"Three positions along the most likely approach vectors. Pressure triggers with noise makers. Won't stop him, but they'll announce his position and maybe make him more cautious." I scan the forest, watching him work his way through the trees. "He's headed straight for the northern approach. Should hit the first trigger in the next few minutes at his current pace."
We prepare in silence. Cara takes a position at the east window where she has clear sight lines toward the north approach. I stay at the south window, watching for any backupthe hostile might have brought. The cabin is built into the hillside with limited approaches, exactly the defensive position I needed when I found this place years ago. Two narrow paths lead to the door. Everything else is either too steep or too exposed.
The hostile knows his business. He's not rushing, not making noise, not doing anything to announce his presence beyond the shadow and movement my trained eyes caught. A lesser operator would have already triggered one of my warnings. He's avoiding the obvious paths, testing the terrain, looking for the angles I can't cover.
A sharp crack echoes through the pre-dawn stillness as the first trap triggers. The hostile freezes, weapon up, scanning for threats. He's a little closer than I estimated. Either he moved faster than I calculated or he found a route I didn't account for. Both options are concerning.
"He's good," Cara says quietly.
"Very good." I watch him assess the triggered trap. A simple noisemaker, nothing dangerous, but he treats it like a serious threat. Methodical clearing pattern, checking for secondary devices, staying low and using cover. "But this is my ground. He doesn't know the terrain like I do."
The hostile moves again, more cautiously now. He knows we're aware of his presence. The element of surprise is gone. Now it becomes a question of whether he commits to the assault or pulls back to wait for better conditions.
He commits. I watch him shift his approach, angling toward the west side where the hillside offers some concealment. That approach limits my firing angles and gives him cover almost to the door. But it also funnels him through a narrow corridor where I placed the second trap.
"He's moving west," I tell Cara. "Should hit the second position in about three minutes."
She adjusts her position, rifle trained on the western approach. "What's the trigger?"
"Tripwire across the path, about ankle height. Bells attached to fishing line. Simple but effective in this light."
Minutes stretch like hours as the hostile moves with painful slowness, testing every step, checking every shadow. He knows we've prepared defenses and treats this like a combat zone, respecting our capabilities enough to be careful.
Bells ring with sudden clarity. The figure drops and rolls, coming up behind a fallen log with his weapon tracking for targets. Textbook execution, exactly what I would have done in his position. But now I know where he is and which direction he'll move next.
"Cara, west window, ten degrees left of center. He's behind the downed spruce with the broken top."
She shifts position smoothly, finding the angle. "I have movement."
"Hold fire. Let him commit to the approach. He needs to get closer before we engage."
He stays behind cover for a full minute. Evaluating. Through the window I watch him scan possible routes, his weapon tracking back and forth. He's making a choice. Weighing options. The fact that he triggered two warning devices in quick succession tells him we're ready. Prepared. Not the easy targets he might have expected.
His movement changes when he breaks from cover, becoming bolder and faster. He's committed now. Abandoning the western approach for a more direct route from the north. Whatever happens, he's coming for us.
A pressure plate made from scavenged materials connects to a modified air horn at the narrowest point of the northern approach. Crude but loud. Avoiding it means exposing himselfto our firing positions, but he'll hear it coming if he's looking carefully enough.
I watch him advance. Twenty yards from the trigger. Fifteen. Ten. Weapon up and ready, scanning the cabin windows for movement with confidence in every step.
The air horn screams. He dives for cover and comes up firing. Controlled bursts aimed at both windows where we're positioned. Glass shatters. Wood splinters. Bullets punch through the cabin walls with sharp cracks that speak to high-velocity ammunition.
I return fire, not aiming to hit but to keep him pinned. Three controlled shots into his position. Cara adds her own fire from the east window, bracketing him with precision. He shifts position again, moving behind better cover, and I lose sight of him.
"Lost visual," I call out.
"Same," Cara responds.
The forest goes quiet except for the fading echoes of gunfire. My ears ring slightly from the enclosed space and the sharp reports. I scan the tree line, looking for movement, for any sign of where he repositioned. Nothing visible in the darkness.
Then I see the muzzle flash. North and east, maybe sixty yards out. Too far for accurate shooting with a rifle in this light, but close enough to be dangerous. The round punches through the cabin wall two feet from my position. Another follows, then another. Methodical fire, searching for targets, trying to flush us from cover.
"He's trying to pin us down," Cara says. "Keep us from moving while he repositions for a better angle."
"Or while backup arrives." I check my watch. Zeke's team should be in position by now. Close enough to hear the gunfire if the wind is right. "We need to transmit now. Before he calls in reinforcements or decides to burn us out."
Cara moves to the satellite equipment we set up last night. The laptop is already configured, files queued and ready to send. She powers up the transmission array while I maintain watch on the hostile's position.
"How long for the transmission?" I ask.
