The morning broke gray and cold, light filtering through the cracked blinds of the ranger outpost. My body ached in ways that had nothing to do with the firefight—Forest’s warmth still clung to my skin, his scent tangled in my hair.
For one blissful second, it felt like safety. Like maybe we’d burned the darkness out of both of us.
Then the radios hissed, shattering it.
Forest stirred beside me on the narrow cot, one arm heavy over my waist. His jaw was shadowed, his expression unguarded in sleep—so rare it almost made me ache. He looked younger like this, less carved from stone. Human.
I traced a fingertip over his scarred knuckles, softer than I meant to. “You’re gonna kill me one day, Mountain Man,” I whispered.
His eyes opened. No slow waking—just sharp, alert, locking on mine. But instead of pulling back, he caught my hand and pressed it against his chest, over his heart.
“Not happening,” he said, voice gravelly from sleep.
I wanted to believe it. Wanted it so bad it hurt. But the mountain outside didn’t care about want.
Jason’s voice cut through the static on the radio. “Forest. Zoe. You awake?”
Forest sat up, dragging a hand down his face, the moment breaking like glass. “Yeah. Talk.”
Jason’s tone was clipped, tight. “We’ve got chatter from the men we pulled in last night. North isn’t hiding—he’s moving. Fast.”
I swung my legs off the cot, pulling my boots on, heart already thundering. “Where?”
Jason hesitated, and in that pause, my stomach dropped.
Finally: “Mirror Lake was a rehearsal. His real stage… is the town.”
Forest’s gaze snapped to mine, steel-hard again. Whatever tenderness had lived between us in the dark was gone, buried under the mission.
But the heat from last night still smoldered in his eyes.
And I knew: this wasn’t over. Not with North. Not with us.
North
The town looked almostquaint from the ridge above—brick storefronts, white church steeple, kids’ bikes leaning crooked against porches. Idyllic. Fragile.
I sipped bitter coffee from a dented thermos, watching the morning bustle below. Shop doors opened, a school bus rattled past, life carrying on in its small, predictable rhythm.
Perfect canvas.
The man in the sharp suit stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back. “You risk much by coming here in daylight.”
I smiled, unbothered. “Risk is the point.”
He didn’t reply, but his eyes followed my gesture as I pointed toward the square—where deputies milled, where the café filled with locals sipping their morning brew.
“They’ll think the dam was the climax,” I said softly. “They’ll think they’ve saved themselves.”
“And what will they think,” the man asked, “when you show them this?”
I smiled wider. “They’ll think they were never safe at all.”
Below us, a delivery truck rumbled into town, its back heavy with crates that weren’t on any order. My men guided it into place like stagehands preparing the set.
The real play was about to begin.
27
