Page 23 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“I know.”

I slip out the door before I do something even dumber. I shut the door behind me, lock it from the outside, and move back toward the bar.

Hank is waiting. He doesn’t ask if Abby’s okay. He doesn’t ask what kind of mess I’m dragging behind me. He just pours a bourbon, neat, and sets it down at the end of the bar.

“You look like someone kicked in your walls,” he says.

“They tried.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Don’t know yet. But someone with long-range skills and bad timing.”

He wipes a hand down his beard, thoughtful. “I was going to call you earlier. There was a man in here this morning. Didn't match the touristy types. Wore a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Asked about the mountain, about your name.”

My grip tightens around the glass.

“He give a name?”

“Didn’t offer one. Paid in cash, drank black coffee. Had one of those watches that cost more than my truck. Looked like he belonged in D.C., not Colorado.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Didn’t see. Could be he’s gone. Could be he’s watching from the trees.” Hank pauses, lowers his voice. “You need help?”

“Not yet.”

“You will.”

I drain the bourbon in one swallow, set the glass down, and scan the room. No signs of an ambush. No extra boots at the bar. Just locals and shadows.

“Keep an eye out,” I say. “If anyone else starts sniffing around, you let me know.”

“You thinking of running?”

I look toward the hallway, where Abby waits behind a locked door with no idea how deep this goes.

“No,” I say. “Not this time.”

Hank nods. He doesn’t press. He’s known me long enough to hear what I’m not saying.

I step back out into the snow, eyes scanning the rooftops, the tree line beyond. Every nerve is lit. Every instinct humming. Someone knew where to find me or knew how to follow Abby, and that same somebody wanted Abby silenced. That someone is about to find out what happens when you aim at what’s mine.

The snow’s falling again, soft and steady, muting sound and slowing movement. I make for the edge of town on foot this time, circling wide past the diner and down through the service alley that cuts between the shops and the post office.

I grab a snowmobile from behind the general store, hot wire it and head back to the cabin. It doesn’t take long before I’ve got eyes on the cabin from the tree line.

From here, the front door is still intact. The shattered bedroom window will need to be boarded up hastily from the inside. I’d put the shooter down fairly easily, which tells me a few things. They weren’t local and didn’t know the terrain. They weren’t expecting me. But they’ll come back.

I crouch low in the snow, scanning for anything out of place. Footprints, drag marks, broken branches. I move around the perimeter, slow and methodical, instincts locked in.

To the untrained eye, the forest is clean. To me, it’s loud. Broken pine needles are where they shouldn’t be. A cigarette butt buried under fresh powder. The faint shift in the snow where someone laid prone for too long.

The shooter staked out the ridge behind the cabin—sniper position. Good view. Clean angle through the bedroom window, which means he knew Abby would be in there. Which means someone knew too much.

I pull my scarf up higher around my neck, then grab the bag I buried under the porch weeks ago. Emergency supplies—trip wire, traps, game meat, and a fifty-pound sack of high-protein dog food.

They wanted to send men after me? Fine.

---