Gabe's jaw tightens. I can see him running through scenarios, calculating risks, trying to find an argument that will keep me here safe. But we both know the logic is sound, even if he hates it.
The satellite phone buzzes, harsh in the quiet lodge. Zeke's voice crackles through, rough with exhaustion. "Caleb's on the ridge with a hunting rifle. I couldn't stop him. Says if Crane's people are on his mountain, they're fair game."
"Tell him to stay dark," Sarah orders, her voice carrying command authority. "No shots unless absolutely necessary. We need Crane focused on the falls, not hunting for flankers."
"Copy that. Nate's got the southern approach covered with his Fish and Game truck—looks natural for the area. And I've got deputies positioned on the main road pretending to run speed traps. Crane tries to bring reinforcements, we'll know about it before they reach the turnoff."
"Good. Keep the channels open but go radio silent unless it's critical."
After he hangs up, the lodge feels too quiet. Outside, the world holds its breath, waiting for whatever violence the morning will bring. I can hear the old building settling around us, the creak of timber and the whisper of wind through gaps in the logs.
"Fifty-one hours," I say, checking my phone. The countdown has become a metronome in my head, marking time until Crane's deadline.
"Early is good." Gabe shoulders his pack, the weight settling familiarly across his back. "Crane expects us desperate, scrambling, making mistakes. We show up on our terms, it throws off his timeline. Makes him react instead of control."
Sarah nods, closing her tablet. "Psychological advantage. Small, but we'll take it. Every edge matters."
We move out as first light touches the peaks, the sky bleeding from black to deep purple to pale grey. Frost covers the truck in delicate patterns, like lace made of ice. I take the driver's seat—Sarah's call—since she and Gabe need to be free to engage if we're hit on the approach. The engine turns over roughly, complaining about the cold before settling into a steady rumble.
The road to Grotto Falls winds through dense forest, narrow and treacherous even in good conditions. Fresh snow from last night covers any tracks, smoothing the world into unmarked white. Beautiful, if we weren't driving toward a confrontation that could end with all of us dead. Pine branches hang heavy, occasionally dumping their loads across the windshield.
"Vehicle behind us." Sarah's voice stays calm, matter-of-fact. "Two hundred meters. Black SUV, keeping pace."
"Crane's people?" My hands tighten on the wheel before I force them to relax.
"Probably. Don't change speed. Act like we don't see them." She's watching in the side mirror, her reflection showing professional assessment rather than fear.
My hands stay steady on the wheel even though my heart hammers against my ribs. This is real. This is actually happening. Professional killers are following us up a mountain to watch us meet more professional killers. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
"They're keeping distance," Gabe observes from the back seat, his voice carrying the same calm as Sarah's. "Professional surveillance. They'll follow us to the falls, report our arrival, then pull back and let Crane's primary team handle the actual confrontation."
"Unless they decide to hit us on the road," I point out.
"They won't. Too much exposure, too many variables. Crane wants this clean and controlled. An ambush on a public road leaves too much evidence, too many ways for it to go wrong."
The logic makes sense but doesn't make me feel better. The SUV maintains its distance as we climb higher into the mountains, a dark shadow in my rearview mirror. The falls appear ahead, a frozen cascade tumbling down granite cliffs that rise like cathedral walls. The parking area sits empty except for a single vehicle—expensive, black, barely visible under fresh snow that hasn't been disturbed. It's been here for hours.
"He's already here," Sarah says quietly, a statement rather than a question.
I park at the far end of the lot, positioning the truck for quick exit like Sarah showed me. Nose out, engine accessible, clear line to the road. The black SUV that followed us pulls in at the entrance, blocking the only road out with deliberate precision. Two men emerge, tactical gear barely concealed under heavy coats. They don't even pretend to be hikers.
"Four visible," Gabe counts under his breath, his eyes moving across the parking area and tree line. "Minimum two more we can't see. Probably on the high ground with rifles, covering approaches."
"Caleb's up there too," I remind him, needing to say it out loud.
"Even odds, then." But his voice carries doubt.
Sarah catches my eye in the rearview mirror, her dark eyes serious. "You stay with the truck. Engine running. If this goes wrong, you drive and don't look back. Understood?"
"Not happening."
"Mara...”
"I can shoot. My grandmother taught me when I was twelve. Deer, elk, anything that threatened the property." I pull the rifle from behind the seat, the weight familiar in my hands. "And I'm not sitting here while you two walk into whatever Crane has planned. You need someone mobile, someone he won't expect. That's me."
They exchange looks—some silent sibling communication I can't quite read. Then Sarah nods once, acceptance rather than approval. "Stay back from the primary engagement zone. You're emergency backup only. If shooting starts, you find cover and stay there unless we call you forward. Clear?"
"Clear."
