In contrast, Chaos is all business. The sleek Malinois ghosts through the trees, working the perimeter with laser focus. His gait is silent and economical; his eyes scan constantly, his body taut with readiness. Every few steps, he circles back to check on us, then melts into the shadows again—an ever-present phantom keeping danger at bay.
I watch them both—Bear’s open exuberance, Chaos’s silent vigilance—and feel something shift in my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or awe. Or just the sheer comfort of being part of a pack for the first time in my life.
Protected. Seen. Needed.
Even now, with danger close and dread coiled in my stomach, Bear’s joy makes me smile. Chaos’s steadiness helps me breathe. Between them, I feel less alone.
And for me, that’s everything.
As for Bear, his snowplow exuberance breaks the snow and hastens our pace, but it leaves one hell of a trail. Not breadcrumbs. The fucking whole loaf of bread.
Our path is clear.
Too clear.
It’s a calculated risk. Within the tree line, the thick canopy conceals most of our tracks. Overhead drones can’t see us, but each time we reach a clearing, a pale wound in the forest where the trees fall away into open meadows, we slow to acrawl.
Ryan lifts a fist, signaling a halt at the edge of the first one. The team sinks instinctively to one knee, melting into the shadows. We wait. Listen. Scan.
Nothing but wind.
I give a low whistle, and Bear veers left. We double back, tracing a wide arc around the open space to avoid leaving a path visible from above. The detour adds fifteen minutes, but it’s worth it.
Lives are worth it.
Chaos ranges like a phantom between front and rear, paws silent on the snow. He vanishes into the trees, reappears beside Willow, then disappears again. Constant motion. Constant protection. His ears twitch at every sound, eyes sweeping left to right in tandem with the sweep of Cooper’s barrel.
We keep moving.
Two miles in, lungs burning in the cold, legs leaden from the uneven terrain, Ryan’s hand clamps down on my arm. He freezes, tilting his head slightly, breath misting in the air.
I hear it a second later—the faint, rhythmic thump of rotor blades. Helicopter. Still distant, muffled by the dense canopy, but closing.
“Incoming,” Ryan murmurs. “Northeast.”
I check my watch. “Too early for our extraction.”
“Exactly.”
Understanding passes between us. Not friendlies.
“Get Willow to the LZ,” I order quietly. “I’ll delay them.”
Ryan’s expression hardens. “Not alone, you won’t.”
“That’s an order, not a request.”
“With respect, sir,” Ryan says, using the formal address to make his point, “that’s just dumb.”
His flat stare leaves me shaking my head. Classic Ryan. I’d dismiss his comment, or dress him down for the insult, except Ryan’s tactical mind is formidable. It’s why the team respectshim, and why he’s the one I trust to hold the line when everything goes to hell.
Before I can argue further, the chopper sound grows louder. Soon, everyone hears it. Willow turns, fear and question in her eyes.
“Move!” I shout, abandoning stealth for speed. “Cooper, get her to the LZ. Now!”
Martinez leads the way, one step behind Bear’s thundering bulk. Cooper doesn’t hesitate, grabbing Willow’s arm and breaking into a run, following Bear’s path through the snow. Jackson falls in behind them, providing additional cover.
Ryan and I drop back, seeking defensible positions among the trees. Chaos stays with us, hackles raised, sensing the imminent threat.
