His body went stiff, his tail rigid. A growl, low and steady, vibrated from his chest. It wasn’t the warning of a dog sensing a squirrel. It was the warning of a predator sensing a rival.
Gabriel froze. He followed the dog’s gaze toward the shuttered window.
Outside, the night had fallen full, and the forest lay shrouded in silence. He moved cautiously, easing the shutter open just a fraction of an inch to peer through.
At first, he saw nothing but darkness.
Then his breath caught.
Above the tree line, barely visible against the star-flecked sky, hovered a small, dark shape. It moved with unnatural smoothness, drifting like a detached shadow. There was no sound but the faintest, insect-like hum.
A drone.
Gabriel shut the shutter quickly, bolting it with shaking hands. He crouched beside Rook, his voice barely a breath.
“They know.”
The German Shepherd pressed close, his body a taut line of muscle, ready for whatever would come through that door. The cabin, once his fortress, had become a beacon. The hunt had begun.
The drone was gone by morning, but its memory hovered like smoke over the clearing. Gabriel hadn’t slept. Neither had Rook.
The German Shepherd lay coiled near the fireplace, his muscles taut beneath his coat, like a spring wound too tight. His amber eyes never left the shuttered window. Every creak of the wood settling in the cold, every whisper of wind through the eaves set his ears twitching. Gabriel could feel it too—an electrical tension in the air, a static charge that made the hair on his arms stand up. The forest itself seemed to be holding its breath.
Gabriel stood at the cabin’s small work table, his hands moving with practiced, jittery speed. He was disassembling the gear case he had pulled from the wreck days earlier. It was still locked tight, the clasp unyielding, but the drive had given him enough. Names. Manifests. Video. He had uncovered a trail of blood and corruption that led straight to Miranda Locke and her empire of polished evil.
Outside, the trees were too quiet. The birds had gone; even the squirrels had vanished.
Rook rose first.
His ears pressed flat against his skull. A low growl, so deep it vibrated through the floorboards, rumbled from his throat. Gabriel froze, his hand hovering over the case.
Then he heard it too: the soft, rhythmic crunch of boots on dead leaves. Slow. Measured. Too deliberate for hunters. Too heavy for hikers.
“Down,” he whispered.
Rook slid behind the heavy oak table, his body becoming as still as stone. Gabriel reached for his rifle, his grip tightening on the stock. He hesitated. A gun would only buy time, and time was a luxury he had just run out of. This wasn’t a “stand and fight” situation. This was an extraction.
He needed to move.
The laptop, the drive, the pilot’s note—everything had to come with him. He swept them into his rucksack.
A thud slammed into the front door. Not a knock—something heavier. A ram. The wood groaned in protest, and dust rained down from the rafters.
Another slam, harder this time. A hairline crack opened in the doorframe, splintering the wood. Rook barked—one sharp, deafening warning—and the world erupted.
Gunfire burst through the windows in a storm of shattering glass and thunder.
Gabriel dove behind the stone hearth, clutching the rucksack to his chest. Bullets shredded the back wall, tearing through old blankets, smashing shelves of canned food, and sending clouds of plaster and sawdust into the air. The cabin, his sanctuary, was being chewed apart.
Another blow hit the door, tearing the hinges loose. Gabriel turned to Rook and pointed toward the rear window, the only one not yet decimated.
“Go!”
The dog bolted. He leapt through the frame with the precision of muscle and instinct, clearing the sill in a blur of black and silver. Gabriel grabbed the rucksack, slung it across his back, and followed. He shattered what remained of the glass with his elbow, hitting the earth outside in a crouch. He rolled, regained his footing, and sprinted into the trees.
Behind them, the cabin howled in pain. Wood groaned, glass shattered, and bullets hammered the walls like fists of iron. They didn’t look back.