Page 27

HUDSON

B y the time the sun breaks over the ridge, I’ve already pulled together a small team—Kate at my side, Eddie with the tech, two enforcers I trust with my life, and a sniper stationed back on the ridge to keep watch over the trail.

Having Kate at my side steadies the storm.

I’ve led missions where trust could get you killed, and silence was safer than breath.

But her? She’s not backup—she’s the anchor.

She cuts through the chaos like sunlight through fog, and that clarity changes everything.

The air feels denser, charged not just with tension but with something deeper—her belief in me, in us.

This isn’t just a mission anymore. It’s a line we walk together.

I used to walk into danger with a plan. Now, I walk in with purpose—and someone to fight my way back to.

I have the coordinates from the USB burned into my memory: a clearing just north of the old state road, nestled between a pair of rock outcroppings and a stand of pines.

The kind of place hunters might stumble over—close enough to feel like coincidence.

Too close to be ignored. The memory of it scratches at the back of my mind like déjà vu dipped in gasoline, just waiting for a spark.

We move fast, and silent, honed instincts guiding every step.

Our boots find the soft places between roots and rocks, barely rustling the forest floor.

The pine-sweet air fills my lungs, cool and sharp, laced with Kate's scent and the coppery edge of anticipation.

We're not just a team—we're predators on familiar ground, threading through the trees like a single pulse with shared breath and purpose. Each stride syncs with the rhythm of the forest, a quiet warning to anything watching: this is our territory, and we’re coming.

Eddie’s got his drone gear slung across his back, already prepping a launch.

The two enforcers—Heath and Bo—are flanking us, eyes sharp, movements precise.

Kate keeps low, her gaze scanning like she’s part of the terrain.

We’re a unit built for this—lean, lethal, and locked in.

Heath moves like a silent shadow, tall and broad with scars that map his years of service.

Bo is tighter, wiry and fast, eyes scanning every inch of the forest like he's memorizing it. Eddie’s all nerves and tech-focused, fingers flying over his tablet as the drone whirs above.

Kate, though—Kate is a vision of sharp intent and raw beauty, crouched low with muscles coiled, every movement a blend of instinct and precision.

Together, we cut through the underbrush like a blade.

The air’s still got that bite to it—crisp and sharp, like winter’s waiting just beyond the horizon—but beneath it rides something darker.

A sour rot, like mold on old meat or waterlogged wood, thick enough to catch in the back of my throat.

It clings to the ground and curls up from the roots, a wrongness in the earth itself.

The kind of rot that doesn’t belong in these woods and has no business this deep in hollow territory.

Even the birds are holding back, like the forest itself knows to stay quiet.

There’s no sound but the crunch of boots on dry leaves, the rustle of brush against gear, and the mechanical whir of a drone lifting off from Eddie’s gloved hands.

Above us, the drone buzzes like a giant, angry hornet, its red lights pulsing against the canopy.

Every step forward feels like trespassing in a place that’s been waiting for us, watching.

The team moves like ghosts—Kate crouched low, eyes scanning; Heath’s broad frame a silent wall of power; Bo’s lean form darting ahead with deadly precision; Eddie is all nerves and focus behind his screen.

We are more than ready. We are already in it.

Kate crouches beside me at the treeline, her eyes scanning the clearing with practiced calm.

Her fingers flex against the forest floor, grounding herself.

There’s no tremble, no hesitation—just a quiet storm beneath the surface.

She’s not just here to prove something. She’s here because she belongs.

"You smell that?" she whispers.

I nod once. "Chemicals. Fuel. Something synthetic."

“It’s like something got burned,” she murmurs. “Or buried."

Eddie flicks through images on his tablet. "I’ve got heat distortion about thirty feet due west. That’s not ground temp. Something’s under there—or was."

I give a silent nod, and we fan out—low, fast, each movement measured and deliberate.

The crunch of frost-crusted leaves underfoot is minimal, muffled by the layer of wet mulch and moss.

We glide over the terrain like seasoned predators, our formation spreading in a loose arc as we sweep the clearing.

Kate’s footsteps are nearly soundless beside me, her focus laser-sharp.

Heath’s massive form blends into the brush like he belongs to it.

Bo slips ahead, nimble and alert. We’re not just moving—we’re hunting.

The air feels taut, wired with the promise of violence or revelation, and every instinct in me is on edge.

Eddie lags back, eyes on his tablet, while Heath and Bo flank either side with weapons at the ready, every sense tuned for ambush. Kate stays tight to my six, her body language alert and fluid, like she was born to track danger.

The scent trail is old, but it seems suspicious.

Someone deliberately scoured some parts, making them too sterile and chemically sharp.

Something, or someone, has muddied other parts of the trail with masking agents that sting the nose.

This isn’t just concealment. It’s erasure.

Someone went to lengths not to vanish, but to obliterate every trace they were ever here.

Which means we’re exactly where we need to be.

Not just physically—in this clearing with the cache beneath our boots—but in the heart of something bigger.

A war that’s been simmering under the surface, inching toward ignition.

Every masked trail and scrubbed scent is a challenge. A warning. Or a dare.

We uncover the cache nestled beneath a dense blanket of leaf litter, cracked limbs, and the suffocating silence of long abandonment.

The ground above it looks natural, untouched—almost too perfect in its chaos.

It takes a trained eye to spot the deliberate deception: the unnatural smoothness of the mound, the faint impression of something once disturbed and expertly concealed.

My fingers brush the top layer aside, revealing the first glint of camo netting buried beneath the rot.

The further we dig, the more obvious it becomes—someone wanted this hidden, not forgotten.

It’s well-hidden—too well for amateurs. Plastic crates rest beneath a false floor of packed dirt and expertly woven camo netting, the fabric rough under my fingertips, gritty with embedded dust. As I lean closer, the faint tang of rust and mold wafts up—metal gone sour from long exposure, canvas that once breathed sweat and tension.

Grease, solvent, and faint traces of pine resin layer, the smell, like a graveyard of preparation, soaked into every thread and surface.

It’s intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl, like I’m touching the echo of someone else’s survival plan.

, the whole setup is nearly invisible to the casual eye.

When we peel it back and crack one open, I hear Kate’s breath catch and feel her body stiffen beside mine, her shoulder brushing mine like a live wire. It’s the physical manifestation of the data we uncovered.

Rifles. Ammo. Medical kits. Unmarked phones.

Satellite equipment. The scent inside the crate hits like a punch—hot oil laced with ozone, the tang of cold metal, and something chemical-sharp, like solvent soaked into aged canvas.

It catches in the back of my throat, foul and metallic, sending a jolt of adrenaline through my system.

Each crate breathes the ghost of preparation—sweat, fear, and purpose etched into every surface.

The metal casings are slick with fine dust and old sweat, a grim echo of whoever packed them. Military grade, untraceable. Not the kind of gear that shows up by accident. Not for backwoods moonshiners.

“What the hell were they planning out here?” Kate whispers.

Eddie sifts through a secondary crate, muttering under his breath as his gloved hands brush aside foam packing and layers of old camo netting.

"More encrypted comms gear," he says, pulling out a wrapped bundle.

"Looks like redundant systems. Whoever set this up expected to be here awhile—and stay off-grid. "

He digs deeper; the crate creaking faintly under his weight, then exhales sharply. "Solar charging banks. Emergency water filtration. A rolled schematic—part of a map, maybe. This wasn't a drop site. This was a base of operations. Temporary, mobile, but planned."

I take a step back, breathing deep, letting the forest fill my lungs.

That's when the scent finds me—not the sharp bite of gun oil or the acrid tang of old fuel, but something subtler. Feral. Familiar. Like a whisper from the past catching on the back of my throat.

It halts me cold, a jolt of memory dragging claws down my spine.

I can feel it even before I see him—wrongness slinking through the bushes like smoke under the door. The rest of the team’s cataloging weapons and supplies, but one wolf is just… standing. Too still. Too relaxed. Eyes scanning, not observing.

Karl.

He is one of Eddard’s hangers on. A loyalist, devious and quietly vocal. But always present. Always watching.

I move toward him, casual on the outside, heat building.

“You find anything?” I ask, jerking my chin toward the crates.

He doesn’t flinch. “Nothing more than might be expected. I was surprised when they told me you wanted me here. I think this kind of work is beneath me.”