Page 70 of Easy, Tiger

He reaches into his pack, removing a waterproof folder thick with documents. He unfolds the largest map with quick, fluid movements, smoothing it against the tent floor and weighing down the corners with a boot and two spare batteries so the wind gusting through the seams can't steal it. Photographs and journal pages follow, spread across the map in an order that bears the marks of meticulous preparation, years of research laid bare between us.

"I've been tracking unusual wildlife patterns for over a decade. Migration routes that don't match any known species. It’s amazing what doors open when you have a well-placed benefactor in the scientific community pulling strings," he boasts, a smug edge to his voice. "Slap the name 'Dr. Tobias Weaver' on a fake university credential, and librarians hand over decades of restricted archives."

He taps one photograph revealing deep gouges in a tree trunk. "Then I only had to confirm my theories. Like when I let myself into your cabin and saw that beautiful tiger sketch on your table. Sorry about the coffee ring, by the way. But it proved you were the witness I was hunting. And then there's this."

The image makes my blood run cold. It's a telephoto shot of Nolan in the forest, mid-transformation, human features blurring into something else entirely. The quality is poor, taken from an extreme distance, but unmistakably real.

"Impressive Photoshop work." My voice stays unshakeable despite the heavy thud of my heartbeat.

His finger plots a route through the mountains, ending at a ridge that overlooks the main migration path. "Do you even know what a live specimen is worth to the right buyer? Beyond the immense fortune, it means absolute legitimacy. Proof that I’m a visionary uncovering hidden truths." The obsession in his voice runs deeper than greed, closer to something that's consumed every other part of his life. "Your boyfriend and his pack follow predictable patterns. Same routes and territorial boundaries their ancestors used for generations."

His intended perch stands out immediately—a sniper's nest with clear sight lines and multiple escape routes. The perfect ambush point for someone patient enough to wait for the enclave to walk into his crosshairs.

"Fascinating theory." Bending forward as if genuinely interested, I examine the tactical markings. "But hypothetically speaking, what makes you think they'd stick to old patterns once they know someone's hunting them?"

"Because creatures of habit always underestimate human adaptability. And because I have something they want back."

"You do realize kidnapping is a federal crime? Once I get out of here, I'll be having some very interesting conversations with law enforcement."

Nico's laugh is sharp, echoing off the tent walls. "And who exactly is going to believe you? The woman who fabricated her own scientific illustrations for professional gain?"

A cold realization washes over me, but I force my face to remain calm. "You researched me."

"It wasn't hard." He sorts through more documents, each movement deliberate and unhurried. "Halsey Gallagher, disgraced wildlife illustrator. Caught falsifying anatomical details in a major conservation publication. Career destroyed overnight when the evidence surfaced online. Dr. Pascal and I knew exactly how to flush you out. Who do you think tipped off that freelance journalist at the café? A little applied pressure to rattle your cage, hoping you'd seek comfort and isolation with your new protector. It worked beautifully."

He's reciting the story exactly as the internet told it, the version manufactured to destroy me, overlooking the actual truth. I only recently started believing again. The familiar shame tries to claw its way back into my chest, but I know better now. I push it down. "And what a sob story it is, right?"

"Exactly. So tell me, Halsey—do you really want to come out of this playing the fool once more? The crazy woman who claims she was kidnapped by a man hunting mythical creatures?"

Inspecting his face, I note the absolute conviction in his expression. He's thought this through from every angle, prepared for every contingency. It is the exact brand of methodical planning born from years of military training, forged by an obsession that has completely consumed his life.

"Or," he continues, rifle balanced across his knees, "you could simply cooperate with me. Answer my questions. Help me understand their patterns and weaknesses."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you, Nolan, and all his little tiger friends will pay the consequences." He taps a sleek satellite pager on his belt. "My buyers aren't patient people. I have a retrieval team with a helicopter on standby. The moment I secure a live specimen, I trigger the signal, they drop down, grab my archives, and extract us. No trace left behind." The casual way he delivers the threat makes it infinitely more chilling than shouting would have been.

Planting my elbows beside the maps spread between us, my mind races through possibilities. The migration routes are clearly marked, complete with elevation markers and seasonal timing notations. He expects them to move before the first heavy snowfall—which started falling an hour ago.

"These migration patterns—they're based on historical data, right? Decades of observation?" I ask, slumping forward as if resigned to helping him.

"Among other sources." His finger follows the main route through the valley. "Consistent behavioral patterns across multiple generations."

My finger taps on one of my own sketches mixed in with his documents—a detailed rendering of tiger tracks near a creek. "But you're missing something important. These tracks here? They're from a different season entirely. I mislabeled the date when I was organizing my field notes."

He frowns, analyzing the sketch more.

"The snow changes everything," I continue, warming to the deception. I need to feed him a convincing lie that puts him exactly where we want him, and the best lies are wrapped in the truth. My finger taps a section of the map displaying Devil's Gap—the traditional route I know Nolan's enclave just abandoned. "Your old data is right. They're crossing Devil's Gap. Nolan said it's a bottleneck, but the thermal vents there keep the path clear of deep snow. They'll cross at first light during this storm because the visibility covers their movement."

Interest sharpens his whole face, and I know I have his attention.

For the next hour, I spin elaborate lies about migration timing and territorial boundaries, all while his pencil scratches across the paper faster the more specific I get. I learned a long time ago that people believe details more readily than generalities, so I give him details: the exact number of paces between denning sites and how frost patterns supposedly change scent trails, plus a fabricated story about a young shifter who broke her leg on the eastern switchbacks two winters ago and how the whole group altered their route for a full season afterward. None of it is true. All of it sounds true, because I know exactly how a field researcher talks, and I know exactly what someone starving for legitimacy wants to hear. Nico absorbs every word with a hungry drive built from years of collecting fragments of truth, never once questioning why the woman he kidnapped is unexpectedly so forthcoming.

"The vanguard always travels first to clear the pass," I explain, tracing the contour lines around Devil's Gap. "They'll secure the ridge above the gap. Nolan mentioned his father's generation used a huge oak right near the edge for dominance displays."

His pencil scratches across the margins, adding my fabricated intelligence to years of painstaking research.

"And the alpha behaviors?" He taps his rifle barrel against his boot. "Dominance displays, territorial markings?"