I press my lips together at the door, swallowing loudly. “Hope you’re ready, Rhys Ward. Because I’m not leaving here without answers.”
My knock brings silence.
Somehow louder than the roar of the Jeep’s engine, the music playing during the drive.
Oddly, I don’t hear birds. Not one. It’s as if sound has collapsed in on itself up here.
The air feels wrong somehow—too still, too thin. Even the sunlight looks cold. Overhead, great storm clouds gather, heavy and gray. Of course, another thunderstorm is already building. A daily occurrence here.
Local weather patterns were one of many rabbit holes I went down preparing for this trip. Because you never know which detail will matter most.
My knuckles on the rough-hewn wooden door sound hollow. Broken.
Still nothing.
I walk slowly along the perimeter, peering through the windows. No curtains, as far as I can tell. It’s the home of someone who counts on no one finding him.
Inside, I spy rustic furnishings and a granite-lined hearth that looks as homemade as a pioneer creation from two centuries ago.
No fire. No food. No signs of life, though it’s too tidy to be anything but in use.
I take photos, documenting every angle in every direction. Until finally, I can’t put it off any longer.
I approach the door again, senses narrowing. Still no birdsong. No gentle nature sounds. Just an artificial quiet that crawls beneath my skin.
I try the handle. It opens with a menacing creak. No need for keys up here.
Floorboards creak as I enter. Pine sap and smoke fill my nostrils. I pause, hand still on the knob, letting my eyes adjust to the cramped space. The entire cabin is Marine neat. Precise enough to feel obsessive.
“Rhys Ward?” My voice echoes, nothing soft to muffle its sharp tones. It feels like a violation of a space not built for words or warmth.
“Ward?” I repeat, a hard edge to the syllable. “I’m not leaving until you show yourself. Talk.”
My eyes scan the space. A small table and chair. The hearth with a neat stack of logs. To the right, a kitchen area with a one-burner camping stove and a small pantry. To the left, a makeshift cot.
Minimal enough to feel less like living and more like survival.
On a shelf above his bed, almost like a small altar, I see carefully arranged medals, dog tags, and a photograph. I step forward, the floor groaning as if I’ll fall through it.
I lean over the bed, grabbing the photo and recognizing the faces—First Recon, decked out in their cammies, the Desert Camouflage Uniform or DCU, mountainous terrain looming in the background.
My brother Phoenix, wary and guarded. Alive in a way he isn’t anymore. Something tightens in my chest, like I can’t take a breath.
My vision blurs, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Pull it together, Sloane.” Emotion may sell stories, but it also kills facts.
I examine the other members of the team—the ones who didn’t make it and the few I’ve already spoken to. Adding their voices, their gestures. Almost as if the picture comes to life.
Something bitter rises in my mouth, looking at these men standing in this space. They were one team. More than any one individual.
They were supposed to leave no one behind, but somewhere along the line that promise broke. And only Ward knows why.
Without his testimony, I’ll forever be stitching together fables. And I’ll never seethissacrifice—the years of research, the obsession that brought me here—pay off.
My thumb strokes over the face at the front, clean-shaven, haunted eyes, bold posture.
I’d recognize him anywhere.
