People in town said Vern could track a snowflake through a blizzard. Now he moved methodically, cracking ice in his palm, lifting a smear of dried blood from a pine limb. «She’s alive,» Vern muttered.
His voice was gravel, shaped by whiskey and solitude. «Dog, too.» Behind him stood two of Hale’s mercenaries, both muscular, masked, and rifles-ready.
One of them, a man with a shaved head and a jagged scar running across his chin, spoke with irritation. «You sure? Hale said they’d be paste.» Vern fixed him with his good eye.
«Blood’s fresh. Footprints staggered. Someone carried her. Someone strong.»
He pointed at the distorted bootprints—wide spacing, deep pressure. «That’s your man!» «Hale wants confirmation,» the scarred man replied.
«He’ll have it,» Vern grunted. «You boys just keep your fingers off the triggers until I tell you.» Back in the forest, Ethan was setting a snow snare, thin wire strung low where moonlight didn’t reach.
His hands moved with silent efficiency. Emily leaned on a pine trunk, Ranger pressed against her side. «They’ll come fast,» Ethan said.
«They’ll think the fall killed you. But when they see tracks, they’ll push harder.» Emily looked at him, breath fogging in the air.
«You’re risking your life for me.» Ethan didn’t look up from tying the final knot. «Not the first time I’ve made that mistake,» he said quietly, though the bitterness in his tone was directed inward, not at her.
Dakota’s ears perked. Then Ranger growled. A branch snapped somewhere to the east.
«Down!» Ethan hissed, pulling Emily behind a fallen log just as a silenced bullet sliced through the air where they had stood moments earlier. Ranger lunged forward on instinct, but Emily grabbed his scruff, holding him with what little strength she had.
Shapes moved between the trees: three men fanning out in a tactical pattern. Their rifles gleamed faintly. Their steps were too disciplined for amateurs.
Vern Talbot emerged behind them, his posture relaxed but predatory. «Tracks end here,» he said, his voice low. «They’re hiding close.»
Ethan mouthed to Emily, «Move on my signal.» The first mercenary approached Ethan’s snow snare. His boot caught the wire, triggering the violent snap of a bent sapling that whipped upward, knocking him off his feet.
He hit the ground with a muffled yell. Ethan fired once—clean, efficient—and the man went still. Ranger barked sharply, drawing attention.
Another mercenary pivoted toward the dog, raising his rifle. Emily didn’t think. Despite her injuries, she lunged sideways, throwing her weight into Ranger and covering him as the shot cracked into the snow beside them.
Ethan rolled behind a tree, firing again. The second mercenary dropped. Vern didn’t panic; he stepped back, leveling a long-barreled revolver with one steady hand.
Ranger staggered up, snarling despite his wound. Vern steadied his aim. Then Dakota, old but fueled by loyalty, leapt between them, snarling with unexpected ferocity.
Vern hesitated just long enough. Ethan fired. The tracker fell to one knee, clutching his arm, the snow staining with crimson.
«We’re done here,» Ethan shouted. «Move!» He grabbed Emily’s elbow, supporting her weight, while Ranger hobbled close behind.
Dakota trotted alongside, tail low but determined. Gunshots echoed faintly as the remaining mercenaries regrouped. They fled through the moonlit forest, the ground sloping sharply downward.
Ahead in the distance, beyond the tree line, the jagged outline of a cliff appeared—the one place Ethan knew he could reach radio signals, and the one place Hale’s men would struggle to corner them. The wind sharpened as Ethan pushed through the final stretch of the trail, each gust carrying shards of ice that stung like needles. The cliff line rose before them, a jagged white crown in the moon’s dying glow.
Emily leaned heavily against him, her breath shallow but determined. Ranger limped beside her, his wounded leg dragging through the snow, yet refusing to fall behind. Dakota trotted in front, hackles raised, every sense straining for danger.
«We’re close,» Ethan said, more to strengthen Emily’s resolve than his own. His voice held a rough steadiness, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the truth: they were seconds ahead of death. At the cliff’s edge stood an old metal radio mast, nothing more than a rusted pole bolted into stone, half-swallowed by decades of frost.
Ethan had installed it long ago for back-country emergencies, back when he still believed in helping anyone who wandered too far into the wilderness. He hadn’t touched it in years. He dropped his pack and yanked out a portable transmitter, military surplus, battered but trustworthy.
His gloved hands moved quickly, twisting wires and adjusting dials. Emily watched through dazed eyes, admiring the methodical precision that came only from training and heartbreak. «Can it still work?» she whispered.
«It has to.» Ranger nudged her thigh, as if urging her to stay awake. Emily stroked his head, fingers trembling over his ears.
Pain flared through her ribs, but the warmth of his fur kept her grounded. Ethan flicked the final switch. Static burst from the speaker, a ragged, cold sound that made her chest tighten.
«Come on, come on,» he muttered. Then a faint hiss, a broken crackle, a thread of a voice. «Control, respond, emergency, identify.»
Relief flickered in Emily’s eyes. «They hear us.» Before Ethan could answer, Dakota let out a low, warning growl.
Too late. Shadows moved along the ridge, silent, disciplined, spreading out like wolves. Four mercenaries emerged from the tree line with rifles raised.
Behind them, stepping into the pale half-light, came Marcus Hale himself. Hale was exactly as Emily remembered him: tall, broad-shouldered, and frighteningly composed. He was forty but aged by arrogance rather than time.
His dark hair was trimmed short, his clean-shaven jaw sharp enough to cut ice. His eyes, cold metallic gray, held no trace of doubt or remorse. He was the kind of man who had learned long ago to step over the bodies he created.
His breath fogged the air as he smirked. «I should have known a ghost like you would drag her out of the grave, Walker.» Ethan stepped forward, placing himself between Hale and Emily.
«You want her? You’ll have to go through me.» Hale chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. «Always the hero, or maybe you just can’t resist fixing broken things.»
Emily clenched her jaw. The words were meant to cut, and they did, but she refused to let him see it. The first mercenary fired.
Snow exploded inches from Ethan’s boots. Emily dropped to one knee, ignoring the scream in her ribs, raised the sidearm Ethan had given her, and fired a precise shot. The mercenary fell.
Ranger barked fiercely, forcing another attacker to hesitate. Dakota lunged, snapping at the man’s leg, giving Ethan just enough time to drag Emily behind a boulder. Gunfire lit the night with violent flashes.
Ethan returned fire, hitting a second mercenary. But Hale moved with deadly grace, circling behind a drift and firing short, suppressing bursts that pinned them down. Ranger growled and started forward.