"The men we just killed," Santi replies, his voice settling back into the lethal, flat tone of a sniper who has already chosen his targets. "They weren't the scouts."
The roar of the engines grows deafening, surrounding the cabin from every direction. The headlights cut through the gaps in the wood planks, illuminating the room in harsh, blinding beams of white light.
"They were the distraction." Santi racks the bolt of the rifle. "The main force is here."
10
Santi
The wooden floorboardsvibrate beneath the soles of my boots. Two-stroke engines scream over the howling wind. High RPMs tearing through the blinding whiteout of the blizzard. The mechanical roar crawls up the structural supports of the cabin, shaking the dust from the rafters, rattling the barricaded windows.
The first wave was bait. A sloppy, uncoordinated distraction meant to drain our ammunition and force us to reveal our defensive angles.
The first assault team is here.
For two decades, I existed in deliberate silence. I watched my family bleed and rage. I remained the silent watcher
Not tonight.
The ice has not vanished — it has simply stopped fighting the heat pressing against it from the inside. What replaces it is not violence. It is certainty. The most dangerous thing I have ever felt. She is mine. I will put a round through every skull on this mountain to keep her breathing.
I grab Reese by the shoulders. I shove her behind the massive stone hearth. The heavy stonework is thick enough to absorb small-arms fire.
"Do not move," I command. My voice is a jagged, unrecognizable register. "Keep the weapon aimed at the front door. If anything comes through that wood that isn't me or the costa extraction team, you empty the magazine into their chest."
She nods. Her eyes are wide but remarkably steady. No tears. No hysterics. Just that fierce, unsentimental will to survive that brought me back from the dead.
I turn away from her. I check my spare magazine. One left. Hollow points.
The snowmobiles cut their engines. The absence of engines is worse than the roar. Boots crunch on the frozen crust of the snow. They are surrounding the cabin. A tactical spread.
I move to the loft ladder. I climb it in three seconds, silent as a breath, my boots finding the rungs by sheer muscle memory. The loft has a small, circular ventilation window facing the eastern tree line. I smash the frosted glass out with the steel butt of my Glock. The blizzard screams into the upper room, bringing the vicious bite of ice and the scent of pine.
I scan the perimeter. Shadows moving through the chaotic whiteout.
Five men. Heavily armed. Moving in a tight wedge formation toward the front porch barricade.
I line up the sights. I do not hesitate. I do not offer warnings or quarter.
I pull the trigger.
The first man drops instantly, a dark spray marking the snow behind him.
The others scatter, shouting over the howling wind, raising their automatic rifles blindly toward the cabin. Bullets chew through the log walls below me, splintering wood and sending deadly shrapnel into the main room. I shift my angle. Double tap. The second man folds over, clutching his torn throat, sinking into the snowdrift.
Three left. They dive for cover behind the massive, snow-covered boulders flanking the porch steps.
I cannot shoot them from here. The angle is useless.
I descend the ladder, dropping the last five feet to the floor in a silent crouch. The fabric is still cold from the storm. Between the blizzard, the snow, and the broken sightlines, it gives me one more layer of cover. . I move to the back door.
I pry the makeshift planks loose, working fast and silent. The nails groan free. I set the planks aside, close enough to grab if I make it back. I lift the iron bar. The wind rips the door out of my grip, but I catch it, slipping out into the freezing night. The cold is a weapon. I use it. I let the blizzard break my outline and mask my movement. I let it mask my approach.
I flank them. I become the shadow they cannot track. Moving through the waist-deep snow requires brutal exertion, but adrenaline keeps me moving. I circle the perimeter of the cabin, staying low, letting the howling wind cover the sound of my movement.
I come up behind the eastern boulder. Two men are huddled together, fumbling to reload their weapons with freezing fingers.
I step out of the storm.
