1
ALEXANDRIA
The air on the eastern ridge tastes like static and wet iron. A storm is brewing over Grizzly Peak, the kind of legendary whiteout the locals tell stories about.
I can hear the distant, rhythmic roar of heavy engines down in the valley—a sound too mechanical for nature—but up here, the only sound is the wind whistling through the shale. I need to get this last camera set before the rain turns the mountain into a slide.
I tighten the final strap on the camera housing, my fingers clumsy and stiffening in the biting wind. The vibration of the engines below fades, consumed by the sudden, violent roar of the pines as the front finally hits. I take one careful step back to check the alignment, the first drop of freezing rain splattering against my goggles. My heel catches on a loose shelf of shale, the stone giving way with a silent, terrifying lack of resistance.
Gravity is a cruel mistress. One moment, I am Alexandria Emerson, Ph.D. candidate, master of the topographic map, and confident tracker of the elusive pine marten. The next, I am atumbling mass of limbs and panic, sliding down the shale face of Grizzly Peak’s eastern ridge.
The world dissolves into a blur of gray stone and green pine. I claw at the dirt, my fingernails tearing against roots that snap like threads. The sky spins—blue into white into gray—until my hip slams into a jutting outcrop with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. I keep rolling, a ragdoll tossed in a machine, until the slope flattens into a narrow ravine floor.
I land hard on my side.
Silence reigns for a long minute. The wind sighs through the ponderosa pines high above, indifferent to my sudden descent.
Then, the pain arrives.
It explodes. A white-hot spear drives itself through my right ankle, radiating up my shin and settling deep in the marrow of my thigh. I gasp, curling inward, my hands hovering over my leg but terrified to touch it.
"Okay," I wheeze, the sound thin in the vastness of the ravine. "Okay, Alex. Assessment. Triage."
I force my eyes open. The canopy is thick here, filtering the afternoon light into stripes of gold and shadow. Pushing myself up onto my elbows sends a wave of nausea rolling through my gut. I look down.
My right boot is wedged at an unnatural angle. The denim of my jeans is intact, but the shape of the leg beneath it is wrong. Swollen. Twisted.
"Tib-fib fracture," I whisper, the clinical diagnosis doing nothing to dampen the agony. "Or a severe dislocation with ligament trauma."
I reach for the radio clipped to my belt. My fingers brush empty air. I pat the ground around me, pulse spiking. The radio is gone, likely smashed against the rocks fifty feet up the slope. My phone sits in my pack, still strapped to my back, but as I shrug it off and dig through the side pocket, the screen reveals a spiderweb of cracked glass.
I press the power button. Nothing.
"Perfect," I hiss, letting my head drop back against the damp earth. "Just perfect."
The sun dips lower. Twilight in the mountains acts like a curtain drop. Once the sun goes behind the ridge, the temperature will plummet twenty degrees in an hour. I’m wearing a flannel shirt and a light vest. I have a survival blanket in my pack, but with a leg like this, I can’t build a fire. I can’t hike out.
I am essentially bait.
Minutes stretch into an hour. The pain in my ankle settles into a deep, throbbing drumbeat syncing with my pulse. Every thud is a fresh insult. I close my eyes, trying to regulate my breath, trying to keep the shock at bay. I count the species of birds I can hear. A Steller's Jay. A nuthatch.
Then, a new sound cuts through the ambient noise of the forest.
Low, rhythmic, and heavy. Not the erratic scuttle of a squirrel or the crash of a bear. Boots crunching against the earth. Intentional steps. Someone who knows exactly where they are placing their feet.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice cracking. "Is someone there? I need help!"
The footsteps stop.
Silence hangs heavy, charged with static. I strain my neck to peer through the underbrush. A shadow detaches itself from the trunk of a massive cedar tree about thirty yards away.
At first, I mistake it for a bear standing on its hind legs. The silhouette is simply too broad, too tall to be human. But then the figure moves, stepping into a shaft of dying sunlight, and my breath catches.
A monolith of a man stands there. He towers well over six feet—six-four, maybe six-five—with shoulders spanning the width of the trail. Worn, dusty black jeans cover his legs, and a black leather cut sits over a gray thermal shirt straining against his chest.
I can’t read the patches from here, but I know who operates in these woods. The Broken Halos MC. The Gunnars.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a new kind of terror mixing with the pain. I’ve heard the stories in town. Everyone has. They run the mountain. They don't take kindly to trespassers, and technically, my research permit borders their land. I might be on the wrong side of the line.
