Page 27 of Collateral Damage
Nothing about this is “good.”
"Snow's setting in," I say, keeping my voice low. "Talk me through the terrain when it gets buried."
"The bowl fills fast," Axel says, the line crackling with static. "Snow stacks against the north wall first. You won't see the drift from the windows."
I turn toward the kitchen, my jaw tightening. A blind spot. "Copy."
"Wind eddies off the ridge, too. The acoustics drop out early. It gets quiet enough to mess with your sense of distance. You’ll hear things that aren't there, and miss the things that are."
"Noted."
"Generator's solid, but the intake's on the lee side. If the wind shifts, it’ll ice over. You'll hear it strain before it quits."
I picture myself clearing ice in the dark while trying to keep eyes on the door. My hand flexes on the receiver. "Good to know."
"Well's deep. Cold like this, the pressure dips—nothing's wrong, just a slower recovery if you're pulling water hard."
I think of the steam from Ava's long shower earlier. I should have told her to keep it short. “What’s in the shed?”
“A Ski-Doo. It was turning over last time I was up, but you’ll want to check the plugs.”
“Roger that.”
"That enough to hold the line?" Axel asks.
"It gives me margins," I say. "That's all I need."
I end the call and set the phone on the heavy oak table, but the restless energy doesn't dissipate. I trace the perimeter of the room again—the window locks, the deadbolt, the single point of entry that still feels too porous for my liking.
The cabin groans under the weight of the accumulation, the wood shifting in the plummeting temperature. It’s the kind of isolation that doesn't feel like safety; it feels like being boxed in.
I take a steadying breath, trying to force my pulse to drop. There are too many variables shifting in the dark, too many ways for this to go sideways before the sun hits the snow.
I turn toward the bunk to check the .308 I’ve staged, but the movement dies in my throat.
Ava’s phone, tucked near the base of the lamp, chirps.
I stay frozen for a beat, watching the blue light bleed into the room, then step closer. A message notification is glowing on the screen, clear and cold against the darkness.
Unknown number.
My thumb hovers over the glass. When I finally swipe, the three words waiting there are enough to turn my blood to ice.
Think of me.
Eight
Ava
The ceiling’s wrong.
That’s the first thought that claws through the fog of sleep—heavy, dark timber beams pressing down in the dim light instead of the intricate, white-plastered cornicing of my bedroom in Guildford. I’m not in my bed, and I’m definitely not in my historic manor house with its familiar drafts and centuries of quiet history.
The air’s cold, smelling of stale woodsmoke and the sharp, metallic tang of gun oil.
For a heartbeat, I’m paralyzed. I’m lost in a map of my own life that doesn’t include this room. Then the weight of the last forty-eight hours slams into my chest.
I’m in a fortress disguised as a cabin.
