Chapter 1
My eyes snapped open to a blood-curdling scream. My consciousness zoomed to full awake even as the cry of terror faded. “Not again,” I groaned, realizing I was already on my feet, naked, pistol in hand. I took a breath and listened as I exhaled slowly and quietly. Nothing stirred.
I waited, controlling my breathing, and strained my ears. I thought I heard voices, but I couldn’t be sure, then silence. No, wait, not voices but whispers, which carry farther on a still night than low voices. Since the crash, screams at night have occurred far too often, but if what I heard was indeed someone whispering, then they were not alone and probably intent on mischief.
I slipped on my undershorts, sweatpants, and pulled on a t-shirt—all black—then strapped on my holster, slid my FN 45 Tactical in it. I took up my shotgun, a Remington 870 Tactical equipped with a light that could burn ants on a sidewalk, which I left turned off—the light survived the EMP because I had built a homemade Faraday cage and kept several electrical items within it for just such an event. Thinking about my boots, I opted for slippers since it was faster, and the scream had sounded close.
The click of my front door seemed loud as I pulled it open and peered into the night. I sniffed and smelled nothing other than the thick forest surrounding my cabin. I waited, partially behind the door jam, and then I heard a twig snap followed by a whispered curse. These amateurs weren’t coming up my driveway.
Leaving my door open, I backed into the darkness of my house and crouched behind my couch, shotgun aimed at the door.
I held there, counting breaths. One Mississippi. Two. My heart hammered, but my hands were steady. Training and habit—some things never leave you, even when you wish they would.
The whispers drifted closer.
“…this way…”
“…I heard it…”
“…shut up…”
Not locals. Too careless. Too loud. No, I take that back—we have lots of loud and careless locals. Then a second sound—faint, ragged, desperate. Someone sobbing. I shifted slightly, angling for a better view of the doorway. The gray-blue half-light of an Alaskan June night filtered in, just enough to silhouette movement. A shape darted past the end of my driveway. Another followed, slower, cautious—predators. And prey.
The sobbing came again, closer now. A woman. Young, from the sound of it. Panicked, but trying to stay quiet.
“Spread out,” a man whispered harshly outside. “She’s bleeding. She won’t get far.”
I felt something cold settle in my chest. Not again, I moaned under my breath.
For a second, the cabin wasn’t my cabin. It was a mud wall, a blown-out doorway, dust in the air, someone screaming in a language I barely understood. My grip tightened on the shotgun until my knuckles ached. Only it wasn’t my shotgun. I was holding an M4.
I forced myself back. Here. Now. Alaska. Not there… Not now.
The sob turned into a stifled cry, followed by the sound of someone stumbling.
That was enough. I moved. Sliding along the wall, I slipped out the door and hugged the exterior, keeping low. The damp earth was cold under my slippers, grounding me. I edged around the corner, shotgun leading.
Three figures on the gravel road, beyond the trees in my yard. Two men. One woman. She was on her knees, trying to crawl, one hand clamped over her side. Dark stains spread through her jacket. The men closed in on her, one with a knife, the other holding what looked like a tire iron. He swatted at the mosquitos buzzing around his ear.
“Please…” she rasped. “I don’t have anything left—”
“Not what we’re after,” the knife guy said, smiling in a way that made my stomach turn.
I stepped out of the shadows. “That’s far enough.”
They froze. Both turned toward me, eyes wide in the dim light. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then tire iron guy sneered. “Your land?”
“Last I checked.”
Knife guy took a step forward. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does now.”
The silence stretched for a beat. The woman looked between us, her expression a mix of fear and something else—calculation. She wasn’t just panicked. She was watching—smart.
Knife guy sighed. “Look, we’re just—”
I fired. The shotgun roared, the blast shattering the quiet. I’d aimed low and peppered his leg. He dropped hard, screaming, clutching his calf and knee.
The second man lunged sideways, trying to get out of my line of fire. I pumped the shotgun, the sound loud and final.
“Drop it,” I said.
He hesitated. I shifted the barrel to point at his belly. He quickly dropped the tire iron.
“Kick it over here.”
He did.
“Now get on your knees.”
He looked at his partner, still writhing in the dirt. Then back at me. “Man, you don’t want to…”
I fired again, this time close enough that dirt kicked up beside him, but his foot caught a single pellet of the double-ought buck. He dropped to his butt fast, grasping his injury.
“Hands on your head.”
He complied.
The woman had stopped moving, staring at me like she wasn’t sure if I was better or worse than the men.
I kept the shotgun trained on them. “You two picked the wrong place.”
“They attacked me,” she said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I didn’t…”
“I know,” I cut her off.
I took a step closer, keeping distance between all of us. “Where’s the rest of your group?” I asked the two wounded idjits.
“No group,” he said quickly. “Just us.”
“Wrong answer.”
“It’s the truth,” they both blurted in unison.
I studied the assholes. Sweat beaded their foreheads despite the cool air. Maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe not. Didn’t matter. I thought about ending them and ridding the world of two lowlifes, but my soil was rocky, and shoveling would be arduous. “Damn,” I sighed. If only my truck were running, I could haul their bodies to the river. “Start walking,” I said. “Back the way you came.”
“You shot us?” knife guy exclaimed. We need medical help. We can’t walk like this.
“You’ll live. Now walk, crawl, or hobble away. I don’t care which, just get the fuck off my land.”
“Man…”
I chambered another round. That got their attention.
They scrambled to their feet with excessive moaning and complaining, then hobbled away down the road.
“Keep going,” I said. “If I see either of you again, I’ll kill you outright.”
They didn’t argue. Within a few minutes, they vanished around the corner of the next crossroad, supporting each other like a couple of wounded drunks.
I lowered the shotgun slightly but didn’t relax. The woman cleared her throat, and I turned toward her. She sagged where she knelt, breath coming in shallow bursts.
“Can you stand?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Figures.”
I approached carefully, watching her hands. People did stupid things when they were scared. Actually, people did stupid things, even the smart ones. It’s human nature. Up close, I could see her clearly. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair tangled and damp with sweat. Pale, but not weak—there was strength in the way she held herself, even wounded. She was attractive and looked fit.
Her eyes locked onto mine. Sharp. Assessing. “Are you going to help me,” she asked, “or just stare?”
I felt the corners of my mouth tugging upwards, but I suppressed the smile. “Depends,” I said. “You planning to stab me the second I get close?”
“If I had the strength,” she said dryly, “I might consider it.”
“Fair enough.” I slung the shotgun and crouched beside her. “Let me see.”
She hesitated, then slowly moved her hand from her side.
The wound was ugly. Deep cut, probably from that knife. Blood soaked through her shirt.
“You’re lucky,” I said. “It’s a flesh wound.”
“Oh, please, spare me the movie cliches,” she said. “You sound very sure.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Her face assumed a curious look, but she didn’t respond.
I slipped an arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, and lifted her carefully. She sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t cry out. “Cabin’s not far,” I said. “Try not to die before we get there.”
“No promises.”
The door wasn’t latched, so I booted it open, then closed it once inside to prevent any more mosquitoes from entering than was necessary. I got her onto the couch, grabbed my med kit, and went to work. “Name?” I asked, cleaning the wound.
“Rachel.”
“Ben.”
She watched me as I numbed the wound with lidocaine and stitched her up, her gaze steady despite the pain.
“You military?” she asked.
“Was.”
“I thought so.”
“Why’s that?”
“You move like you’re still expecting someone to shoot you.”
I didn’t answer, and she didn’t press. Good.
When I finished, I wrapped the wound and leaned back. “You’ll live.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She gave a faint smile, then winced. Silence settled between us. Outside, the dim light shifted as the early morning crept closer. Birds started up somewhere in the trees, like the world hadn’t ended a few months ago.
“What were they after?” I asked finally.
Rachel hesitated. “Something I have,” she said.
“Which is?”
She studied me, as if weighing how much she should tell me. “Information,” she said at last.
I snorted. “That’s always what people say when they don’t want to explain.”
“It’s true.”
“Uh-huh.”
She shifted slightly, testing the bandage. “There’s a place,” she said. “A facility. Not far from here.”
“Everything’s ‘not far’ when you’re desperate.” I arched my back to stretch out a kink. “This is a small community. We have workaholics, alcoholics, and lowlife drug addicts, but the one thing they all have in common is that none of ‘em can keep a secret. If there were any kind of facility near here, I would know about it. Hell, everyone would know about it.”
“Listen,” she said, sharper now. “Before the EMP, I worked…adjacent to a project. Contingency planning. Worst-case scenarios.”
“Guess you got your worst case.”
“Worse than you think. This place is underground and only accessed by helicopter.”
I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms. “Go on.”
“There’s a cache,” she said. “Supplies, weapons, and communications equipment, all kinds of gear that survived the pulse.”
That got my attention. “You’re saying there’s working tech out there?”
“Yes.”
I went to the stove and put some water on. I need some coffee. “And you just happened to wander into my backyard with that kind of secret?”
“I didn’t ‘wander,’” she snapped. “I was heading there.”
“And those guys?”
“They’ve been tracking me for two days.”
“Ok. Why are you trying to get to this place?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Because I like electric lights, refrigerated food, and driving my car. I thought at first you had some brains.”
“Hey, easy. I get it. I don’t think well when I’m woken abruptly and have to rescue damsels in distress in the wee hours.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t just call me a damsel…”
I raised my hands. “Sorry, I take it back. Coffee?”
Her face didn’t quite soften, but she assumed a mollified countenance. “Please. I don’t suppose you’d have cream and sugar?”
“No cream, but I have honey.”
“Works for me.”
The pot whistled, and I set two pour-overs with coffee over two cups. “What else about this facility?”
She sighed and continued quietly. “There are people at that facility. Or there were supposed to be. If it’s still operational…” She trailed off.
Hope, I thought. It’s a dangerous thing. I studied her. She wasn’t lying, or if she was, she was very good at it.
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“There’s always a catch,” she said. “The place isn’t easy to access. And I can’t get there alone. Not like this.”
She looked at her bandaged side.
“So you need a guide,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And you picked me because…?”
“You live out here alone,” she said. “You’re armed, prepared, and you didn’t hesitate to take on two attackers. That narrows the field.”
“Two idjits, you mean. If they had guns, it might have gone differently.”
“Will you help me?”
Fuck. I let out a slow breath. This was a bad idea. Everything about it screamed bad idea. Why was I falling for this insane plan? Sure, I’d like to score some supplies. Can’t drive anywhere, and the store’s been empty for weeks, but I had a few months of food and I could always go out and drop a moose or caribou. Thing is, that’s going to get harder with everyone else thinking the same thing. This facility, I wonder how many people know about it, and whoever is holding it might not want to share. I could see where others could show up willing to kill for the goods inside. I looked at Rachel and thought, was I going with her because she’s pretty? I’m a damn fool. I never could resist a girl in need of help. One of these days my round heels were going to bite me in the ass.
“You realize,” I said, “if you’re lying, this ends badly for you.”
“I know.”
“And if you’re telling the truth, it might end badly for both of us.”
“I know that too.”
We held each other’s gaze. Her eyes were like dark honey. Finally, I shook my head. “I must be out of my mind.”
“That’s a yes?”
“That’s a ‘we’ll see.’ You rest. We’ll prepare after that.”
She exhaled, tension leaving her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” I stood and grabbed a blanket, tossing it over her. “Because if this turns out to be a wild goose chase, I’m leaving you wherever we end up,” I lied.
“Understood.”
I moved to the doorway, looking out at the pale morning light creeping through the trees. The world had gone quiet after the EMP. Too quiet. Like it was holding its breath.
Behind me, Rachel shifted on the couch. “You really live out here alone?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
“And before?”
“Hunting guide.”
“Explains the aim.”
“Among other things.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Ben,” she said softly.
“Yeah?”
“Those men…you didn’t kill them.”
“Didn’t need to.”
“That’s rare now.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t think it prudent to tell her I let them live because I didn’t want to deal with disposing of their bodies. I stared out at the trees, listening to the wind. “Get some sleep,” I said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Behind me, her breathing slowed as exhaustion finally took over. And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t just waiting for the next scream in the dark. I was waiting for something else. Something uncertain. Something dangerous. Something that might actually matter.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 2
I woke to the quiet. Not the good kind. Not the peaceful, birds-chirping, coffee-on-the-stove quiet. This was the kind that pressed in on you, thick and watchful, like the world was still holding its breath after the EMP and hadn’t decided whether to exhale yet.
For a second, I didn’t move, just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. Old habits. The kind that sticks even after you’ve left the uniform behind. My brain ran through the checklist automatically—no footsteps, no voices, no engines, no doors. Just the faint creak of the cabin settling and the distant whisper of wind through spruce and Rachel’s slow breathing.
Safe. For now. At least I hoped so. After the collapse, when fuel ran out and the grocery store shelves emptied, a few people tried to take what I had. They either learned from their mistake or died. I didn’t have a way to bury the dead or haul their bodies to the river, so I dragged their remains out into the thick spruce forest surrounding my property and left them for the animals. They were far enough away that their rotting stench didn’t reach my cabin, but the ravens were less than discreet, enjoying their free repast. Either way, I think word got around that there were easier targets in the community—no one had bothered me for at least a month. Until last night.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness. I hadn’t slept long, but it was enough. It had to be. We had a lot to do before nightfall, or rather dim-fall, since June in the Alaska interior didn’t have a true night. It only got dim in the wee hours after midnight. I stepped into the main room and paused.
No power. No grid. No world as we knew it, just day-to-day survival.
I dressed quickly, moving with purpose now. If we were going after this “facility,” I wasn’t doing it half-prepared. That kind of mistake gets you dead out here.
Rachel was still on the couch, curled slightly on her side, one arm draped protectively over her bandaged side. The blanket I’d thrown over her had slipped halfway off. Her breathing was slow and even. Out cold. Good. She needed it.
I watched her for a moment longer than necessary. Damn, she was a hottie. I pondered what I’d have done if a man had shown up with her story. Oh, I probably would have helped him, chased off the bad actors, doctored him up, and then sent him packing smartly with luck and best wishes. I was at least half sure there wouldn’t be a fine-looking woman sleeping on my couch right now if I weren’t such a bloody pushover. I then forced myself to look away. Attachments got people killed. I knew that better than most.
I turned and looked at myself in a wall mirror, sweeping back my short, cropped hair. “Gordon,” I muttered under my breath, “you’re one sorry and predictable idjit.”
Time to move. I started with the gear. Choices matter. The FN 45 Tactical sat on my bedside table where I’d left it. Reliable, familiar. I moved to the coffee table across from Rachel and broke it down methodically, hands moving without thought. The standard barrel came out. I replaced it with the one rechambered in .460 Rowland. The heavier spring went in next—necessary to handle the added pressure—then the compensator. When I reassembled it, the weight felt right. Solid, powerful. One mean son-of-a-bitch. It had .44 Magnum power in a semi-auto platform with 15-round mags. Good medicine for anything in Alaska that wanted to get too close—crackheads, thieves, bears. This pistol did not discriminate. I checked the Holosun green dot sight, the shake-awake tech worked flawlessly. I smiled, glad that I had stashed one in my homemade Faraday cage. I loaded a magazine, chambered a round, then set it aside.
Next decision. Weight versus firepower. I exhaled slowly and fetched the rifle I wanted from my gun safe. My Springfield M1A SOCOM 16 came out with a quiet scrape. Shorter than a full-length rifle, but still chambered in 7.62×51—commonly known as the .308. Plenty of reach. Plenty of stopping power. Enough to handle anything walking on two legs… or four. This baby could take care of business at a distance. It was loud as hell. I briefly considered adding a suppressor and ruled it out, opting for weight in ammo rather than quieting the bark.
“Good compromise,” I said under my breath.
I moved to my go-bag and unzipped it. Magazines went in next—methodical, deliberate. Several for the pistol. Several for the rifle. Not too many. Too many meant weight. Weight meant slower movement. Slower meant dead. If I were just going hunting, my load-out was way too heavy even without armor, but since the crash, combat for resources seemed to be fairly frequent. I had no intention of stumbling into battle without a supply of ammunition. I added a cleaning kit, spare parts, and a compact med pack.
Then I stopped. Listened. Habits again. Was it anxiety or self-preservation? Sometimes I think PTSD is a tool that kept me above ground and breathing. It was still a bitch, though. The nightmares and flashbacks, even controlled, got old.
Rachel shifted slightly on the couch but didn’t wake.
Next came breakfast. If we were heading into unknown territory—possibly hostile, possibly crawling with desperate people or worse—we weren’t doing it on empty stomachs. I cracked eggs into a bowl—eggs that cost me a few .22 rounds—whisked them together with dried onions, and poured them into a pan, the sound loud in the quiet cabin. A little oil. A little salt. The smell hit fast—rich, warm, almost normal.
Too normal. The kind of normal that didn’t exist anymore.
Behind me, I heard movement.
“Smells… good,” Rachel murmured, her voice rough with sleep.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was pushing herself up slowly, wincing as she shifted. “Easy,” I said. “You don’t want to tear those stitches.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she muttered, swinging her legs off the couch. She let out a soft groan as she pushed herself upright. She blinked against the light, hair a mess, one hand pressed lightly to her side where I’d stitched her up. Pain was there—I could see it—but she hid it well.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Please,” she said immediately.
“Black. Or honey again?”
“Honey.”
I poured it and handed her the cup. She took it like it was gold.
For a minute, we just existed in the quiet—the hiss of the propane flame against the pan, the faint clink of cup against wood.
I slid the scrambled eggs onto two plates.
Once she’d had a few bites and some coffee in her system, I nodded toward the stack of supplies near the wall. “Dehydrated meals,” I said. “Split them between two packs. Even weight.”
She followed my gaze. “You planning for a long trip?”
“I’m planning not to starve. We may still have to supplement with squirrels and rabbits.”
Her face took on an appalled look for a half second before she smirked faintly and said, “Fair enough.”
She got to work without further comment, moving carefully but efficiently. Another point in her favor.
“Alright,” I said after a while, leaning back in my chair. “Let’s talk about this facility.”
She didn’t answer right away.
That told me more than if she’d started talking immediately. I watched her as she packed—efficient, organized. Not the way someone moves when they’re making things up on the fly. “Rachel?”
She sighed, not looking at me. “It’s real.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.” She zipped one bag, then started on the second. Buying time.
I set my plate down. “If I’m risking my life for this, I need more than ‘trust me.’ After all, we just met.”
She hesitated, then finally said, “It’s near Ketchumstuk Mountain.”
That got my attention. “That’s a big area,” I said. “On the north end of Mosquito Flats. You’re going to have to narrow it down a wee bit.”
“I will,” she said quickly.
“When?”
“When we’re closer.”
I let out a short breath through my nose. “That’s not how this works.”
“It’s going to have to for now,” she shot back, meeting my eyes. “The less you know, the safer you are—until we need you to know it.”
I studied her for a long moment. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’ll tell you more when I’m more comfortable doing so. Like you said, we just met.”
Touché. I had that coming. I understood, but I didn’t like it. “Fine,” I said finally. “But if I walk us into something blind and it goes sideways—”
“It won’t,” she said.
“That’s not reassuring.”
She didn’t respond. We finished breakfast in a quieter tension than before. Once we were done, I wiped my hands and looked around the cabin. Time to lock it down.
“Grab your daypack,” I said. “Leave the stuff we’re taking on this expedition. We’re securing the place. I need to see a guy. We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”
Her brow furrowed. “Securing?”
“Booby traps.”
She blinked. “You’re serious.”
“Very.” I slung the rifle over a chair.
Rachel noticed immediately. “You’re not taking it?”
“Not for this.”
Instead, I strapped on the FN at my hip, the weight of the .460 Rowland reassuring in its own way.
The next 15 minutes were methodical. I had everything set up, so it was just a matter of rearming. Trip lines. Noise traps. Redneck claymores made from rat traps and shotgun shells. A couple of surprises for anyone dumb enough to force their way in. Nothing overly complicated—but enough to make someone regret it.
Rachel watched more than she helped, her expression somewhere between impressed and uneasy.
“You’ve done this before,” she said at one point.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Different country. Same idea.”
When I finished, I stepped back and gave the place one last look. “Let’s go,” I said.
We stepped outside.
The walk started quiet, but with a purpose. The air was cool, damp, carrying the scent of spruce and earth. The world looked untouched—like nothing had happened.
Her eyes sharpened. “This pilot, is he a friend?”
“Yeah. One of a few.”
“You think he’ll help?”
“Depends on his mood, and what I have to trade. Avgas ain’t cheap, and it’s hard to get now that the world’s gone to shit. If he can, Wrongway Jeanette will help.”
Her brows went up. “Wrongway? A pilot named Wrongway? That’s not exactly comforting.”
“His real name is John. He forgot his GPS once and got lost. I started calling him Wrongway, and the name stuck. I smirked. “Welcome to the new world.”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t his GPS fry with the EMP?”
“Yep.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ok. I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.” She paused, “How’s his plane working anyway?”
“Most older planes don’t have much for electronics. They’re basically simple. His radios and navigation are toast, but the plane flies fine as long as it has gas.”
She looked troubled and went silent. Then I noticed the woods were silent too. No squirrels, no birds. Nothing. It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
We were maybe halfway to the airport, still on a back road, when it happened.
“Hold up,” I muttered, and Rachel froze instantly. Good instincts.
I’d just caught the movement—four figures stepping out from the trees ahead, spreading out across the road. Not random. Not desperate. Deliberate.
“Morning,” one of them called, grinning like he’d just found a winning lottery ticket. I noticed his hand shaking. Maybe he was nervous, or maybe he was jonesing for a fix. They all had sores on their faces, and two of them displayed gap-toothed grins. They were probably Meth heads.
I didn’t return the smile.
They were armed. I clocked it fast—AR-15, AK-47, a .38 revolver, and a Glock. Not amateurs. Or at least, not unarmed amateurs.
“Nice gear,” another said, eyeing our daypacks. “We’ll take them and that fancy pistol on your belt.”
“Yeah,” the first added. “Nice and easy.”
I shifted slightly, putting myself between them and Rachel.
“Not happening,” I said.
The grin widened. “Wrong answer. You’re outnumbered and outgunned.”
Everything went hella fast after that.
The guy with the Glock stepped forward.
Rachel moved first. I didn’t even see it coming. One second, she was behind me—the next, she was inside his guard, twisting his wrist, the gun discharging harmlessly into the dirt as she drove him down hard with a forearm to his shoulder. I heard a pop, guessing it had dislocated. The revolver guy barely had time to react before she pivoted, striking him in the throat with her left foot and sending him and the weapon flying.
Well, I’ll be damned. I loved a girl who could fight. I wondered if she could shoot too. Of course, I thought this in a nanosecond and dispelled just as fast, cursing myself for the distraction.
I didn’t waste the opening.
The riflemen brought their weapons up—but too slow.
A shot cracked past me as I dropped low, drawing as I moved. The bullet came close enough that I felt the air move.
I fired two shots. Controlled. Precise.
The AR-15 guy flew back, a hole in his chest—I think his feet left the ground. I hit AK dude in the belly before AR guy landed. Both sprawled out flat on their backs, neither moved.
Silence hit like a hammer, then the two Rachel had disabled began moaning. Rachel gathered their weapons while I swept the area, scanning for movement. Nothing. Just the wind.
“Well,” I said after a moment, breathing steady. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Rachel glanced at me, brushing hair out of her face. “You didn’t ask.”
I snorted. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”
“Good idea.”
I stepped forward, picking up and slinging the rifles, then noticed her wound oozing blood. “Let me check that.”
“It’s just a flesh wound. Remember?”
“Ha, ha.” I pulled her unbuttoned top back, then pulled back the bandage. The stitches had not torn free, but the wound had reopened enough to leak a little. I sighed in relief and replaced the dressing. “You’ll be fine. Just try to take it easy when kicking ass.”
She grinned. “What are we going to do with them?”
“I’ll drag these two into the woods while you chase off your guys.”
“My guys?”
“Figure of speech.”
By the time I returned from stashing the second body, Rachel’s victims were forty yards down the road.
Rachel had apparently made them empty their pockets. She was dumping a miniature quarter-sized zip-lock of white powder into the dirt of the roads. Then she held up a baggie of a dozen .38 rounds and another with 9 mm. “Look what I scored.”
“Not to mention the two handguns. Good job, now let’s move,” I said. “Before their friends show up.”
She nodded.
And just like that, we were back to walking down the road—only now, I was seeing her a little differently.
Not a damsel. Not even close. And whatever waited for us at that facility… It wasn’t going to be simple, but at least now I felt like I had a battle buddy instead of a client.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 3
To reach the airport, I skirted us off the main highway but stayed close enough to see the community’s shut-down businesses. Worthless automobiles, drained of their gas and diesel, littered a few parking lots. The highway was surprisingly empty.
The grocery store, long emptied out, had its few windows broken out, half of them boarded up. A group of people had banded together and moved in.
There was no heat in the place, but it served them for now—safety in numbers. Winter would be a bitch if they tried to stay there. These were folks who hadn’t much food stashed before the fall. They foraged, hunted, and traded for food and medical supplies. They were decent people. They didn’t steal. Well, to the best of my knowledge, they didn’t steal, not exactly. They broke into abandoned houses and other places no longer occupied by the living for resources to get by. They cared for their children, the sick, and the elderly.
I glimpsed an armed lookout on the roof. That was good. I had heard that a band of marauders had stormed the place but had been repelled. There were losses on both sides.
Rachel and I worked our way past the forest-enshrouded courthouse, still looking clean and strong despite the broken glass doors and windows. It once stood as a symbol of an ordered society, of civilization, now a relic of what we had and lost.
“Where are you from?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“D.C.”
“No Shit?”
She grinned. “California originally, but I’ve been living in Alexandria, Virginia, and working in D.C. the past four years.”
“So what was the job title that gave you intel on this facility?”
“Uh…” she paused. “I was a consultant.”
It felt like a lie, but I let it pass for now. “Those two men, the ones who attacked you last night. Do you think they’ll try again?”
“I doubt it. They were the original tail that followed me on the plane before the EMP. They weren’t properly armed or prepared and didn’t know jack about Alaska. Now they’re wounded and probably asking their boss for forgiveness.”
“Hold on. You knew the EMP was coming? You arrived in Alaska before it hit?”
“Just before. I was in Anchorage for two days before all hell broke loose. The first strike took out the Eastern United States, the second high altitude detonation shut down the West, and the third was aimed at Alaska and Western Canada.”
I began to digest this, but put it aside for another question. “So, I’m guessing some organization is behind finding this facility and preventing you from accessing it. Do they have a name? How big is this organization? How many people can they field? How many more can they send after you?” I should have asked these questions last night.
“They don’t have a name per se, at least none that I know of. They’re a mixed group of Feds, mostly FBI, but there are members from the NSA, DHS, ATF, DEA, and the rest of the alphabet soup. They want the resources for themselves and screw everyone else.”
What the hell did I get myself into? I definitely should have inquired deeper into this subject last night, but I agreed to help. I’m an idjit of the highest order.
Rachel stopped and looked at me. “I suspect they’ll put together a team of professional operators already based in Alaska to come after me. Probably only five or six, but I doubt more than a dozen.”
And she says this with a straight face. This revelation shocked me into a state of apoplexy. I felt my face tighten as I glared daggers at the woman who dragged me into a seriously deadly situation. That wasn’t entirely true. I had gone along with this fool’s errand only half-believing it, and all for a pretty face. I am such an idiot.
I stood there a moment, stewing in mental self-flagellation, weighing whether to go on or go home.
She smiled sheepishly. “I suppose I should have told you all this earlier. I’m sorry.”
She said it so sweetly. I stared into those honey-brown eyes as I was slowly disarmed by her cute-ass smile. I was pissed at her, but more at myself. I heard a low growl rumble from my throat as I turned and stomped off towards the airport.
The airport looked dead long before we reached it.
No engine noise. No movement. Just a stretch of cracked runway cutting through the trees like a scar, bleached gray under the flat Alaska light. A couple of small planes sat tied down off to one side, their wings rocking faintly in the breeze, ropes creaking against metal rings.
“Ghost town,” Rachel murmured.
“Fuel’s gone,” I said with a terse voice, still struggling to control my anger. “Planes don’t fly without it.”
We moved cautiously out onto the open ground. I didn’t like the exposure—too much sky, not enough cover—but the place felt abandoned in that hollow, picked-clean way the world had adopted since the EMP.
The planes told the story. A Cessna with its door hanging open. Another with a cracked windshield. I popped one fuel cap and dipped a finger in. Dry. “Figures,” I muttered.
Rachel scanned the tree line. “So, your friend… Wrongway?”
“Yeah. Lives at the far end of the runway. Keeps to himself. Likes his dogs more than people.”
“That’s reassuring. I love dogs.”
“Depends on the dogs.”
We walked along the runway and pushed toward the far end, where a line of scrub and trees marked the boundary. Adjacent to the end sat Wrongway’s place.
His property was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence. Razor wire coiled along the top like something out of a prison yard. The gate was shut tight, reinforced with extra bars welded across it.
Inside, a yard littered with weeds that had seen better days was guarded by two Rottweilers that hadn’t. They spotted us instantly. The reaction was immediate and violent. I had expected this greeting and took a small measure of pleasure when Rachel nearly jumped out of her skin.
Both dogs launched at the fence like missiles, snarling, barking, slamming into the chain-link hard enough to rattle the whole structure. Teeth bared. Foam at the mouth. Pure aggression.
“Whoa,” Rachel said, leaping back.
“Don’t run,” I said evenly, trying with difficulty not to laugh. “They’ll take that as a personal invitation to rip through that fence and give chase.”
The dogs went absolutely apeshit—claws scraping metal, jaws snapping through the links, bodies hitting the fence over and over like they were trying to break through by sheer will.
“Wrongway!” I shouted, raising my voice over the chaos. “It’s Ben! Call off your hellhounds!”
No response.
The dogs doubled down, one of them ripping at the fence so hard I thought it might actually tear loose.
“Wrongway!” I barked again.
A door slammed somewhere behind the house.
A moment later, he appeared. John ‘Wrongway’ Jeanette looked exactly like I remembered—lean, weathered, wearing a grease-stained jacket, a dirty ballcap, and a grin that said he’d seen just about everything and wasn’t impressed by any of it.
“Cerberus! Anubis! Down!” he snapped.
The effect was instant. Both dogs froze mid-rage, then backed off the fence and dropped to the ground, still staring at us but silent now, muscles twitching. One of the hounds licked his chops with a wet smack.
Rachel blinked. “That…that’s… impressive.”
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re well-trained. Just not friendly.”
Wrongway walked up to the fence, smiling like we’d just shown up for a barbecue instead of a post-collapse negotiation.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Ben, you ugly bastard. Thought you’d be dead by now.”
“Disappointed?” I asked.
“Little bit,” he said with a chuckle. His eyes shifted to Rachel. “And who’s this?”
“Rachel,” I said. “She’s with me.”
Rachel gave a small nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Wrongway studied her for half a second, then shrugged. “Anyone Ben vouches for is good by me.” He unlocked the gate and waved us in. “Come on.”
We stepped inside, and I kept a casual eye on the dogs as we passed. They tracked us but didn’t move.
The yard told its own story.
A Piper Super Cub sat off to one side—blue and white once, now faded and patchy. Duct tape patched sections of torn fabric, some of it peeling loose and flapping in the breeze. One strip on the wing strut had half come off, hanging like it had given up trying.
“Still flies?” I asked.
“Better than you’d think,” Wrongway said. “Not pretty, but she’ll git-r-done.”
Four empty gas cans lay near the plane, tipped over in the dirt. That wasn’t a good sign. Inside, his place smelled like oil, metal, and stale beer. He grabbed three bottles from a crate and handed them out.
“Warm,” he said. “Luxury’s gone.”
“I’ll pass,” I said.
Rachel shook her head. “Same.”
Wrongway raised an eyebrow, then grinned. “Alright, high standards. I respect that.” He reached under the counter and came back with a mason jar. “Moonshine?”
I took it. “Now you’re talking.”
Rachel hesitated, then accepted it too. “I’ve never tried moonshine.”
I took a shot. It was smooth as silk for about a second, then the afterburners kicked in, and the flame followed. It was all I could do not to cough.
After watching my face flush, Rachel took a more judicious sip. “Jesus,” she coughed.
“Good, ain’t it?” Wrongway said proudly.
“Paint thinner good?” she asked. “Or is that distilled jet fuel?”
“It’s 100 low lead with a splash of acetone,” Wrongway replied, looking a little hurt.
At Rachel’s alarmed expression, I took the liquor from her and said, “He’s joking.” I took another swig and turned to Wrongway. “Don’t let the city girl burst your bubble. That’s some good shit, man.” I set the jar down. “We need a pilot.”
Wrongway leaned back against the counter. “That so?”
“Ketchumstuck,” I said.
His grin faded just a touch. “That’s a haul for one two-seater airplane.”
“I know.”
“Where exactly?”
I turned to Rachel. “Well?”
She hesitated. The seconds ticked for nearly a minute before she finally answered. “It’s close to where the Mosquito Fork meets Ketchumstuk Creek.”
Wrongway scratched his head. “That’d be Mitchells Ranch.”
Rachel’s eyes went wide. “Please don’t repeat that to anyone.”
“That place was built at the turn of the 20th Century. Lt. Billy Mitchell built and used it when the army laid the telegraph line from Eagle to Tanana Crossing, now called Tanacross, a native village. Mitchell’s Ranch hasn’t been used for over a hundred years. There’s an old strip there, but it’s grown over and too dangerous to land on. I can set you down on a ridgetop. It’s a bit of a hike, but at least it’ll be downhill. He scratched his jaw. “Problem is, I don’t have fuel for that.”
“We’ll find fuel. For your plane and your time, I’ve got trade.”
That got his attention.
“What kind?”
“Two hundred rounds of five-five-six.”
He considered that. Ammo was currency now. Good currency.
“Tempting,” he said. “Still, I’m dry. Every drop I had is gone.”
I nodded toward the cans outside. “Figured.”
He sighed. “Even if you bring me fuel, that trip ain’t simple. That bird only carries so much. With two passengers,” he shook his head, “gonna take two runs.”
“Meaning?” Rachel asked.
“I take one of you, drop you off, come back, take the other,” he said. “Burns more gas.”
“How much?” I asked.
He thought for a second. “Minimum twenty-five gallons. I’d rather have thirty. That gives me enough to get there twice and still make it back here with a little cushion. I don’t fly on empty.”
“Nobody does,” I said.
Rachel and I exchanged a glance.
I looked at him. “Does it have to be AV gas?”
“I’d love to have AV gas, but I don’t think you’ll find any around here. We’ll be alright with mogas. Choosy beggars keep empty pockets.”
“We’ll find it,” she said.
Wrongway snorted. “Good luck. You ain’t the only ones looking.”
“We won’t be the only ones taking, either,” I said.
That earned a grin. “Now that sounds like the Ben I remember.”
He tossed me a length of clear hose. “Bring me twenty-five gallons, and we got a deal. Bring me thirty, and I’ll promise not to sing during the flights.”
I grabbed the empty cans. “We’ll be back.”
We started with the obvious—abandoned cars along the road leading back toward the trees. We tried several before we scored one with fuel. The first one was a rusted-out pickup. Took some work, but we got the hose going and pulled maybe four gallons.
The second was better, an SUV. Still had about six gallons in it.
“Ten total,” Rachel said, capping the can.
“Not enough.”
“Not even close.”
We moved on. The third car looked promising. A Chrysler sedan. Clean. Too clean. That should’ve been the warning. I was halfway through popping the gas cap when I heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun chambering a round. The hairs on my neck stood up like quills on a stun-gunned porcupine.
“Please,” a voice said. “Step to the side a few paces. I don’t want to damage my car when I blast your sorry asses straight to hell.”
We both turned.
Old guy. Late sixties, maybe older. Lean, mean, and holding an Ithaca Model 37 like he knew exactly how to use it. He had it leveled right at my chest.
“Step away from the car,” he repeated.
I raised my hands slightly, slow and careful-like. “Easy, old-timer.”
“Old-timer, huh. I’ll old-timer your ass with double-ought buckshot.”
“Sorry, sir. I mean no disrespect. We thought the car was abandoned. We’re just looking for gas.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “So am I.”
Rachel stepped forward just a fraction. “We can trade.”
He barked a laugh. “With what? I’m happily married.”
Rachel reddened. “I wasn’t referring to that,” she replied in a flat tone, then pulled the .38 ammo we’d taken earlier. “This.”
He eyed it and shook his head. “No deal.” He eyed the revolver in her waistband. “Throw that hog leg in with the ammo, and you can have five gallons.”
“You must be high,” she said. “For the gun and the ammunition, we should get at least twenty gallons.”
He laughed again. “You’re funny. I doubt there’s that much in the tank. I’ll give you five.”
“Aren’t you the hard-ass?” Rachel didn’t blink. “Fifteen.”
“Five.”
“.38 and all the ammo,” she said. “Ten gallons, and you’re getting a steal.”
He studied her, then me.
I prudently kept my mouth shut.
Finally, he sighed. “Seven. And not a drop more.”
Rachel hesitated just long enough to make it feel like a win. “Deal.”
He nodded once.
We gave him the gun and ammunition. He let me siphon out seven gallons. The hose began sucking air before I finished.
I hefted the two full cans. Rachel took the partials. The man looked at me. “I’ve seen you around before,” he said, and then turned to Rachel. “But you ain’t from around here.”
“Just visiting,” she replied. “Then the EMP, and now I’m stuck. I’m Rachel. This is Ben.”
“Carl,” he grunted. “Be careful. People are gettin’ meaner.”
“Yeah, we noticed.”
“Good to meet you, Carl,” I said, retreating down the road, Rachel on my heels. Over my shoulder, I said, “Thanks for the trade.”
By the time we got back to Wrongway’s place, we had seventeen gallons total.
He looked at the cans, then at us. “Not quite there.”
“We’ll get the rest,” I said.
He nodded. “Do that. I’ll get you as close as I can—but I’m not stranding myself out there. I want enough to get home with some to spare.”
“Understood,” Rachel said.
“Be back by evening,” he added. “Wind’s better then anyway.”
We agreed and headed out, each packing an empty can. The walk back to my cabin felt longer. Maybe it was the day catching up with us. Or maybe it was the feeling that something wasn’t right. I saw it before we reached my driveway.
“Stop,” I said.
Rachel froze.
There—on the gravel of my road. Drag marks. Dark. Dried. Bloody. They led straight down my driveway to my back door.
Rachel’s voice dropped. “Is that…?”
“Yeah.”
We moved closer, slow and careful. One of my redneck claymores had gone off. The remains were obvious. Splintered wood. Spent shells and an overturned rat trap. Rachel looked at it, then at the blood trail. “That’s… brutal.”
I chuckled. I couldn’t help it.
She stared at me. “You’re kidding.”
“Guy didn’t read the sign,” I said. “Not my problem.” I slapped my leg, and my chuckle grew to full-blown laughter. “Ha! The son-of-a-bitch got what was coming to him.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“That’s effective,” I corrected. “I wish my surveillance cameras were still working. I’d love to watch it with popcorn.”
Rachel shook her head as if disgusted with me. I was too jubilant to care. We stepped inside, weapons drawn. Everything looked intact. No ambush. No movement.
“Guess he didn’t make it inside,” I said.
Rachel shook her head. “Remind me never to break into your house.”
“Good plan.”
We gathered our gear quickly—rifle, packs, supplies. Before leaving, I reset the traps. Fresh lines. New surprises. Same rules as before. Then we headed out.
Rachel glanced once more at the blood-streaked ground. “You really live like this?”
“It’s the apocalypse. What did you expect?” I slung my rifle. “You’ve seen the alternative. I bet things are far worse stateside.”
She didn’t argue.
I continued. “All those anti-gun liberals down there are probably wishing they had guns now.”
Rachel ducked her head and assumed a sheepish demeanor. “Not all Democrats are against guns. They just want some limits, some restrictions.”
“Hold on. I can’t fucking believe this. You’re a liberal, aren’t you? Oh, this just gets better and better.” I forced a sardonic laugh.
Her brows scrunched together. “So what if I am?” She said angrily and patted the Glock tucked in her waistband. “I’m a gun-packing Democrat, and proud of it.” She paused. “Well, I am now anyway, so don’t give me any shit over my political preference.”
I shook my head but bit back on my retort.
We started back toward the runway. Toward Wrongway. Toward whatever waited next.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 4
We hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards from my cabin before the world reminded us that we weren’t the only predators left.
Crack.
Then two more in quick succession—sharp, deliberate gunfire echoing through the trees ahead.
Rachel and I froze at the same time.
“That’s not target practice,” she said quietly.
“No,” I replied, already moving off the road and into the brush. “Too controlled. Too many shooters.”
Gunfire wasn’t unusual out here—not before the EMP, and damn sure not after—but there was a difference between some guy plinking at a stump and coordinated fire. This had rhythm. Discipline.
Trouble.
We moved low and fast through the trees, angling toward the sound but staying off the road. The woods were thick—spruce mostly, but with cottonwood, aspen, and alder tangled together like they were trying to keep secrets. Good cover, if you knew how to use it.
Rachel stayed tight behind me, stepping where I stepped, keeping quiet. No wasted movement. No questions. She was learning fast—or maybe she already knew. Most of the women I knew, with the exception of those who were hunters, either blundered noisily through the woods or ran their mouths incessantly. For a city girl, Rachel was rare.
Another volley cracked through the air. Closer now.
I slowed and raised a fist. We crept the last stretch to the edge of the tree line overlooking the grocery store. And there it was. Chaos. The store looked worse than when we’d passed it earlier. More glass blown out. Smoke curling faintly from somewhere inside. But the real problem wasn’t the building. It was the people.
“Six on the roof,” I murmured.
Rachel followed my gaze. “I see them.”
Two of the figures wore what looked like Alaska State Troopers uniforms. Or at least parts of them—jackets, maybe vests. Hard to tell at this distance, but the silhouette was familiar.
“Think they’re legit?” she asked.
“Maybe they were,” I said. “Before everything went to hell.”
There were more defenders inside, firing through the shattered front doors and broken windows. Muzzle flashes blinked like lightning in the dim daylight.
Then I shifted focus to the parking lot. Seven figures. Spread out. Using vehicles for cover.
All in black. Plate carriers. Helmets. Rifles held like they knew exactly what they were doing.
“Those aren’t locals,” Rachel whispered.
“No,” I said. “They’re not.”
Professional operators. You could see it in how they moved. How they communicated without yelling. How they advanced in small, controlled bursts. They weren’t scavengers. They were hunters.
Rachel’s jaw tightened. “They’re here for people.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not supplies.”
I watched one of them signal the others. Another leaned out from behind a truck, firing controlled shots toward the doors.
“They’re probing,” I said. “Looking for weak points.”
Rachel glanced at me. “Or looking for someone.”
I met her eyes. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “That too.”
She exhaled slowly. “We should go around. Avoid this.”
That was the smart move. The logical move. The stay alive move. I looked back at the store. At the people inside—families, kids, folks just trying to survive one more day. My neighbors.
“Can’t,” I said.
Rachel stared at me. “Ben—”
“They won’t last,” I cut her off. “Not against that.”
A pause. Then she nodded once. “Alright. What’s the plan?”
I gave a short, humorless smile. “First, we get lighter.”
We pulled back into the woods, far enough to stay out of sight. I found a thick stand of spruce and a fallen log. “Stash it here,” I said.
We shrugged off our packs, tucked them deep under branches, and covered them with debris. Not perfect, but good enough.
“Hope no one finds it,” Rachel muttered.
“If they do,” I said, checking my rifle, “we’ll deal with it later.”
We moved again, circling wide until we had a better angle—slightly elevated ground with decent concealment. From here, we could see the operators’ flank. Perfect. I settled in behind a cluster of brush, bracing the rifle. I force my breathing to slow. Inhale. Exhale. I pressed my teeth together to feel my pulse. I would squeeze my shot between heartbeats.
One of the operators stepped into view—kneeling behind a sedan, cocking a tube on the bottom of his rifle. It was a grenade launcher.
“M203,” I whispered.
Rachel’s eyes sharpened. “That’ll end the fight.”
“Yeah,” I said. “For the people inside.”
I centered the reticle on his neck. Beat—beat—I squeezed. Boom! The rifle cracked, the recoil steady and familiar. The operator dropped instantly with a poof of pink mist, the launcher clattering beside him.
“Good hit,” Rachel said.
No time to admire it. I shifted targets. Another operator popped up, firing toward the doors. I fired again. Center mass. The round struck him square in the chest—hard enough to rock him back—but instead of dropping, he stumbled, then… stayed up. “Plate,” I muttered. He fell to a knee, stunned—but not out. “Damn it.”
That was enough. Heads snapped in our direction. They’d seen the muzzle flash. We had to get the hell out of here.
“Heads up,” Rachel said.
One of them barked something—sharp, authoritative. The team leader. He pointed in our direction. Two operators broke off immediately, moving fast from cover to cover toward our position.
“Time to go,” I said.
We moved. I didn’t wait for them to get close. No point holding ground against professionals with better numbers.
“The River,” I said. “This way.”
We cut through the trees at an angle, moving fast but controlled. Not a blind sprint—just enough speed to stay ahead without making stupid mistakes. I could hear them behind us. Not crashing through the brush. Not yelling. Just… there. Closing. The bastards were good.
We wove through the forest, using the terrain, doubling back once, then cutting toward the River Road to speed up.
Rachel kept pace, breathing hard but steady. “You do this often?” she asked.
“Only when people shoot at me,” I replied.
Once on the road, we ran all out. Our breath became labored. I looked back and saw them coming. They both stopped, took a knee, and I pulled Rachel off the road just as they fired. The hornet buzz of the bullets whizzed by a nanosecond before the reports followed. We hit a stretch of thicker growth—alders packed tight along a rise. A perfect choke point. I slowed, then veered up the slight hill.
“Here,” I said. We climbed a short slope, the ground soft and uneven, then slipped into the cover of the alder thicket. “Stay low,” I whispered.
We waited. Seconds stretched. Then movement below. One of them. He stepped into view, scanning, rifle up. I took the shot. The round struck his weapon, exploding metal and sending it spinning from his hands. He yelled and dove for cover in the brush.
The second operator moved fast—too fast. He cleared the brush just enough for me to see his face. I fired.
The round took him clean right below his nose. He dropped like a sack of rocks.
Silence followed. Except for my pulse—it pounded now. We waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Nothing.
“Where’s the other one?” Rachel whispered.
I scanned the trees. No movement. No sound. “Gone,” I said. “Or hiding.” Neither option was good. I exhaled slowly. “We can’t stay.”
Rachel nodded. We pulled back again, angling wide. “Back to the store?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “See if we can help.”
We hadn’t gone far when it happened. A fast blur of movement from the side. Rachel gasped as an arm locked around her throat, dragging her back against a body I hadn’t seen. A knife pressed tight against her neck.
“Drop it,” the man snarled.
I froze. Rifle halfway up. Too late.
“Drop it,” he repeated, tightening his grip. “Or she dies.”
Rachel’s eyes locked onto mine. “Don’t,” she said.
The blade pressed harder. A thin line of blood appeared at her throat.
“Now,” the operator said.
I felt my jaw tighten. Every instinct screamed don’t do it. But instinct didn’t have a knife at her throat. Slowly… carefully… I lowered the rifle. Set it on the ground. I raised waist high, hoping for a chance to grab my pistol.
“There you go,” the man said. “Smart choice.” His attention shifted—just for a second—to the rifle.
That was all Rachel needed. Her foot came down hard—stomping his. He grunted, grip loosening just enough. Her hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, wrenching the knife away from her throat. At the same time, she drove her head back. Crack. His nose broke with a wet snap. He reeled. She twisted his arm, forcing him forward, then slammed a kick into his face. He flipped back and hit the ground.
I was already moving as I drew. Two steps. The FN barked. One shot. The round took him in the face—blew out his left eye, the other one bulged out of the socket. Silence crashed down around us.
Rachel stood there, breathing hard, the operator’s knife still in her hand. A thin line of blood traced down her neck.
I scanned the trees. Nothing moved. Then I holstered my pistol and picked up my rifle. “Remind me,” I said finally, “not to underestimate you again.”
She let out a shaky breath, then gave a faint, grim smile.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’d be a good idea.”