “Yes.” This was her favorite part: the moment when the prey thought they had a choice, and she knew all the exits were already closed.
Orlov understood then. “You’re bringing them to us.”
Irina turned back toward the storm. “Exactly.” She vanished into the trees, her silhouette dissolving until even the storm seemed to follow her command.
High above the valley, the wind howled through the pines.
And far away, in the black heart of the Montenegro mountains, Colonel Viktor Sokolov waited—serene, calculating, certain that every step his adversaries took only tightened his grip on the board. A master watching the pieces fall into place.
Because the next phase of the hunt had finally begun. The hunters and hunted would trade places—and this time, Sokolov would make sure the end was written in blood, not ink.