Page 11 of Savage Ranger Daddy

Brock is by the fireplace, feeding another log into the flames. He's been quieter since we finished working. Not distant, just settled into that focused calm he gets when he's processing. We covered a lot of ground this morning. The Ridgeline manifests matched to his patrol data. Cal's coordinates plotted against his red x-marks. The shape of a network neither of us could see alone. It should feel like progress, and it does. But it also made the danger feel more concrete. This isn't a loose collection of smugglers. It's an operation with infrastructure, and somewhere at the top of it someone is very, very good at not being found.

I shuffle the case notes into a neat stack and set them under my notebook. Then I stand there with nothing to do. My hands find the broom in the corner before my brain catches up.

I sweep. The floor doesn't need it. I sweep anyway, pushing imaginary dust toward the walls with more energy than the job requires. Then the counter gets wiped down with a dish towel even though we cleaned up after breakfast an hour ago. My hands need something to hold. If they're idle they start shaking, and I've had enough shaking for one week.

Brock watches me from the fireplace. I can feel the weight of his stare. "You always clean when you're stressed?"

"It's either this or I start alphabetizing your canned goods, and I really don't think either of us wants that level of chaos." I move to the windowsills and wipe away condensation while the wind screams outside. "The storm's making me jumpy. I'll stop eventually. Probably."

"You're fine. Cabin will hold. I've weathered worse up here."

I nod and keep wiping. He's probably right. The walls are thick, the roof is solid, and the man who built this place clearly planned for exactly this kind of punishment. But knowing that doesn't stop my pulse from spiking every time a gust slams the side of the structure hard enough to make the timbers groan.

I'm about to start on the stove when the lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then they go out completely.

The cabin plunges into semi-darkness, lit only by the fire. My stomach drops and the dish towel freezes in my hand.

Brock is already moving. He crosses the room in three strides, pulls a flashlight from the drawer by the door, and clicks iton. The beam cuts through the dimness. "Generator's probably tripped. Happens in high winds when a branch hits the feed line. Stay here."

He's reaching for his jacket when the satellite phone on the side table crackles to life.

We both freeze. The phone isn't ringing. It's picking up bleed from another frequency, the way radios sometimes cross signals in bad weather. Through the static I hear a man's voice, fragmented and tinny.

"...moved the timeline up. Shipment's not waiting for spring. Voss wants it done before..."

Static swallows the rest. I stare at the phone, heart hammering. Brock crosses back to the table and picks it up carefully, adjusting the frequency dial. More static. A second voice breaks through, deeper than the first.

"...the journalist is the priority. Find out where they took her. Check the..."

The signal dies. Nothing but white noise and the howl of the storm.

I don't realize I've stopped breathing until my lungs burn. I let the air out slow and force my voice to stay level. "They're looking for me."

Brock sets the phone down. His jaw is tight and his eyes have gone hard in a way I haven't seen before. Not angry. Calculating. "They were on an open frequency. Probably a handheld radio, not encrypted. Which means they're either sloppy or they think no one's listening this high up." He looks at me. "They mentioned Voss."

"I heard." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "They said they moved the timeline up. Whatever they're shipping, they're not waiting anymore."

He nods once. "I'll log the frequency and report it to Mason when I can get a clear line out. If they're using handhelds, they're operating close. Within range of this elevation. That's useful."

"Useful and terrifying. My two favorite things."

His expression shifts, just barely. The hardness softens at the edges when he looks at me. "They don't know where you are. That transmission was them asking, not answering. We're ahead of them."

I nod. Set down the dish towel. Cross my arms over my chest because my hands have started shaking again and I don't want him to see. "Can we get the lights back?"

"Yeah. Generator reset. Two minutes." He pulls on his jacket and boots, then pauses at the door. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it until you hear three knocks, then two. That's me."

"Three then two. Got it. Very spy movie." The joke comes out thin but I say it anyway because the alternative is standing here in the firelight thinking about faceless men on radios asking where to find me.

He steps into the storm and I throw the bolt. The wind screams through the gap before the door seals shut. I press my back against it and stare at the fire while my pulse pounds in my ears.

They're looking for me. They mentioned Voss. They moved the timeline.

I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The fire pops and hisses. Snow rattles the glass.The cabin is dark except for the orange glow of the flames and everything feels smaller and more vulnerable than it did ten minutes ago.

Two minutes feels like twenty. Then three heavy knocks hit the door, followed by two lighter ones. I yank the bolt back and Brock steps inside trailing snow and cold. He stamps his boots, locks the door, and crosses to the breaker panel by the kitchen.

The lights come back on. The hum of the generator fills the silence underneath the storm. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.