Page 20 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“To what?”

“Follow me.”

I don’t argue. He leads me to the back of the cabin, past the kitchen and the pantry, to a wall I hadn’t looked too closely at before. Travis kneels and lifts a thick bearskin rug, revealing a recessed floor hatch with a fingerprint scanner embedded into the corner.

“What is this, some ex-SEAL panic room?” I mutter, but he doesn’t answer.

He presses his thumb to the reader. There’s a soft beep, and the hatch clicks open.

He yanks the heavy panel up, revealing a narrow metal ladder disappearing into darkness.

“Go,” he orders, voice low.

I hesitate only a second before climbing down. The metal rungs are cold under my palms, the space just wide enough for my shoulders. Travis follows, and when he closes the hatch above us, the darkness swallows everything.

Then a series of dim emergency lights click on, illuminating the tunnel ahead—narrow, reinforced, and stretching maybe fifty feet.

“What the hell…” I whisper, my voice echoing slightly off the stone.

“Old mine shaft,” he says as he moves past me, brushing against my side. “Runs straight into the hillside.”

“Why do you have an old mine under your house?”

“I didn’t build it,” he answers. “I just made it useful.”

We jog in silence for a few seconds, my breath short and shallow, my mind racing. The tunnel opens into a small cave-like chamber lined with thick stone and outfitted with military-grade storage crates, a backup generator, shelving stacked with supplies… and weapons.

Lots of weapons—rifles, pistols, ammunition, tactical gear and a wall of knives that makes me blink.

I turn in a slow circle. “Jesus, Travis. Are you planning to survive the apocalypse down here?”

“If necessary.” He walks to a locked cabinet, opens it, and pulls out a thick duffel. “But right now, it’s our escape route.”

He pulls on a shirt and jacket before tossing a coat toward me—lined, insulated, looks like it’s seen snow and war alike.

“Put that on. And these.” He tosses me gloves next.

I don’t argue. My fingers are stiff from the cold, and this space is protected, yet unheated. I tug everything on as he kneels beside a snowmobile—sleek, black, powerful.

“You have a snowmobile in your underground lair.”

“I have two. One’s for backup.”

I blink. “That’s not reassuring.”

Travis finishes loading the gear into the pack, straps it down behind the seat, then straightens and looks at me.

“We’re leaving now. You ride behind me. Keep your head down and your arms around my waist. If I tell you to duck, you duck. If I tell you to run, you run. No questions. No arguing.”

I nod. “Understood.”

He grabs his rifle, slings it over his back, then stalks toward me again. Close. Close enough that I stop breathing. His hand lifts to my jaw, tilts my chin up.

“Next time,” he says, voice firm, “you want to look through my things, you ask.”

“I was desperate.”

“I get that. But you’re mine to protect while you’re under my roof…”

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