Page 68 of Easy, Tiger

"Then we spring it on our terms instead of his. Assemble everyone. Full combat loadout. We move in one hour."

By the time the hour passes, the enclave has transformed from a peaceful community into a coordinated military unit. Normally, the elders leave preparations to the active rangers, but tonight is an all-hands-on-deck crisis where age and rank give way to absolute necessity. Dad assigns search sectors, his authority meticulous. Sadie and Karlene load medical supplies into waterproof packs while checking radio frequencies. Owen and Bastan distribute tactical gear, grim and efficient. Iago, Broddi, and Hamil gather at the map, memorizing the coordinates alongside Osric and Clover, who are prepping emergency triage stations.

"Team Alpha takes the northern ridge, Team Beta sweeps the eastern valleys, and Team Gamma covers the southern approach." My father marks positions on the topographical map with red pins. "Maintain radio silence unless you locate the target or encounter immediate danger."

Shouldering my pack, I check the emergency beacon one final time and slide my Glock into my shoulder holster. I leave the hunting rifle behind; if I'm tracking in close quarters through a blizzard, a long barrel is a liability, and I won't risk a stray bullet hitting Halsey. "I'm following Halsey's trail directly. She's left enough breadcrumbs to guide me northeast, and I move faster alone."

The darkening sky draws Sadie's attention upward as heavy clouds gather low against the mountains. "Storm's rolling in from the west. Temperature's dropping fast, and we'll have snow before midnight."

"All the more reason to find them quickly." Adjusting my headlamp, I activate the GPS tracker. "Snow will cover her trail markers eventually, but it'll slow him down worse than it slows us. He's relying on sight and instruments. We're not."

The teams disperse into the forest with practiced silence, each group taking different routes to avoid creating obvious search patterns. Following Halsey's markers northeast, I read her messages in bent twigs and displaced stones. Every clue proves she's thinking strategically rather than simply trying to survive.

A torn piece of her flannel tied around a sapling at shoulder height. Three pebbles arranged in Owen's danger signal beside a game trail. A broken branch directing toward rougher terrain that would slow down anyone towing heavy equipment.

The wind picks up as the first snowflakes stream through the canopy, turning the forest into a maze of morphing shadows and muffled sounds. Moving with the fluid silence that comes from decades of hunting these mountains, I follow scent trails that grow fainter with each gust of cold air.

My radio buzzes with Owen's voice, low and urgent.

"Nolan, checking in. You got anything?"

Pausing beside a granite outcropping, I press the radio closer to my ear. "Her physical trail markers are consistent. Torn flannel, snapped saplings, arranged stones. She's leaving them everywhere she can without him noticing. Heading northeast."

"Copy that. Stay sharp. If he's a professional, he might be using the storm to cover his tracks, but he can't cover what she's intentionally leaving behind."

A fierce pride swells in my chest, mixing relief with renewed determination. "That's my girl."

The storm intensifies as I tread deeper into the mountains, following Halsey's increasingly desperate trail markers. Snow falls in thick curtains now, muffling sound and erasing footprints within minutes of their creation. But her scent lingers beneath the pine and cold air—fear mixed with defiance, growing stronger as I climb toward the ridge.

I smell the camp before I see it. Canvas, gun oil, and the acrid bite of a portable heater cutting through the mountain air. Moving with practiced silence, I edge between the trees until the hunter's makeshift shelter comes into view—a military-grade tent tucked beneath an overhang of granite, nearly invisible against the rock face. The natural rock formation funnels the heat from his stove directly into the canopy, scattering his thermal signature, and the thick pine coverage completely blocks any aerial views. Seeing it now, I understand exactly why our patrols never found this place—it's a geographical blind spot, strategically chosen by a man who knows exactly how to vanish.

The soft drone of voices travels through the storm. Creeping closer, I strain to hear over the wind.

"—told you, the compass is malfunctioning. We're three miles off course." Halsey's voice maintains the exhausted patience of a prisoner who's been deliberately misleading her captor for hours.

"Shut up and pack the equipment." The hunter's response comes sharp with frustration. "We're moving to the secondary site before this storm gets worse."

Through a gap in the tent flap, I catch sight of them. Halsey sits on a folding camp chair, hands zip-tied in front of her, but her posture radiates stubborn resistance rather than defeat. The hunter—a wiry man in military fatigues—shoves gear into waterproof bags with jerky, agitated movements.

Maps and surveillance photos lie scattered across a portable table. Even from this distance, I recognize aerial shots of our territory, migration routes marked in red ink. Years of patient stalking reduced to strategic planning.

"You know, for someone who claims to be a professional tracker, you're remarkably bad at reading terrain." Halsey's tone drips with helpful concern. "That ridge you're heading for? It's a dead end. Sheer drop on three sides."

"I said shut up."

"Only trying to save you the embarrassment of walking into a box canyon in a blizzard. But hey, what do I know? I'm merely a wildlife illustrator."

The hunter spins toward her, rifle rising. "You think this is a game?"

"I think you're out of your depth." Facing him with absolute steadiness, she refuses to back down. "And I think you know it."

Using their argument as cover, I circle to the tent's blind side. The hunter has chosen his ground well—good sight lines, defensible approach routes, emergency escape paths. But he's also made one critical error.

He's underestimated what he's dealing with.

Moving fast, I burst through the tent's rear panel in a controlled explosion of fabric and fury. The hunter whirls, bringing his rifle around, but I'm already inside his guard. My hand instinctively brushes my holster, but with Halsey sitting mere inches away in the cramped space, drawing my Glock risks catching her in the crossfire. Instead, my shoulder catches him center mass, driving him backward into the camp table.

Maps scatter, and equipment crashes to the ground. He rolls with the impact, shockingly agile for a human facing down a shifter's strength. I can see that the years of elite military training and backcountry survival have honed his reflexes to a razor's edge; he moves like a cornered viper, coming up with a combat knife in his hand.