FINN
Dawn breaks cold and clear over the mountains. I leave Cara sleeping and move through my morning routine with the kind of precision drilled into me during years of military service. Coffee first, then a perimeter check before the sun climbs high enough to wash out details in the snow.
The rifle comes down from the rack above the door. I check the action, confirm the magazine is seated properly, chamber a round. Muscle memory from a life I used to live. A life where being armed and alert meant the difference between bringing soldiers home alive or in body bags.
Outside, the air cuts like a blade. Fresh snow fell overnight, maybe two inches, enough to erase yesterday's tracks and create a clean canvas. Perfect for spotting disturbances.
I start at the north side, moving clockwise around the property. Snow undisturbed except for animal tracks. Rabbit, probably. The impressions are too small and erratic for anything larger. I catalog it automatically, the way I used to catalog landmarks during flight ops.
East side stays clean. Trees thick enough to provide natural cover, no sight lines deep enough for effective surveillance. But I check anyway because assuming safety is how people die.
South side shows the workshop areas are secure, no signs of forced entry. The Cessna sits under its cover, undisturbed. I pause here, listening. Birds are starting to wake up, calling to each other in the trees. Normal sounds. Natural rhythms.
Then I spot it.
Boot prints in the snow, maybe twenty yards from the cabin's southeast corner. Fresh enough that the edges haven't started to melt in the morning sun. Deep lugs designed for traction in snow and ice. Not casual hiking boots. The tread pattern speaks to someone who came prepared for backcountry operations in hostile terrain.
Someone was here last night. Standing in the tree line, watching the cabin.
My pulse stays steady but awareness sharpens. I follow the tracks with my eyes without moving closer, don't want to contaminate the scene. They lead back into the forest, disappear where the canopy gets thick enough to prevent significant snowfall from reaching the ground.
Professional work. Whoever made these tracks knows how to approach a position without being detected, understands sight lines and cover, and stood here long enough to study the cabin, assess threats, plan their next move.
I complete the circuit, checking the west side even though every instinct says to get back inside and warn Cara. Training overrides instinct. Never leave a perimeter check incomplete. Never assume the threat you found is the only threat present.
West side is clear. I return to the cabin, moving at a normal pace. If someone's still watching, I don't want them to know I've spotted their surveillance. Don't want to spook them into accelerating whatever timeline they're operating on.
Inside, Cara is awake, sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open and files spread around her. She looks up when I enter, reads my expression immediately.
"Problem?"
"Signs of surveillance. Southeast corner, about twenty yards out. Boot prints from last night, professional placement." I set the rifle on the table, keep my voice level. "Someone was watching the cabin."
She goes still. I recognize that freeze from my own training, years of operating in dangerous environments where movement can get you killed. "One person?"
"Single set of tracks. Snow fell around two in the morning based on weather patterns. Prints are on top of that, which means they were here after the storm passed. Four or five hours ago at most."
"Long enough to be gone, or still close enough to be watching." She closes the laptop, starts gathering files with efficient movements. "Did you approach the prints?"
"No. Left them undisturbed in case we need documentation later." I move to the window, scan the tree line. Nothing moves except branches swaying in the breeze. "Whoever it was knows what they're doing. Good positioning, clean approach and exit."
"The Marshal's people." She stacks the files, slides them into a waterproof case. "Jake's warnings were accurate. They've found me."
"Not necessarily. Could be legitimate feds doing reconnaissance before they move in." I turn away from the window, meet her eyes. "Either way, we need to assume hostile intent and plan accordingly."
She nods, already thinking tactically. "If it's the Marshal's people, they're assessing threats before they act. If it's the feds, they're gathering intel for an arrest operation. Both scenarios give us time to prepare."
"Or to move." I cross to the evidence cases we brought in yesterday, start running through mental inventory. "I know places in the backcountry. Old mining camps, hunting cabins,locations off any map that matters. We can relocate, establish defensible positions, make them come to us on our terms."
"Running worked for years, but you're right that this is different." She stands, joins me at the cases. "If we move, we need to do it before they realize we know they're watching. Pack like we're just organizing supplies, nothing that signals panic or flight."
The tactical discussion flows naturally between us. We're both trained for this. Assessment, planning, execution. Right now we're just operators coordinating a mission.
We're halfway through packing when I hear the vehicle.
Engine sound carries in the cold air, getting louder as it approaches up the access road. Not the rumble of Zeke's SUV or the diesel clatter of the supply truck. Something different. Lighter engine, higher pitch.
Cara hears it too. She moves to the window, stays to the side to avoid silhouetting herself. "You expecting anyone?"
