“They made it,” Ryan confirms, lowering his binoculars. “Package secure.”
My chest loosens marginally. After the firefight with the cabin team—four against two plus Chaos, no contest—I wasn’t sure we’d make it to the LZ in time. Those four operators had training, but they lacked the tactical cohesion Ryan and I developed through years of combat.
We left them zip-tied and unconscious in the snow, rushing toward the extraction point when we heard the UTVs and gunfire.
“UTVs still active,” I note, tracking the mechanical growls echoing through the trees. “Martinez must have taken one out, but the others are still operational.” It could’ve been Jackson orCooper, but I know my men. Jackson was supporting Cooper, and Martinez held the lead. I’m pretty damn sure Martinez took one out.
Ryan nods grimly. “Five hostiles remaining by my count. One driver down, one wounded.”
“Chaos, hunt.” The command sends the Malinois racing toward the tree line where the mechanical growls are loudest. I follow, using the terrain for cover, moving like the ghost that earned me my callsign.
We approach from the east, using the rising sun to our advantage. The light at our backs makes us more challenging to spot, while we can see them clearly. Five men in tactical gear, gathered around their vehicles, gesturing as they debate their next move.
“I’ll take the two on the right,” Ryan murmurs. “You and Chaos handle the other three.”
I give a curt nod, signaling Chaos. The dog understands immediately, his body lowering into attack position.
“On three,” I whisper. “One… Two… Now.”
We move simultaneously, emerging from the tree line with the precision that speaks to years of operating together. Ryan’s rifle cracks twice in rapid succession, dropping his targets before they can react. I take out one with a clean headshot while Chaos launches at another, taking him down with savage efficiency.
The fifth man manages to fire a single wild shot before my second bullet finds his chest. He drops, weapon clattering uselessly into the snow.
Silence falls over the clearing, broken only by the idling engines of the UTVs and Chaos’s low growl as he stands guard over his downed target.
“Clear,” Ryan calls, moving to check his targets.
“Clear,” I confirm, approaching the UTVs. One of the vehicles has a body slumped over the steering wheel—Martinez’s handiwork from earlier. Another has blood spattered across the passenger seat where the wounded man must have been sitting.
“All neutralized,” Ryan reports after checking the men. “What’s the plan?”
I survey the three UTVs, already calculating the fastest route to our fallback position. “We take one. Head north.”
We approach the lead UTV—a tactical model with a reinforced frame, expanded cargo area, and what appears to be light armor plating. Military-grade, not your typical recreational vehicle. Reynolds spared no expense.
I check the fuel gauge—three-quarters full. More than enough. Ryan collects the men’s weapons and secures them with ours. I start the engine, the powerful motor rumbling to life in the stillness.
“Let’s move,” I say, swinging into the driver’s seat.
Before Ryan can claim the passenger side, Chaos leaps up, planting himself firmly in the seat. His expression can only be described as smug as he looks at Ryan, then back at me.
“Seriously?” Ryan stares at the dog in disbelief. “Did he just call shotgun?”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips—the first genuine one since watching Willow’s helicopter disappear. “Looks that way.”
“Un-fucking-believable.” Ryan shakes his head but climbs into the back cargo area without further complaint. “Your dog’s an asshole, you know that?”
“He’s earned it.” I reach over to ruffle Chaos’s ears, the dog leaning into my touch. “Good boy.”
Chaos settles into his seat with the satisfaction of a king on his throne, ears perked forward as we begin to move. The UTV handles well on the snow-packed terrain, its oversized tires gripping where regular vehicles would struggle to find traction.
I navigate through the forest with the instinctive knowledgeof a man who’s made these mountains his home. Every ridge, every valley, every game trail is mapped in my memory. Reynolds’s men would have been lost trying to track us through this wilderness, even with their high-tech equipment.
“How far?” Ryan asks, bracing himself as we navigate a particularly steep incline.
“Fifteen miles northwest,” I answer, guiding the vehicle around a fallen tree. “Old mining complex. Abandoned in the sixties. One of my emergency caches.”
“And from there?”
