"In. Now."
His voice cuts through the engine noise and my panic with equal efficiency, cold command that allows no argument. The door beside me swings open, and I'm hauling myself up even as another bullet pings off metal somewhere behind me, the sharp ring of impact vibrating through the airframe.
My arms burn with effort as I drag myself into the plane's cabin. Physics becomes enemy, gravity pulling me down while forward momentum tries to throw me off. The plane is accelerating, already moving too fast for this to be safe or easy. My boots scrabble for purchase on the doorframe, fingers aching where they grip the handle with a desperation that whites out every other sensation.
The pack catches on the door latch and for a horrible second I think I'll be stuck, half in and half out, an easy target pinned against metal while men with rifles close the distance and take their time with their aim. I can hear them shouting now, coordinating, voices sharp with the frustration of prey that's about to escape.
Then the strap tears free with a sound like ripping fabric and I'm tumbling into the cabin of the plane, landing hard on the floor between seats with an impact that drives air from my lungs and sends fresh pain through already bruised ribs. The door slams shut. Someone's hand on it. His hand. Then he's back in the pilot's seat and we're accelerating hard enough to press me against the floor, unable to rise.
The plane lurches, acceleration pressing me backward. Through the window I catch glimpses of men running from the treeline, weapons raised, faces twisted with fury. One more shot rings out, then another, but we're moving too fast now, lifting, separating from earth and danger.
I'm gasping on the floor of a stranger's plane, hands still bleeding from my fall in the forest, heart trying to beat itsway out of my chest. The SD card in my pocket feels heavier than it should. Evidence and death warrant both. And the man in the pilot's seat hasn't looked back, hasn't acknowledged my presence beyond that single brutal command. Hasn't asked if I'm hurt or why I was running or what the hell just happened back there.
His hands are steady on the controls as we climb, utterly calm while I'm still shaking with adrenaline and terror. Those ice-blue eyes scan the instruments with the same flat assessment he gave me on the ground, and I realize with creeping dread that I don't know if I've been saved or simply caught by a different kind of predator.
Below us, the wilderness recedes into a patchwork of green and white, the research cabin I called home for months becoming just another speck in the vast Alaskan interior. Behind us, armed men fade into the treeline, swallowed by the same forest that nearly swallowed me. And ahead lies only sky and the unknown intentions of the man who told me to get in his plane but hasn't asked a single question about why I was running or what I'm running from.
I've traded one danger for another, swapped armed men in the forest for this stranger at the controls. The men with guns wanted me dead. This pilot looked at me like unwanted cargo that might cost more than it's worth.
He still hasn't asked my name. Hasn't asked why they were shooting at me or what I'm running from. His silence feels like a predator deciding whether to devour me now or save me for later. And I'm trapped in a metal box at several thousand feet with a man who flies into wilderness airstrips for reasons I'm terrified to discover.
2
MAGNUS
The radio crackles with static and coded chatter that most people wouldn't recognize as communication at all. I do.
"Package compromised."
I pause mid-reach for the fuel gauge. The hangar is cold, smelling of aviation fuel and metal. Outside, the Alaskan wilderness stretches for miles, broken only by the crude airstrip I carved from forest years ago.
"Witness loose."
Trafficking operation. The terminology is specific, used only by certain operators moving certain kinds of cargo. The kind I won't touch no matter how much they pay.
"Clean sweep authorized."
Kill order. Someone saw something, and now they're being hunted.
Time to disappear.
I finish the preflight with mechanical efficiency, checking fuel levels and control surfaces. This isn't my first time vanishing when operations go hot. I fly out, find a different cache cabin, wait for the heat to die down. Survival in the marginsrequires knowing which choices to make and living with the consequences without hesitation or regret.
The plane is ready. She always is. A Cessna 185 that's seen better decades but still flies true. I've rebuilt her engine twice, maintained her with obsessive attention because reliability means survival. She's not pretty. She's not new. But she's mine and she works.
I load my go-bag into the plane's cabin. Water, rations, ammunition, cash. Everything necessary for surviving off-grid. The bag stays packed for exactly this reason. Always ready. Always prepared.
The radio crackles again. Different frequency. "Target acquired. Moving to intercept."
They know their prey’s position. Not my problem. Can't be my problem. I've built a careful life in the shadows, and it survives because I know when to look away.
I climb into the cockpit and run through startup. Fuel mixture rich. Master switch on. Magnetos checked. The engine catches with a roar that drowns out the radio and anything resembling conscience. I don't do guilt. Don't do regret. The Air Force taught me that lesson when following my conscience instead of orders got me labeled with an Other than Honorable Discharge; they ended up dead anyway.
I taxi toward the runway. In minutes I'll be airborne. In an hour I'll be far enough off-grid that even people who know how to look won't find me.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. My right hand drops to the Glock at my hip while my left stays steady on the throttle. Training never leaves you.
A woman bursts from the treeline. Blood streaks her face where branches tore skin. Her clothes hang in shredded strips. Her eyes are wild with terror. Behind her, maybe fifty yardsback and closing, men with rifles move through the forest with tactical precision.
