Turns out I was wrong about that.
11
CARA
The snowmobile cuts through darkness, headlight carving a narrow tunnel through endless black. Finn drives with the confidence of someone who's memorized every turn, navigating terrain that would be suicide for anyone else. Behind us, the cabin disappears into forest and shadow. Ahead, the wilderness opens up like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole.
I hold onto Finn's waist, feeling every shift of his weight as he navigates around trees and over terrain that barely qualifies as a trail. The gear we packed is strapped behind us, waterproof cases containing everything I need to finish what Tom started. My laptop. All those months of investigation files. Evidence that could bring down a corrupt network reaching from Alaska to Seattle and beyond.
All of it useless if the feds or the Marshal's people find us before we can transmit it.
The temperature drops as we climb higher into the mountains. My face goes numb despite the balaclava, and my fingers ache inside insulated gloves. This is the Alaska that kills tourists who underestimate it. The Alaska where exposure canclaim you in hours, where getting lost means dying slowly in the cold.
But Finn knows where he's going. Every turn is deliberate, every route choice calculated. We're not following marked trails. We're using paths only locals would know, game trails and old mining roads that haven't seen vehicles or maps in decades.
An hour into the journey, Finn kills the headlight.
We coast to a stop in complete darkness. I can barely see his outline in front of me, barely make out the shapes of trees pressing close on all sides. My breath fogs in front of my face, visible only because my eyes have started adjusting to starlight filtering through gaps in the canopy.
"What is it?" I keep my voice low.
"Light behind us. Maybe three miles back." He dismounts, moves to the tree line. "Single source. Moving fast."
My stomach tightens. "The Marshal's people?"
"Or legitimate search and rescue looking for lost snowmobilers. Or the feds were closer than we thought." But his tone says he doesn't believe any of those options. "Either way, we don't want company."
He pulls out his phone, checks something on the screen. GPS coordinates, probably, or a topographic map he's downloaded for offline use. His face is illuminated for three seconds by the blue glow, then darkness returns.
"There's a creek bed about half a mile east. Runs through a narrow canyon with overhanging rock. If we cut through there, we can lose them. The overhang will block thermal imaging, and the canyon's too narrow for most vehicles."
"What about on foot?"
"On foot in the dark through a canyon they don't know? They'd have to be desperate or stupid." He swings back onto the snowmobile. "Let's not give them the chance to be either."
We veer off the trail, plunging into forest so dense the trees form a solid wall of shadow. Finn navigates by memory and instinct, threading between trunks with inches to spare on either side. Branches scrape against my jacket. Snow showers down from overhead, melting where it hits the warm engine.
The terrain drops away suddenly. The snowmobile tilts forward at an angle that makes my stomach lurch, and then we're descending into the canyon Finn mentioned. Rock walls rise on either side, close enough that I could reach out and touch them. The engine noise changes pitch, echoing off stone in ways that make it impossible to tell if we're being followed. Every sound multiplies, distorts, comes back at us from three directions at once.
Above, the overhang creates a natural roof that blocks out the sky entirely. Complete darkness. Absolute. Darkness so complete I have to blink to confirm my eyes are open. My other senses sharpen to compensate. The smell of cold stone and ice. The vibration of the engine transmitted through Finn's body into mine. The whisper of our passage disturbing air that might not have moved in days.
Finn slows to a crawl, feeling his way forward. One hand stays on the throttle while the other reaches out periodically, fingertips brushing the canyon wall to gauge clearance. I feel his breathing change, becoming measured and controlled. The same calm focus I've seen in soldiers navigating minefields or surgeons making critical incisions. Absolute concentration on the task at hand because a single mistake means disaster.
The snowmobile scrapes against rock. Metal on stone, a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Finn adjusts our angle without hesitation, corrects the trajectory. We keep moving forward through darkness so complete it feels like we're being swallowed.
Minutes stretch. My legs cramp from holding position. Cold seeps through every layer of clothing, finds the gaps betweengloves and sleeves, between balaclava and collar. This is how exposure kills. Not dramatically, not all at once, but degree by degree. Muscle by muscle going stiff and unresponsive until you can't fight anymore.
I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly. I trust him. I have to. The alternative is freezing to death in this canyon.
We emerge twenty minutes later into a wider valley. Finn doesn't restart the headlight, just navigates by starlight and whatever internal map he's carrying in his head. Behind us, the canyon entrance is invisible. Anyone following would have to know it existed and be willing to risk the passage in darkness.
"We lost them," Finn says. "For now."
The rest of the journey passes in tense silence. I keep checking behind us, half-expecting to see headlights cutting through the darkness. But the miles accumulate without pursuit, and eventually Finn slows, scanning the terrain with focused intensity.
I don't see anything that resembles a cabin. Just forest and rock and the gentle slope of the hill rising into darkness. But Finn drives toward it with certainty, and as we get closer, the illusion resolves.
The cabin isn't obvious from the approach. It sits nestled against the hillside, the weathered wood siding blending with the surrounding deadfall and forest. The roof extends low, covered with moss and small vegetation that's taken root over the years. Natural camouflage, the kind that takes time and patience to establish. From any distance or aerial view, it would look like natural terrain. Even up close, you'd have to know what you're looking for.
