The nearest figure disables my outermost motion sensor rather than tripping it.
Definitely professional.
“Time to introduce ourselves.”
I move to the gear closet, pulling out the white camouflage snow suit designed specifically for these conditions. Each piece is applied methodically—tactical thermals first, then the reinforced snow pants and jacket, both of which are layered with ballistic material at vital points. The hood features a mesh face covering that allows me to breathe without creating visible vapor clouds. When fully suited, I’ll be nearly invisible against the pristine snowscape outside.
I reach down, fingers brushing the thick fur of Chaos’s ruff. His body quivers with anticipation, every muscle taut, waiting.
We head outside. I stamp the snow between the cabin and outhouse, making it look like a well-travelled path. Inside, I secure the lock and open the hatch to the narrow concrete tunnel below.
Chaos follows silently, his nails clicking softly on the concrete. The passage is tight but navigable—six feet high, three feet wide, reinforced to withstand both weather and potential discovery.
Fifty yards of careful movement brings me to the exit point—a concealed hatch inside a small grouping of boulders. I pause, listening for movement above, then carefully push open the hatch designed to allow snow to fall away without creating an obvious opening.
The cold hits like a physical wall as I emerge. Chaos slips out beside me. The pristine snow stretches unbroken in all directions. My white camouflage renders me nearly invisible against the landscape as I pull the hood up and secure the mesh face shield.
Using the snow-laden pines for cover, I circle behind their position. My breath clouds briefly before the specialized mesh disperses it, preventing the telltale vapor that could give away my position. The storm has eased slightly, but visibility remains poor—an advantage for the defender who knows the terrain.
“Intercept and herd,” I murmur low, my voice just for Chaos.
The Malinois’s ears flick. One soft huff is the only acknowledgment before he slips into the shadows, silent as smoke, vanishing like a ghost into the snow.
I trigger the first trap—a simple but effective distraction on the northwest side of the cabin. The small explosion sends birds scattering from the trees.
The advancing team halts.
Reassesses.
Standard procedure when encountering unexpected resistance.
More importantly, now they know.
They’re not dealing with some backwoods hick holed up in a cabin with a shotgun and a grudge. I hope they jump to the conclusion I’m some paranoid prepper living out in the woods.
They have no idea they’re dealing with someone who’s trained.
Prepared.
Someone who’s likely more dangerous than they are.
What they do next will tell me everything I need to know.
If they pull back, regroup, and wait for a better opportunity—that’s a tactical mind at work. Measured. Disciplined. It will give me the time I need until my team arrives.
But if they continue? They’re desperate.
Getting Willow matters more to them than caution, more than logic.
And desperate men make mistakes.
Let’s see which kind I’m dealing with.
The familiar calm of impending violence settles over me—the stillness that earned me my call sign: Ghost.
While I circle left, Chaos moves right. His military-grade training activates. He knows to remain silent, observe, and wait for the command.
I spot the first man through my scope, checking his gear, adjusting his comm unit after the distraction. His attention is focused forward, toward the cabin. He never hears me approach from behind.
