Page 22 of Cole

He programmed the coordinates into his GPS and pulled out onto the highway. The main road had been plowed overnight, leaving high banks of snow on either side but reasonable driving conditions. He made good time for the first few miles, the SUV handling the packed snow without issue.

Then he turned onto the gravel road leading to Janice's cabin, and conditions deteriorated fast.

The narrow lane wound through dense forest, barely wide enough for one vehicle. The plow had made a single pass, but drifts had already started reforming across the track. Cole shifted into four-wheel drive and slowed, navigating carefully around the worst spots.

The SUV's tires found purchase in the packed snow, engine growling as he climbed a steep grade. Trees pressed close on both sides, their branches heavy with accumulated snow. A few times, he had to stop and assess whether a drift was passable or if he'd get stuck trying to push through.

Afghanistan had been worse. Winter ops in the mountains, flying Blackhawks through conditions that would ground civilian aircraft. He'd learned to read weather, to understand the difference between challenging and impossible. This was challenging. Slow going, requiring attention and skill, but manageable.

The road leveled out after the climb, following a ridgeline before dropping into a valley. Through breaks in the trees, he caught glimpses of mountains rising in the distance, their peaks lost in lingering clouds. Wilderness stretched in every direction, vast and empty and unforgiving to those who didn't respect it.

No cell service out here, but he had a satellite phone and hoped she did, too. Along with her self-reliance. If Janice Lynch was documenting illegal mining activity in this isolation, she was either very brave or didn't fully grasp how vulnerable she was.

The GPS showed him getting closer. Then the cabin appeared through the trees. Small, weathered, exactly what you'd expect for a temporary research station. Solar panels on the roof, satellite dish mounted on the side. A truck buried under snow sat near the structure. Good, she was home.

Cole pulled up slowly, not wanting to startle her by roaring in unannounced. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, studying the setup. The cabin appeared secure. A tarp covered an ATV. There was no movement from inside that he could see. No one peered out a window to see who had driven up.

He climbed out of the SUV, boots crunching in the snow. The cold hit him immediately. He moved toward the front door, noting the stacked firewood, a small detail that told him Janice Lynch was competent at wilderness living.

Cole knocked, firm but not aggressive. "Ms. Lynch? My name is Cole Iverson. I'm with Lighthouse Security Investigations. I'd like to talk to you if you have a minute."

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. "Ms. Lynch? Just want to make sure you're okay."

Still nothing. He walked around the cabin, peering in windows, looking for any sign of her. The interior was neat, so he didn’t fear there had been a struggle. Everything suggested recent occupation, but no person was visible.

His instincts still prickled. She wouldn't have gone out in the storm. The conditions had been too dangerous, visibility too poor. But maybe she'd ventured out this morning after it cleared, checking equipment or gathering data. Or maybe she’s lying in bed ill or injured.

Taking a calculated risk, he easily picked the lock to the front door. With the door open, he called out again. “Ms. Lynch, I’m Cole Iverson from Lighthouse Security. I’m just checking to see if you’re all right. I’m stepping inside the door now. Call out if you’re here.”

Still silence.

One glance showed a one-room cabin. The bed was made but not occupied. The corner by the kitchen was clean, with dishes drying on a rack. The table in the other corner held a laptop and neatly stacked papers. The only other place to look was the bathroom or the closet. Calling out his identification again, he walked to what he assumed was the closet and knocked loudly on the door. Opening it, he spied clothes neatly hung and built-in drawers at the bottom. No one was hiding in the minuscule space.

Okay, it’s the bathroom. After once more calling out his identification, he gently opened the bathroom door, ready to close it quickly if she was on the toilet or in the shower. It was also empty. Turning around, he stared into the open, and very unoccupied space.

He was heading back to the front door when he heard it. Distant but distinct. The high-pitched whine of a snowmobile engine, growing gradually louder.

Cole stopped, waiting. The sound grew closer, coming from the direction of the creek he'd noticed on the GPS. Someone was approaching through the forest, following a trail he couldn't see from here.

His hand moved instinctively to his hip, where he always carried a sidearm on a mission that was either necessary or he was in an unknown situation. Granted, this wasn't a mission, and he was more of a concerned citizen checking on someone who might be in over her head.

Still, his training kicked in. He positioned himself near the cabin's side door, out of immediate sight but with a clear view of the approaching path. If this was Northern Summit's people coming to "handle" their witness problem, he wanted the element of surprise.

The snowmobile burst from the tree line, and Cole got his first look at the rider. They were dressed heavily in winter gear, their face obscured by goggles and masks. They killed the engine near a tarp-covered area beside the cabin and climbed off stiffly, movements suggesting cold and exhaustion.

They walked to the door near the kitchen, and he waited inside by the front door. As soon as they entered, their attention was focused on taking off their helmet and goggles. Their hair was still under a knit hat, but a thick, blond braid flopped over their shoulder. At this distance, he could tell that he was looking at Janice Lynch.

Cole breathed easier. Seeing that the person was female, he stepped out where she could see him, hands visible, posture non-threatening. "Ms. Lynch?"

She spun toward him, and her eyes widened. She gasped as she stumbled backward, reaching for something on her belt.

"It's okay," he said quickly, keeping his voice calm, his hands up. "My name is Cole Iverson. I'm with Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana. I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to talk."

She stood frozen, one hand still on whatever was clipped to her belt, breathing hard. Her body language screamed wariness. "What are you doing? I have bear spray!"

"I know this looks bad," Cole continued. "A stranger showing up at your isolated cabin⁠—”