2
ELI
The axe bites clean through spruce, splitting the round in one stroke. Wood grain tears apart with a crack that echoes off the trees before dying in the vastness. I set another piece on the stump, swing again. Another split, another addition to the pile. The rhythm's mechanical now. Muscle memory, no thought required. Stack the splits. Rotate the older wood. Check moisture. Winter prep that keeps my hands busy and my head quiet.
Spruce sap gums up my palms. I wipe them on my jeans and keep working. Deep north of Fairbanks means nobody shows up unless they've got serious resources or serious problems. Probably both. My homestead sits in a bowl of forests with one access route and clear sight lines in three directions. Solar panels handle power. Rainwater collection keeps me supplied. Trapline to the east provides meat. I make supply runs twice a year and keep the radio off unless weather demands otherwise.
It's been months since I've had to talk to anyone. Works for me.
The sound reaches me before I see anything. The faint buzz of an engine cutting through the peace of the wilderness. I setthe axe against the cabin wall, don't rush. Scan the sky until I spot it.
A bush plane. Single engine. Coming in from the south.
Nobody knows I'm here except Zeke MacAllister, and Zeke doesn't break operational silence without cause. Which means whoever's in that plane tracked me through channels that took work.
I move inside. Rifle comes off the mount above the door. Chamber's already loaded—always is. Back outside, I position near the woodpile where I've got the cabin at my back and clean lines of fire across the clearing.
The plane circles once, drops low, sets down where I take supply deliveries. Two men climb out wearing federal marshal jackets.
My jaw tightens. Marshals flying to the ass-end of Alaska means someone's dead or someone's in deep trouble. I keep the rifle pointed at the ground, barrel angled away but ready to come up if this goes sideways.
The older one raises both hands when they're still across the clearing. Smart. "Eli Vance?"
"State your business."
"Marshal Robert Miller, Anchorage office. This is Marshal Kevin Wright. We need to talk about your niece."
The word hits like incoming fire. Sudden, disorienting. I haven't let myself think about Traci in years. Last time I saw her she was still a kid. Big eyes, scraped knees, asking when I'd be home from deployment. I told her soon. Then Syria happened and soon turned into never.
"Keep talking." My voice stays level. No reaction, no opening.
Miller lowers his hands slowly. He's got me pegged. I'm not hostile yet, but that can change fast. "Can we approach?"
I nod once. They close the distance, stop a few feet out. Close enough for conversation, far enough I can drop them both if needed.
"Your niece was recovered from a trafficking operation three weeks ago," Miller says. Direct, no cushioning. "She's in temporary foster care in Anchorage. You're listed as emergency contact."
Trafficking. The word sits in my head next to other words I don't touch. Children. Casualties. Collateral damage.
"She alive?"
"Yes. Physically healing. Psychologically..." Miller shakes his head. "She's not speaking. Hasn't said a word since we pulled her out. You're listed as her emergency contact. She needs family."
"That listing's five years old."
"Your brother died three years ago. Mother's whereabouts unknown. You're all she's got left."
My brother. Dead years back and I didn't know because I was too busy hiding in the woods. The information lands flat. Just another casualty I wasn't there to prevent.
"How'd he die?"
"Vehicle accident. Single car, icy road outside Seattle. Local PD ruled it accidental."
"You verify that?"
"We did. No evidence of foul play."
I process the timeline. Brother dead three years means Traci was fourteen. "What happened to her after?"
