7
Reese
Static hissesthrough the tiny speaker of the ham radio. The noise grates against the rotting wood walls of the Blackwood Ranger Station. The distorted voice on the other end cuts out abruptly. The static dies. The freezing room swallows the sound whole.
The man standing over the desk does not move. Santi leaves his hand on the metal dial for a long second. His knuckles are bruised. His dark hair is disordered, the stark silver streaks catching the flickering orange glow of the fire he just built in the iron stove. He is a man who just survived a helicopter crash, a trek through waist-deep snow, and a wolf pack. He looks exhausted, but unshakeable.
He turns away from the radio. His eyes lock onto mine. He tracks my breathing, the blood dried on my forehead, the defensive way my arms are crossed over my chest.
"They have our coordinates." His voice is flat. "Extraction is coming."
He does not saysearch and rescue is coming. He does not saythe authorities are on the way. The voice on that radio did not belong to a park ranger or a mountain patrol volunteer.That voice was clipped, military, deferential. That was not rescue dispatch. That was someone reporting to a commander.
"Great." I lean back against the opposite wall. The rough bark of the cabin logs snags the fabric of my torn jacket. "I'll be sure to leave a five-star review for the rapid response time. Assuming we don't freeze to death before they get here."
Santi does not smile. He never smiles. He steps away from the desk and moves toward the wooden door. "I need to secure the perimeter. The storm is bringing the temperature down another ten degrees. I will gather the remaining dry wood from the shed."
"Don't let the wolves use you as a chew toy."
"Lock the door behind me."
He grabs his winter coat. He leaves his canvas bag on the floor by the desk. The iron latch clangs loudly as he opens the door. Brutal, freezing wind whips into the cabin, sending a shower of loose ash flying out of the stove. Santi steps out into the whiteout conditions. He pulls the door shut.
I drop the iron crossbar into the rusted iron brackets. It slams home with a solid, metallic thud—the only thing keeping the world out now that the bolt plate hangs loose from the splintered frame.
The cabin feels twice as large without him in it. The adrenaline from the trek and the radio transmission begins to drain out of my bloodstream. The toll of the last two days hits me like a freight train. My muscles scream in protest with each small movement. My boots are soaked through. My head throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache directly behind my eyes.
I walk over to the iron stove. Heat radiates from the black metal. I hold my freezing hands out toward the warmth. The fire crackles, devouring the dry pine the ranger left stacked.
I learned the rules a long time ago. Keep the core temperature up. Keep the bleeding stopped. Maintainsituational awareness. Do not panic. Do not rely on anyone else to solve the problem.
The math is getting complicated. I relied on Santi. I let him shield me from the blizzard. I kissed him in that makeshift bark shelter. I let him strip away my gear and my defenses. I gave him control. The memory of his weight pressing me against the wall flares hot in my chest. I push the thought away. Lust is a distraction. Survival requires focus.
I need more bandages for my head wound. The cut is shallow, but it keeps seeping. I turn away from the stove and look around the abandoned ranger station.
Dust coats every surface. The floorboards are warped from years of neglected moisture. A rusted metal cot sits in the corner, a thin mattress laid across the wire springs. The desk holds a scattering of old topographical maps and a leather-bound logbook. The place smells of stale pine needles, old mice nests, and damp earth. It is a graveyard disguised as a room.
Santi’s canvas bag sits on the floor beside the desk, close enough for me to reach from the chair.
He carried that bag through the snow. He refused to let me take a turn with it. Whatever is in it, it is not the standard crash kit—that one is already emptied on the desk.
I drop to my knees beside the bag. The canvas is stiff with cold and melted snow. I pull at the metal zipper. It catches halfway. I yank it harder. The zipper gives way, exposing the dark interior of the main compartment.
I reach inside. I'm not looking for flares or rations. I'm looking for something I can use. A bandage. A weapon. Or just a glimpse into who he really is.
My fingers brush against cold metal.
The shape is wrong. It is too jagged to be a thermos. It is too dense to be a flashlight. I wrap my hand around the object and pull it out into the dim light of the cabin.
The firelight reflects off a matte black polymer frame.
It is a Glock 19.
The magazine is fully loaded. The barrel is threaded, fitted with a custom suppressor. This is not a standard issue hunting pistol for scaring off mountain lions. This is a weapon designed to kill human beings quietly.
I stare at the gun resting in my palm. The metal is freezing against my skin.
A normal client doesn’t carry a suppressed firearm on a chartered helicopter. A corporate executive doesn't have military-grade encrypted tracking protocols. A normal man doesn’t survive a catastrophic helicopter crash without a single ounce of fear or panic.
