Chapter 4
“Hands! Show me your hands!” Pav kicked the door open, rifle up, finger beside the trigger.
The smell hit him before he cleared the doorway.
Coffee. Freshly brewed. Not the instant shit he usually drank to stay warm. Good stuff and not his. He stepped into the kitchen, weapon raised.
Two men.
The first was heavyset and bearded, tattoos visible above the collar of a black tactical jacket. His knuckles were flattened from old breaks. Nose too straight to be natural. Violence had lived in him a long time.
And now he stood at Pav’s stove with a French press, pouring coffee into Pav’s mug like he was hosting a fucking dinner party.
The second sat at Pav’s table, boots propped on the scarred wood, scrolling through a phone with one hand. But Pav knew he’d already mapped the exits, the angles, the bodies in the room. Blond. Lean. Expensive gear worn correctly instead of fashionably.
Operator.
The jerky in his other hand was from the batch Pav had made two weeks ago. Neither flinched. The blond man’s gaze flicked to Pav’s trigger finger before returning to his face.
Professional contractors. Not local muscle or the police.
“How do you like your coffee?” The bearded one asked in a cultured English accent, holding up the mug as if this was normal.
What the hell—
“Milk? Sugar?” The man continued as if Pav hadn’t spoken. “I’m guessing black, but—”
“Get on your knees.” Pav motioned to the floor with his gun. “Both of you. Now.”
The blond one sighed, still chewing. He swung his boots off the table with exaggerated slowness. He raised one hand in a placating gesture, still holding the jerky. “Look, this is a surprise. We get that—”
Pav fired.
The rifle’s report cracked through the small space. Wood exploded from the center of his table, splinters flying as the bullet punched through and buried itself in the floorboards beneath.
Both intruders stared at the smoking hole. Their attention shifted back to Pav.
The blond one raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s your table, right?” His accent was Russian but tinged with something else. Scandinavian?
Pav saw three ways to end it before the man finished moving. He chambered another round. “Last chance. On your—”
The bearded one lunged, closing the distance between them in a split second, his hand going for Pav’s rifle barrel.
Pav pivoted, pulled the weapon back, and used the man’s momentum to drive the stock into his ribs. The bearded man grunted under the impact and grabbed the rifle with both hands. They grappled for control, boots scraping over the floorboards.
The bearded man had weight on him and knew how to use it. Pav released his hold on the gun.
The sudden lack of resistance threw the man off balance. Pav stepped in, drove his fist up into the man’s jaw. His knuckles connected and his attacker’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his lip.
Movement. The Russian.
Pav spun, but the blond was already inside the turn, too fast for a civilian, too clean for a brawler. An arm hooked around Pav’s throat from behind, locked tight.
Fuck.
Pav dropped his chin, dug both hands into the restraining arm, and shifted his weight to break the angle.
The bearded one scooped Pav’s rifle from where it had fallen and aimed it at Pav’s chest, breathing hard. “Gentlemen. We’re all very dangerous. We’ve established that. Can we please skip to the part where we don’t kill each other?”
Wind rattled the window.
“I’m going to set the rifle down,” the bearded one said slowly. “Then my friend Zak is going to release you. And then we talk. Fair?”
Pav calculated. Two on one. If this went sideways, someone was going to die. It was always like this. Two options. One loss you didn’t see until it was too late. But they’d had the opportunity to kill him and hadn’t. Pressure eased on his throat.
Pav swallowed. “Talk. Then leave.”
The heavyset man lowered the rifle and set it on the counter. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace.
The Russian, Zak, released Pav, allowing him to step back, putting distance between himself and the two men.
The man with the beard dabbed his lip, examining the blood on his fingers. “Well. That went about as expected.” His accent was thicker now, rougher.
“You broke into my house.”
Zak laughed. “Fair point.”
The bearded man grabbed the dish towel from the counter and pressed it to his bleeding lip. “Name’s Fox.” He gestured to the Russian. “And I’ve already told you, this genius is Zak.”
Zak removed the magazine from Pav’s rifle and set it on the table next to the bullet hole. He unholstered his handgun and laid it next to the rifle. “Good faith.” He picked up a piece of jerky and waggled it. “You make this yourself? It’s tasty.”
“Why don’t we sit like civilized men and talk?” Fox kicked a chair toward Pav, then turned and poured three coffees.
Pav stayed standing, back to the wall. Fox was older, late forties maybe, but he moved like someone who stayed sharp. Military tattoos marked the backs of his hands and his neck.
Zak carried himself loose through the shoulders, balanced over the balls of his feet. Also military. The expensive kind.
Fox brought the coffee to the table and took a seat. “I brought good beans. Can’t get good coffee for shit here these days. A peace offering, if you like.”
Zak leaned against the battered kitchen counter, relaxed.
Pav pulled the chair toward him, ignoring the screech of wood on wood. He sat and wrapped his hands around the mug. The heat bled through his palms, and he took a sip. Fuck, it was good. Real beans. Who brings good coffee if they’re here to kill you?
“We worked together once. When you were an active SEAL.” Fox pulled a compact tablet from his jacket and laid it on the damaged table. “Twelve years ago. Kazakhstan border, a retrieval op.” His eyes met Pav’s. “You tracked a target through a sandstorm. Found him in under six hours.”
Pav remained silent, but he remembered the mission. He eyed the two men. “What do you want?” His throat still stung from the Russian’s chokehold.
Fox tapped the tablet. Photos appeared. An apartment, door hanging off its hinges. A laptop on the floor, screen cracked. Clothes scattered. Signs of struggle.
“My niece.” Fox swiped to another image. “Dr. Harper Fox. She’s been missing seven days.”
Zak crossed to the table. “She works for International Health Outreach, running a women’s clinic on the Siberia-Mongolia border.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a region two hundred kilometers south.
“She sent this before they took her.” Fox swiped the tablet again. An email appeared, truncated mid-sentence, to her director in London.
Fox swore under his breath. “Stupid bastard sat on it for six days before contacting the family.”
Pav read the subject line. URGENT—Evidence of trafficking operation. She’d known they were coming.
“We checked her apartment.” Fox’s finger tapped the image of the broken door.
“As you can see, there are signs of forced entry and a struggle. But the locals claim she packed up and left voluntarily. Her passport says otherwise. So do her clothes, her medical bag, everything she’d need if she’d actually left. ”
Pav studied the photos. The apartment had been tossed, but not thoroughly. Whoever took her hadn’t been looking for something. They’d just wanted her gone.
No blood on the floorboards. No drag marks.
She’d walked out conscious or been carried clean.
Fast extraction. Disciplined. Three inside at a minimum. Another waiting with the vehicles if they knew what they were doing.
Fast entry, fast exit. This hadn’t been a panic grab.
“No neighbors called it in?”
“No.” Fox’s bushy eyebrows met.
They moved fast, or no one wanted involvement. Either way, Pav wanted none of this.
“Call the authorities.”
“This is the border.” Zak snorted. “The cops are bought or useless. Probably both.”
“I’m not the man you want.” Pav set his mug down.
“Yes. You are.” Fox met his eyes, still pressing the towel to his lip. “This terrain in winter? You know this land. We don’t.”
Pav shook his head. “I don’t do this anymore. You’re wasting your time.”
Fox swiped the tablet. A different photograph appeared.
Harper Fox was in her early thirties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a white coat with the IHO logo, a stethoscope around her neck. The kind of woman who’d land on the Siberian border thinking her medical degree and good intentions would protect her.
Pav’s gut tightened.
Wavy chestnut hair escaping its tie. Smoky gray eyes bright with intelligence and the impossible optimism that got people killed in places like this.
She looked directly at the camera. Most people in bad places learned not to do that. But Harper Fox looked like she asked questions and didn’t stop when the answers got uncomfortable. A woman who would fuck up your life just by paying attention.
Shit.
He pushed the tablet away as if it burned. “No.”
“She’s a doctor.” Fox’s voice didn’t change, but something harder entered it. “She went out there to save lives, to help women who had no one else.”
“I don’t do extractions anymore.” Pav kept his voice flat. “I don’t do people.”
Because people made you choose. And someone always paid.
“You do wolves though.” Zak jerked his head toward the wilderness outside the window.
Pav’s gaze snapped to him. “What the—”
“People like to talk.” Zak smiled into his coffee. “Interesting priorities.”
“Wolves don’t ask for help.” Pav worked his jaw.
Fox killed the tablet.
“American mother. Russian father. You disappear into your second motherland and build yourself a grave with a chimney.” Fox glanced around the sparse cabin. “What’s that getting you?”
“Peace.”
“Bullshit.” Fox’s accent sharpened. “That’s not peace. That’s running out the clock.”
Pav’s hands curled into fists on the table. The urge to hit Fox again was immediate. Almost pleasant.
“Help us.” Fox regarded him steadily. “Find her. Bring her home.” He met Pav’s eyes. “Then if you want to come back here and be dead again, that’s your call.”
Snow. Silence. Wolves.
Three years where wolves made more sense than men. And it still wasn’t enough.
Zak paced the room. “Doesn’t seem like we’re interrupting much.” His gaze swept the cabin. “You have nothing to lose.”
Everything. He had everything to lose. That was why he was here, in the cold and the quiet, where the only things that bled were the ones he chose to save.
But the woman in the photo was somewhere out there. Scared, hurt, maybe.
A flash of yellow eyes cut through his mind. Blood on snow. A trapped animal going still beneath his jacket because some part of her knew he wasn’t there to hurt her.
Pav looked away from the tablet.
Fuck.
“Three days. In and out. Then you leave me alone.”
Fox’s eyes slid to Zak. “Deal.”
“Does this mean we can finish the jerky?” Zak was already moving to where he’d left it.
“Touch my jerky again and I’ll break more than your lip.”
Zak grinned and wagged a finger. “I really like this guy.”
Fox woke the tablet with a touch. He traced the region with his finger, leaving small blood smears on the screen.
“Last known location is the border clinic, here.” He tapped with one thick finger.
“But she could be anywhere within a two-hundred-kilometer radius. The area is a warren of mining operations, homesteads, and abandoned compounds.” He looked up. “That’s where you come in.”
Pav studied the map. The search area was massive, but he could narrow it down. Human behavior was predictable once you knew what to look for.
“It’s already been a week. We’re running out of time.” Fox checked his watch.
Pav circled a location on the map. “We start here.”
Zak leaned in. “Why?”
“Because people lie.” Pav tapped the contour lines. “Terrain doesn’t.”
“Let’s get it done.” Zak raised his mug.
Fox clinked his mug against it. “To Harper.”
Pav said nothing.
Three days. He could do three days.