“Secondary extraction. We’ve got a bush plane on standby at Jenkins Lake. Small enough to avoid radar detection, fast enough to get us to Idaho.”
Ryan nods, understanding the plan without needing further explanation. It’s why we work so well together—years of shared missions have given us a shorthand that transcends words.
Chaos suddenly stiffens, ears pricked forward. I immediately slow the UTV, scanning our surroundings. The dog’s senses are far more acute than ours, and he’s never given a false alarm.
“What is it?” Ryan asks, already reaching for his rifle.
I don’t answer immediately, trusting Chaos’s instincts. The Malinois is focused intently on something to our left, a low growl building in his chest.
Then I hear it—the distant thump of helicopter rotors. Not from the east, where Willow’s extraction headed, but from the south. Another aircraft is approaching fast.
“Reynolds’s reinforcements,” I mutter, immediately veering the UTV into denser tree cover. “Birds aren’t part of the UTV team’s equipment.”
“Must be the Billings crew Carson leads,” Ryan says, referencing Carver’s intel. “Ex-Rangers with air support.”
I cut the engine, killing our noise signature as thehelicopter sound grows louder. Chaos remains alert but not agitated, which tells me they haven’t spotted us yet.
Through gaps in the canopy, I catch a glimpse of the aircraft—a sleek black helicopter with no visible markings. Definitely private military contractors, not law enforcement. It circles the area where the UTV firefight took place, then hovers for several minutes.
“They’re assessing the scene,” Ryan observes. “Wondering where their men went.”
“And where we are,” I add.
The helicopter continues its slow circle, expanding outward. It’s executing a standard search pattern, methodically covering the terrain. Eventually, it will spot our UTV tracks unless we move deeper into cover.
Ryan pulls out a small handheld device, scanning the UTV. His expression darkens. “Found it. Tracker embedded in the chassis. Military-grade. That’s how they’re following.”
“Shit.” I glance at the helicopter’s search pattern. “We need to move. Now.”
“Options?” Ryan asks.
I consider our position, the terrain, and our resources. “We ditch the UTV. Proceed on foot to the mining complex. It’s about 15 clicks northwest.”
Ryan nods, already gathering essential gear. “Old school. I like it.”
“Chaos, security,” I command. The dog immediately takes up a watch position while Ryan and I quickly strip the UTV of anything useful—weapons, ammo, survival gear, and comms equipment.
“We leave the tracker active,” I decide. “Let them chase ghosts.”
Ryan plants a small surprise under the UTV’s seat—nothinglethal, but enough to discourage pursuit. “Present for whoever comes looking.”
“Ready?” I ask, shouldering my pack.
“Born ready,” Ryan responds, securing the last of his gear.
“Chaos, on me.” The dog falls in beside me as we disappear into the dense forest, leaving the UTV behind as bait.
We wait in tense silence as the helicopter completes its search pattern, gradually moving toward our position, honing in on the tracker’s signal. We don’t stick around, moving again, heading northeast toward the ravine.
“Still 15 clicks to the mining complex,” Ryan notes, checking his GPS. “Terrain’s rough. ETA four hours if we push it.”
“Then we push.”
The pace I set is punishing—fast enough to put distance between us and our pursuers, but sustainable for trained operators like us. Chaos moves effortlessly through the snow, occasionally ranging ahead to check for threats before circling back.
The eastern ravine appears ahead—a deep cut in the landscape with steep walls and dense vegetation—perfect for evasion. We slip into it silently, the ravine’s walls closing around us, providing natural cover from aerial surveillance.
“Chopper’s almost on the UTV,” Ryan confirms, checking a small tracking device of our own. “Your surprise should be waiting for them.”
