We head north on the trail, following Haywood's tracks into dense timber. The terrain's familiar. I've hunted these mountains for years, know every ridge and draw. Haywood doesn't. He's following the path of least resistance, staying in the valley where the snow's melted and the footing's easier.
Valley routes are predictable and easy to intercept.
After tracking for a while, I find where he stopped to rest. Boot prints in a cleared area, pack impression in the pine needles. He sat for a while, long enough to leave deep marks.
"He's struggling," Sela says, studying the tracks.
"City boy in mountain country." I check the timeline, calculate distance. "He's closer now. We're gaining."
We push on. The trail climbs through old-growth forest, crosses a creek swollen with snowmelt. Haywood went straight through, didn't bother finding a crossing. His tracks on the far bank show he slipped, went down hard. Scrambled up, kept moving.
He's getting tired, making more mistakes.
Hours later, I spot the cabin.
It sits in a clearing ahead, weathered logs and a metal roof. Old hunting camp, abandoned years ago. Smoke rises from the chimney.
I pull Sela down behind a deadfall, glass the cabin with my scope. Movement in the window. Haywood's inside, pacing.
"He's holed up," I whisper. "Probably trying to contact whoever's supposed to extract him."
"Can he get a signal out here?"
"Satellite phone, maybe. Or he's got a scheduled pickup time." I lower the rifle, consider approach vectors. "Either way, he's cornered."
"So what's the plan?"
I study the clearing. Cabin's got one door, a couple windows. Dense timber on three sides, open ground to the south. No cover for the last stretch.
"I approach from the north, use the treeline for concealment. You stay here, cover me with the radio. Anything goes wrong, you call Finn and get out."
"Marc—"
"This is the part where you don't argue." I look at her directly. "Haywood's desperate. Desperate men do stupid things. I need to know you're safe."
She doesn't like it, but she nods.
I move through the timber, circling wide to approach from the north. Take my time, stay quiet. Haywood's trained in procedure, not fieldcraft. He's watching the obvious approach, not the flanks.
Close to the cabin now, I catch voices through the window. Haywood's on a phone, speaking in clipped, urgent tones.
"—need extraction now. They're tracking me. I did what you asked, cleaned up the witnesses, kept the operation secure. You promised protection."
He's listening to someone on the other end.
"I know the risks. I'm not asking, I'm telling you. Send the extraction team or I start talking to DOJ. I've got records, communications, proof of your involvement."
Another pause. Then Haywood's voice goes cold.
"Don't threaten me. I did everything you asked for years. The Marshal wants this network protected, you get me out. Otherwise, I burn it all down."
The Marshal. Confirmation he's taking orders from someone higher.
But no names, no specific details. Just code names and vague threats.
I key my radio, whisper to Sela. "He's on the phone with his handler. Claims he has proof of The Marshal's involvement."
"Can you take him?"
