Chaos’s low growl cuts through the wind as he scents the trail behind us. The Malinois’s ears prick forward, his posture screaming danger. Bear circles us, his massive Newfoundland bulk already positioning to shield us from the wind, dark fur collecting snow like a living shroud.
“Bear, guard.”
The Newfoundland immediately shifts his weight, placing himself beside the woman as I lower her gently to the ground. His massive body radiates warmth, buying me necessary minutes.
“Chaos, perimeter sweep. Double-back.” The Malinois disappears into the white like smoke, silent and efficient.
They’re the only company I keep now. Dogs don’t flinch at scars or ask questions I can’t answer. They know what I am and accept it.
The storm’s building fast.
The temperature’s dropping faster than my comfort zone allows. What started as a manageable snowfall has evolved into nature’s version of psychological warfare.
The forecast said light snow, but it’s turned into a white-out. The wind howls through the pine tops like artillery fire, and visibility’s down to about ten feet.
Her tracks behind us are already half-obscured, disappearing like ghosts in the fresh powder. Another hour, maybe less, and they’ll be completely buried. Along with us, if I don’t make the right call.
The cabin is three miles north. In this storm, it might as well be on another planet.
“Goddammit.” The curse freezes in the air between us.
This would be manageable solo. I’ve survived worse conditions with less gear, but the woman changes everything. Her breathing is shallow, lips tinged with a blue that has nothing to do with cosmetics. The gash on her temple has mostlystopped bleeding, but the dried blood has frozen into macabre crystals along her hairline.
Decision time: risk movement to the cabin or build a temporary shelter? One look at her blue-tinged lips makes the choice for me.
Shelter first. Then triage.
The woman’s carotid pulse flutters beneath my fingertips—thready, irregular. Her core temperature is dangerously low. She’s not dressed for this kind of weather.
I spot a shallow depression ahead. It offers some protection. The towering pines will break the wind, and their lower branches give me material to work with. I unsheathe my KA-BAR, and pine boughs fall under its blade. A decade of special operations etched this process into my bones.
I build the lean-to in fifteen minutes. String out an emergency blanket for insulation. Pack snow walls tightly to trap heat. It gives maybe twenty degrees of temperature advantage.
Every degree counts when you’re fighting hypothermia.
I layer the ground thick with pine branches, creating insulation from the frozen earth. It’s not pretty, but it’ll keep her alive through the night if necessary.
I return to her. Bear hasn’t moved. His massive form shelters the woman from the worst of the wind. She stirs slightly when I lift her, her body instinctively curling toward warmth.
Toward me.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Something breaks within me, wishing I was worth that kind of trust.
Inside the shelter, I lay her on the pine-bough bed.
“Bear, cover.” The Newfoundland settles against her side while I begin my assessment. Head to toe, methodical. Her pulseis weak and erratic. Skin like ice. She won’t make it without intervention.
Her clothes are soaked. They have to go.
Field protocol. Dry her. Warm her.
Probable concussion from the gash on her temple. But then I uncover other marks that have my jaw clenching until I taste copper. The bruising visible beneath her torn clothing speaks of systematic abuse.
My hands catalog each injury with growing fury. Precise bruising along the ribs. Fingerprints around the throat. The kind of calculated violence that leaves plenty of nightmares for the victim.
