In ten minutes, I’m suited up. Weatherproof jacket, tactical harness under it, boots laced tight, the familiar weight of a sidearm holstered at my ribs. The old version of myself, the one I buried under paperwork, supply routes, and forced civility stirs awake like an animal blinking out of hibernation. Back when Papa was alive, the old bear, it was me out on the trails and him in here running things.
But this world is mine now. And the forest, too. Whoever thinks they can trespass in it is about to learn that.
We head into the forest in a staggered line: Jesse to my left, Grigori and Vasil trailing behind, two more scouts up ahead. The drizzle sharpens into a fine, stinging rain. Mist curls low over the moss-covered ground, and the air tastes metallic, like the moment before lightning strikes.
The tracks are unmistakable once we reach them. Boot prints too deep for hikers, too deliberate for tourists. I crouch, touching the imprint of one tread.
“Military pattern,” I murmur. “New. Heavy. Coordinated movement.”
Jesse nods. “One of the guides saw lights last night near the ridge. We thought it was just poachers, but…”
“Scouts,” I say. “They’ve been watching us longer than we thought.”
We move deeper.
Hours bleed into each other. The rain soaks through collars and clings to eyelashes. Branches whip across my arms as we descend into ravines and climb back out, tracking signs of movement—broken twigs, disturbed underbrush, shallow mud prints that haven’t had time to fill with water.
The world narrows to instinct and threat. This is the man I was before—cold, alert, carved down to purpose. The version of myself who never hesitated.
And yet, in the back of my mind, something flickers unbidden: a small river cottage, yellow morning light, a child’s laughter. A woman I can’t seem to ignore, no matter how far into the wilderness I go.
I shove the thought away.
Focus.
By late afternoon, the light had thinned into the bruised purple of early evening. The fog thickens. Every sound feels sharp. Cracking branches, shifting gravel, the thrum of my heart in my ears. Too loud.
“They were here recently,” Jesse mutters, pointing to a patch of fresh tracks.
“Close,” I say. “Too close.” Something feels off, but I can’t place it.
We fan out along the ridge. The wind moves strangely, curling into pockets of cold that raise the hairs on my neck. The silence feels wrong, like the forest is holding its breath. My father used to tell me,When the birds go quiet, it means there’s a predator nearby.
Then Vasil calls out.
A short, strangled sound.
I turn instantly, gun raised, but it’s already too late.
The first body is slumped against a fallen tree, eyes glassy and wide. Blood streaks down his throat in a clean, efficient line.A single slice from ear to ear, so deep that they cut through the trachea. I can see the white gleam of it from here. Warm steam rises from the wound in the chilly rain.
A quiet kill is a practiced one. My vision sharpens to a razor point.
Jesse curses under his breath. “Boss.”
I’m already moving, sprinting toward the second shout deeper in the clearing.
One of myboyevikiis on the ground, hands pressed to his stomach, blood leaking between his fingers in a dark, spreading pool. His breaths are short and wet, each one a desperate, drowning effort.
“No. No, stay with me,” I order, sliding into the mud beside him.
His eyes find mine, unfocused but pleading. Rain slicks his hair to his forehead. His lips move around a word that never fully forms.
I press my hand over the wound, but it’s useless. The blade went deep. Too deep to save.
“Shef…” he gasps.
“I’m here,” I say.
