Page 41

Wyatt

S ince Finn had seen the armed goon at Mr. Oliver’s office, there is no doubt in my mind that tonight they will act. They can’t risk us going to the FBI or some other authority that could prevent us from keeping ownership of The Wildwood, if Mr. Oliver’s loan documents are to be fully believed.

The Alaskan night is unforgiving, its cold biting through my thick jacket as I huddle close to the window, peering into the darkness.

The vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness is eerily silent, save for the occasional howl of a distant wolf.

My breath fogs up the glass, but I don't dare move. Finn stands beside me, his face stoic, but I know he’s fearful.

I am too. We know what’s coming. Mr. Oliver’s goons are on their way, and we need to be ready.

“Finn,” I whisper, breaking the silence. “We can’t just wait for them to come to us. We need a plan.”

Finn nods, his eyes never leaving the tree line. “You’re right. We need to use the terrain to our advantage. Doris and Miranda need to stay inside and guard the main entrance. We’ll take the fight to them.”

We gather Doris and Miranda in the kitchen, the warm glow of the fireplace doing little to ease the tension. Doris, our ever-resourceful chef, clutches a rolling pin, her knuckles white. Miranda holds a shotgun with a determined glint in her eyes, the intensity of which I haven’t seen before.

“Listen,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “We need to protect Wildwood. Doris, Miranda, you stay here and cover the entrances. Finn and I will head outside and try to flank them. If they get inside, you know what to do.”

Miranda nods firmly. “Don’t worry about us, Wyatt. We’ll handle our end. You two be careful out there.”

Finn and I step out into the biting cold, our breath forming clouds in the frosty air.

The moon casts an eerie glow over the landscape, illuminating the snow-covered ground.

We move silently, except for our footsteps which make muffled crunching sounds in the thick blanket of snow.

The plan is simple: draw the enemy into the open, where we can pick them off one by one.

But only if necessary. If they don’t appear armed, we or simply there to collect, we will just hold them at bay.

No matter what, we have to be prepared for the worst. Finn doesn’t seem like the type take up arms, but maybe if the situation comes right down to it. After all, here in Alaska, people aren’t welcome on other’s land… especially if they’re here to take it—or worse, hurt the landowners.

We find a spot near the edge of the property, where the dense trees offer some cover. Finn checks his rifle, fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar weight and mechanism. I can see the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Hey,” I say softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Let me show you how to handle that properly.”

Finn nods, his jaw set, cheeks flushed pink from more than just the cold.

I take the rifle from him, demonstrating how to load the magazine and chamber a round.

“You want to keep it steady, like this,” I explain, showing him the proper grip.

“And when you aim, focus on the front sight, not the target itself. Squeeze the trigger gently; don’t jerk it. ”

He watches intently, then takes the rifle back, mimicking my actions. His movements are a bit clumsy, but he’s learning fast. I adjust his stance, guiding him with gentle touches. “Like this,” I murmur, stepping behind him to correct his posture. “You’ve got it.”

“Thanks, Wyatt,” Finn says, his voice low and sincere. “I’m not as skilled with guns as you are, but I’ll do my best.”

I give him a small smile. “I know you will. Just stay focused and remember what I showed you.”

We crouch behind a fallen log, our eyes scanning the dark shadows cast by the moon.

The silence is almost oppressive, every snap of a twig, every rustle of branches sending my heart racing.

I glance at Finn, his face illuminated by the glow of moonlight.

There’s a tension in his eyes that mirrors my own, my only hope is he realizes we don’t have a choice in what we’re doing. We must defend ourselves and our home.

“Finn,” I say quietly, “we need to be ready for anything. This could get ugly.”

He looks at me, and for a moment, the fear breaks through his tough exterior. “I know. But I’m… scared.”

“I am too,” I say, then reach out and take his hand, squeezing it tightly. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

A flicker of a smile crosses his lips, and he squeezes back. “Together.”

The plan is simple but risky. Once we had the barricades set up around the property, using fallen trees and old crates to create choke points.

Finn and I will take the high ground, using the natural cover to our advantage.

Doris and Miranda are inside, ready to defend the house if any of them get past us.

If Miranda’s expression earlier told me anything it’s that she isn’t scared to use the rifle.

“Wyatt,” Finn says, breaking the silence. “If anything happens to me?—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt, my voice firmer than I intended. “Don’t talk like that. We’re both getting out of this alive.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “Okay. But just in case... I want you to know that I?—”

“I know,” I say softly, cutting him off again. “I feel the same way.”

There’s a brief moment where the world seems to stand still, the only sound is the pounding of our hearts. Then, a distant rustling brings us back to the present. The enemy has arrived.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Finn nods, his grip on the rifle tightening. “Ready.”

As we wait, the silence becomes almost unbearable. The minutes stretch into what feels like hours, until finally, we hear them again. This time, voices, low and menacing, carry on the wind.

Finn and I exchange a glance. “Stay close,” I whisper, gripping my weapon tightly. “And remember what I told you.”

He nods, his eyes fixed on the approaching figures. “I will.”

Finn signals for me to take position. We crouch behind a fallen log, our eyes scanning the darkness.

The snow is a thick blanket, muffling our movements and absorbing the sounds around us.

The cold is biting, numbing my fingers despite the thick gloves I wear.

The wind whistles through the trees, a haunting sound that only heightens the tension.

Mr. Oliver’s thugs move cautiously, their flashlights cutting through the night.

There are four of them, heavily armed and looking ready for a fight.

They’re dressed in dark, heavy coats and thick boots, their faces partially obscured by scarves and hats.

They look like shadows moving against the snowy backdrop, their breath visible in the cold air.

My pulse quickens, adrenaline surging into my veins.

It’s hard to figure out the specifics of each of the men who seek to cause us harm, their heavy coats and ski masks obscure details about each of them.

Two things are for certain, they are big dudes and they carry their weapons like professionals.

Without a word about this to Finn, I swallow down my rising fear as I know our only hope to get through this in one piece is to maintain the element of surprise.

“Now,” I whisper, and we spring into action.

The goons take their first shot as it rings out, a sharp crack that echoes through the night.

I return fire. The biggest guy drops, clutching his shoulder, a crimson stain spreading across his coat and onto the snow beneath him.

My goal is not to kill unless I have to so a shoulder shot will do for now.

Chaos erupts. The remaining men scramble for cover, returning fire blindly into the trees.

Bullets whiz past us, thudding into the snow and trees.

I return fire, aiming for another one’s center mass.

He goes down with a pained cry, his weapon falling from his grasp.

The wind picks up, swirling snow around us in a blinding flurry.

I can barely see Finn through the sudden and unexpected storm, but I know he’s there, fighting alongside me.

Another shot rings out and I can tell from the location it came from Finn.

Across the clearing, I watch as another goon falls into a blood-red pile of snow.

The man rolls to the side clutching his shoulder—not a kill shot but maybe enough of a deterrent from picking back up his gun.

But then, a bullet grazes my arm, a searing pain that makes me grit my teeth.

I want to scream out, but can’t risk giving away my exact location.

“Wyatt, you okay?” Finn hisses over the din, his voice filled with fear and emotion.

“I’m fine,” I yell back, pushing through the pain. “We need to finish this.”

We move closer, using the trees for cover.

The snow is deep, making every step a struggle.

There is one goon left and by the looks of him, he will not be going down without a fight.

He charges at us, swinging his rifle like a club, clearly out of ammunition.

Finn takes the brunt of the attack, grappling with the man.

Unable to get off a shot in my current condition and in this close proximity, I join the fray, landing a punch that sends him staggering.

Finn follows up with a well-placed kick to the head, and the piece of shit crumples to the ground, unconscious, but breathing.

Breathing heavily, we stand over the fallen enemy.

The snow around us is stained with blood, the cold air filled with the scent of gunpowder.

The scene is eerily silent now, the only sound is the howling wind and our ragged breaths.

I can feel the cold seeping back into my bones as the adrenaline ebbs.

“Wyatt,” Finn says, his voice rough with exhaustion. “We did it.”