By marilyn quillen
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The diner was a relic, the kind of place time forgot. Its faded booths, cracked linoleum floors, and flickering neon sign made it perfect for secrets—no cameras, no questions, just the low hum of the ancient refrigerator in the back. Alex Dane sat at the corner booth, nursing a bitter cup of coffee. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to make the shadows in the room dance.
He didn’t like the man sitting across from him.
The guy was sweating through a tailored suit, his collar loose, tie askew. He looked like a man who’d been running from something—or someone—for far too long. His hands were trembling as he slid the manila folder across the table.
“You’re the best,” the man said, his voice a low rasp. “That’s what they said. The best tracker. No one gets away from you.”
Alex ignored the compliment, flipping open the folder. The first thing he saw was the face: Ethan Grayson. Mid-thirties, lean, angular features, eyes like ice. The grainy surveillance photo showed a man slipping through a crowd, his hood pulled low, blending seamlessly into the chaos around him.
“Military,” Alex said, more to himself than to the client. His fingers flicked through the pages, noting key details: background in special forces, expertise in survival, evasion, and counter-surveillance.
“Black ops,” the client confirmed, his voice tightening. “He was part of a unit that went bad. Disappeared two years ago after some...incident overseas. Officially, he’s dead. Unofficially, we’ve been tracking him.”
Alex looked up, raising an eyebrow. “And why’s he worth this much effort?” He tapped the envelope on the table, thick with cash. “You’ve already doubled my fee just to talk. What makes this guy so special?”
The client hesitated, his fingers twitching as he reached for his coffee cup. He didn’t drink, just stared into the black liquid like it might offer him answers. “Grayson’s not just running. He’s hiding something. Something dangerous.”
Alex leaned back in the booth, his expression unreadable. “And you don’t want to tell me what that something is?”
“That’s not your concern,” the man snapped, his tone sharpening. “Your job is to find him and bring him in. Dead or alive.”
Alex tilted his head, considering. “You realize the Cascade Range in winter isn’t exactly friendly territory. If he’s holed up out there, he’s not just hiding. He’s prepared. People like him don’t make it easy.”
“That’s why we’re hiring you,” the client said.
Alex smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And what happens if I don’t come back? You hire someone else to clean up your mess?”
The client’s lips twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he slid another envelope across the table.
“Half now,” he said. “The rest when you bring him in. But be careful, Dane. Grayson’s not like anyone you’ve tracked before.”
Alex pocketed the cash and the folder, finishing his coffee in one long, bitter gulp. “They never are.”
The drive out to the Cascades took the better part of a day. The mountains rose like jagged teeth against the horizon, their peaks disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Snow blanketed the forests, muffling the world in a cold, suffocating silence.
Alex pulled his truck to a stop at the edge of a remote trailhead, killing the engine and stepping out into the freezing air. He was dressed for the weather—thermal layers under a heavy jacket, gloves, and boots designed for traction on ice. His pack was loaded with essentials: food, water, a small stove, and extra ammunition for the rifle slung across his back.
He scanned the area, his breath visible in the cold air. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, the dense pines forming a wall of shadows. It was the kind of place that swallowed people whole, leaving nothing behind but rumors and ghost stories.
Grayson’s last known location was about five miles up the trail, near a series of old logging roads that had been abandoned decades ago. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was enough to start.
Alex adjusted his pack and set off, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The cold bit at his exposed skin, the wind carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. He kept his senses sharp, scanning for signs of movement, disturbed snow, or anything out of place.
For hours, there was nothing. Just the sound of his breathing and the rhythm of his footsteps.
But as the sun began to sink behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the snow, Alex found his first clue: a bootprint, faint but unmistakable, leading off the trail and deeper into the woods.
He crouched to examine it, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of the print. The snow was packed firm, the edges still sharp—it was recent, no more than a day old.
Grayson was close.
Alex’s pulse quickened as he followed the trail, each step taking him deeper into the trees. The light faded rapidly, the shadows growing darker, and the air colder. His hand hovered near his rifle, every nerve on edge.
Ahead, through the trees, he saw it: a cabin, half-buried in snow, smoke curling weakly from the chimney.
Alex slowed, his instincts screaming at him to stop. The cabin looked wrong—too obvious, too exposed. But it was the only lead he had.
He approached cautiously, his footsteps silent. The door was ajar, creaking softly as it swayed in the wind. Alex stepped inside, his rifle raised, scanning the interior.
The room was a mess. Maps and papers were scattered across a rickety table, some torn, others burned. A single cot sat against the far wall, its blanket rumpled, and a wood stove emitted a faint warmth.
But it was the writing on the wall that stopped him cold.
Scrawled in black ink, in jagged, uneven letters:
“The hunter doesn’t always stay the hunter.”
Alex stared at the words, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faintest sound of crunching snow.
He wasn’t alone.
| Author Notes | This is my first full novel and am hoping to get some good honest opinions before publishing! Thanks |
By marilyn quillen
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Into the Wild
________________________________________
The snow fell in heavy, muffling waves, coating the forest in a fresh layer of silence. Alex crouched by the cabin's window, the rifle resting lightly in his hands as he scanned the clearing. The faint crunch he'd heard moments ago was gone, swallowed by the storm.
His eyes traced the tree line, watching for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the steady fall of snow and the creaking groan of frozen branches bending under its weight.
Alex's pulse was steady, but his senses were on high alert. He didn't believe in coincidences. Whoever had been out there wasn't just passing through.
The cabin was a mess of scattered clues, each more unsettling than the last. The maps on the table were marked with circles and arrows, but none of it made immediate sense. A few had burned edges like someone had tried to destroy them in a hurry. Notes were scrawled in the margins "Shift north," "Avoid ridge," "Three days left?" none of it offering clarity.
But it was the writing on the wall that stayed with him: "The hunter doesn't always stay the hunter."
Alex straightened and moved back into the center of the room, his boots crunching over the layer of snow that had blown in through the broken windows. He picked up a sheet of paper lying on the floor. Most of it was gibberish coordinates and scribbled diagrams but one phrase was circled in thick black ink:
"STAY AHEAD. STAY AHEAD."
The trail picked up again just beyond the cabin, faint but deliberate. A line of bootprints curved toward the trees, disappearing into the dense undergrowth. Alex followed cautiously, every step measured, his rifle slung across his chest.
The storm eased as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest. The temperature dropped sharply, and Alex adjusted the scarf around his face, his breath frosting in the frigid air.
The bootprints led him to the edge of a frozen stream. He crouched, studying the pattern. The tracks continued across the ice, but there was something odd about the spacing too precise, too perfect.
He reached out, brushing a gloved hand over the surface. His fingers caught on a thin, almost invisible wire.
A trap.
Alex followed the wire's path to a nearby tree, where it connected to a crude mechanism with sharpened stakes rigged to spring if the wire was tripped. He let out a soft breath, more frustration than relief. This wasn't just evasion; it was a warning.
"Smart," he muttered under his breath.
He disarmed the trap with practiced ease, his movements quick and precise. But as he stood, he noticed something else: the bootprints stopped just beyond the stream. They didn't veer off, didn't fade they just ended.
Alex frowned, scanning the area. A faint indent in the snow caught his eye, leading to a cluster of low-hanging branches. He followed it, pushing through the trees until he saw it: a piece of fabric, torn and caught on a jagged branch. It flapped weakly in the wind, a bright slash of color against the white.
Too easy.
Alex didn't trust it. Grayson was ex-military, a ghost by trade. This kind of carelessness didn't add up.
He looked up at the surrounding trees, their skeletal branches weaving into an impenetrable canopy. The shadows seemed to move in the fading light, shifting in ways they shouldn't. His gut told him to turn back, but the hunter in him pushed forward.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he pressed deeper into the forest. The cold was sharper here, biting through his layers and settling into his bones. Every step felt heavier, every sound louder in the oppressive silence.
He wasn't following Grayson's trail anymore. He was walking into a trap.
By the time night fell, Alex knew he couldn't keep moving. The forest was too dense, the terrain too unpredictable in the dark. He found a sheltered spot beneath a rocky overhang and set up a small camp. The fire was minimal, just enough to stave off frostbite, its flickering light barely illuminating the surrounding trees.
Alex sat with his back against the rock, his rifle resting across his knees. His eyes scanned the darkness beyond the firelight, watching for movement. The shadows played tricks on him, the faint rustle of branches sounding like footsteps. He didn't relax. He didn't sleep.
Hours passed, the fire crackling softly as the storm raged overhead. Then, just as he began to think the night might pass uneventfully, he heard it: a faint crunch of snow.
Alex's body tensed. The sound came again, closer this time, deliberate and unhurried. His grip tightened on the rifle as he scanned the perimeter, his breath slow and controlled.
"Grayson," he called out, his voice cutting through the silence. "You've got my attention."
No response. Just the whisper of the wind and the steady crunch of footsteps circling his camp.
Alex stood, his boots crunching in the snow as he moved to the edge of the firelight. The shadows stretched long and jagged, warping the trees into unrecognizable shapes. He raised the rifle, aiming toward the sound.
"Show yourself," he said, his voice low and steady.
The footsteps stopped. For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a voice low and calm, barely louder than the wind.
"You're not the first, Dane. But you might be the last."
Alex's stomach dropped. He turned sharply, scanning the darkness for movement, but the forest remained still.
The fire flickered, casting eerie shadows across the snow. The voice didn't come again, but the weight of it lingered, heavy and suffocating. Alex stayed awake until dawn, his rifle never leaving his hands.
When the first light broke through the trees, Alex found footprints circling his camp dozens of them, deliberate and precise, their pattern taunting.
In the center of the camp, etched into the snow, were three words:
"Stay ahead, Dane."
| Author Notes | This is my first full length novel and I'm hoping for some honest opinions before publishing. Thanks |
By marilyn quillen
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The Game Tightens
________________________________________
The light of dawn filtered weakly through the trees, bathing the forest in a cold, gray glow. Alex crouched in the snow, studying the tracks Grayson had left behind. They weren't random each footprint, each turn, each doubled-back trail was calculated. Deliberate.
The words etched into the snow in the center of his camp "Stay ahead, Dane" burned into his mind. Grayson wasn't just leading him in circles; he was toying with him. Mocking him.
Alex's gloved fingers brushed the edge of one footprint, noting the faintest shift in the snow where it pressed deeper. Grayson had been here recently, close enough to leave a mark in the freshly fallen snow.
Too close.
Alex straightened, his rifle slung low across his chest, and scanned the tree line. The forest was silent but alive in its stillness. Every shadow seemed to breathe, every branch bending under the weight of snow felt like a set of eyes watching. He wasn't alone out here not anymore.
The New Trail
The next set of tracks veered west, deeper into the thick of the forest. Alex followed cautiously, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The cold was sharp, biting into his skin despite his layers. It had been years since he'd felt this kind of tension the raw, electric charge of a hunt where the prey might be smarter than the hunter.
The first trap came an hour into the trail. A crude snare, the wire barely visible against the snow, was rigged to a bent sapling. If triggered, it would've whipped up with enough force to shatter bone.
Alex crouched beside it, studying the mechanism. It was simple but effective, the kind of trap designed to incapacitate rather than kill. He disarmed it carefully, his movements quick and precise, then glanced around for signs of another.
Grayson wasn't relying on one trap.
A faint shift in the snow ahead caught Alex's attention a patch too smooth, too untouched. He circled wide, his boots pressing firm into the frozen ground, and spotted the second trap. This one was more complex: a tripwire leading to a buried charge, the detonator hidden beneath a thin layer of snow.
Alex's breath fogged the air as he crouched to inspect it. Grayson had gone to great lengths to make this look natural. The wire was fine, nearly invisible unless you knew what to look for, and the placement was flawless. Alex traced its path to a nearby tree, where a small bundle of explosives was rigged to spray shrapnel in every direction.
He disarmed the charge with steady hands, his pulse calm but steady. He'd seen traps like this before back when he was on the other side of the game.
"You're thorough," Alex muttered under his breath, his voice lost in the cold air.
He stood, scanning the area. Grayson was close too close for comfort but the lack of sound, the lack of movement, unnerved him more than any trap.
Signs of Life
By mid-afternoon, Alex had reached a clearing. The snow was deeper here, untouched except for a faint set of tracks leading to a rocky overhang. Smoke curled weakly from somewhere beyond the rise, a thin, pale thread against the gray sky.
Alex's instincts screamed at him to stop. This was wrong too open, too exposed. But the trail was leading him here, and he wasn't about to back off now.
He moved cautiously, his rifle raised, and climbed the slope. As he crested the ridge, the source of the smoke came into view: a fire pit, small and controlled, nestled against the base of the rocks. A metal pot hung over the flames, steam curling from its spout.
No one was there.
Alex approached slowly, his boots crunching in the snow. The fire was real, the heat warm against his face, but the area was too clean. No gear. No supplies. Just the fire and the pot.
He crouched beside the flames, glancing into the pot. Water, still boiling. Whoever had been here was close, minutes away, maybe less.
A sound behind him a faint snap of a branch.
Alex spun, his rifle snapping to his shoulder, but the clearing was empty. His heart pounded as he scanned the tree line, the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes.
Then he saw it.
A figure, barely visible through the trees, standing motionless at the edge of the clearing. Grayson.
Alex froze, his finger hovering over the trigger. The figure didn't move, didn't react. It was like staring at a shadow that had come to life.
"Grayson," Alex called out, his voice steady. "You've got nowhere to go."
The figure tilted its head, just slightly, then turned and vanished into the forest.
Alex didn't hesitate. He followed.
Into the Darkness
The forest swallowed him whole, the trees growing denser, their branches clawing at the sky. Grayson's trail was easy to follow at first fresh prints pressed deep into the snow but it became erratic the further Alex went. The tracks doubled back, circled, then vanished entirely before reappearing yards away.
The light faded quickly, and Alex slowed, his nerves on edge. The silence was crushing now, broken only by the soft crunch of his boots and the faint whisper of the wind.
He paused, kneeling in the snow, and scanned the area. Something wasn't right. Grayson wasn't running, he was leading.
Alex adjusted the grip on his rifle, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Come on," he muttered, his voice low. "Let's end this."
A sudden movementâ€"a flash of something in the corner of his eye. Alex turned sharply, his finger brushing the trigger, but the forest was empty.
No. Not empty.
A faint light glowed through the trees ahead, flickering like a fire. Alex moved toward it, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The light grew brighter, casting long shadows that danced against the trunks of the trees.
As he approached, the source of the light came into view: a lantern, hanging from a low branch, swaying gently in the wind. Beneath it, a piece of paper was nailed to the tree.
Alex tore it down, his gloved fingers brushing the words scrawled across the page:
"Not bad, Dane. But the night's just getting started."
A low, sharp snap sounded behind him.
Alex turned, and the forest exploded into chaos.
By marilyn quillen
The forest was a frozen labyrinth, every step sinking Alex deeper into the trap. He stood in the clearing, the crumpled note burning in his pocket like a live coal. Grayson's words"How far will you go before you realize who's really pulling the strings?" echoed in his head, clawing at the edges of his composure.
Alex scanned the tree line, the rifle steady in his hands. The clearing was too exposed, too perfect. He could feel Grayson watching him, the man's presence a suffocating weight pressing against his chest.
"Come on," Alex muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. "Let's end this."
Nothing. Just the soft whisper of the wind through the pines and the distant creak of snow-laden branches.
Alex forced himself to move, every instinct screaming at him to get out of the open. He followed the faint indentation of a trail leading away from the clearing, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The trees closed in quickly, the shadows deepening as the light faded.
A Familiar Pattern
The trail was maddeningly familiar. Alex realized with a sinking feeling that he'd been here before. The same twisted pine leaning precariously over the path, the same jagged boulder half-buried in the snow. Grayson was leading him in circles.
Alex stopped, his breath fogging in the cold air, and crouched to examine the tracks. They were his own.
"Damn it," he growled, rising to his feet. He turned sharply, scanning the surrounding trees. "You're wasting my time, Grayson!"
The forest absorbed his shout, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Then, faintly, a sound. A soft whistle, lilting and calm. It came from deeper in the forest, a haunting melody that cut through the stillness like a blade.
Alex's grip on the rifle tightened. The whistle continued, its source impossible to pinpoint. It wasn't taunting it was inviting.
The trail led toward the sound, the path narrowing between tightly packed trees. Alex followed cautiously, the whistle growing louder, more distinct, until he could almost make out its rhythm. It was familiar something from his past, though he couldn't place it.
The sound stopped abruptly, replaced by a deafening silence.
And then the forest exploded.
The Ambush
The first shot came from his left, striking the tree inches from his head and sending bark flying into his face. Alex dropped instinctively, rolling into the snow and bringing his rifle up as a second shot cracked through the air.
Grayson wasn't firing to kill not yet.
Alex scanned the tree line, his heart hammering. The snow muffled everything, turning the forest into a maze of distorted sounds. He couldn't see the shooter, but he could feel the man's presence pressing in from every direction.
Another shot rang out, this one closer, driving Alex into a low crawl toward the cover of a fallen log. He pressed his back against it, his breath coming in sharp bursts, and strained his ears for any sign of movement.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
And then, faintly, Grayson's voice: "You're predictable, Dane."
Alex turned sharply, his rifle snapping toward the sound, but there was no one there.
Another shot, this one from his right, splintering the log beside his head. Grayson was moving, circling, always one step ahead.
Alex rolled out of cover and fired blindly into the trees, the crack of his rifle echoing through the forest. The recoil jolted through his shoulder, but there was no response, no sound of a body hitting the snow.
Just silence.
The False Trail
Alex moved again, keeping low as he retreated deeper into the forest. His breaths came fast and shallow, his mind racing. Grayson wasn't just toying with him he was driving him.
Herding him.
But toward what?
The snow fell heavier now, the flakes thick and blinding. Alex's boots slipped on a patch of ice, sending him sprawling into the cold. He scrambled to his feet, his pulse pounding, and froze.
In the snow ahead, another set of tracks. Fresh.
Grayson's.
Alex followed, his steps quickening despite the cold biting at his face and the ache in his shoulder. The tracks led to a narrow gap between two towering boulders, the space barely wide enough for him to fit through.
It was too perfect.
Alex hesitated, his rifle raised as he scanned the area. The boulders loomed over him like jagged teeth, the shadows between them unnaturally deep.
Grayson wouldn't make it this easy.
Alex circled the gap, staying low as he examined the surrounding snow. His eyes caught it immediately a faint line etched across the ground, too straight to be natural.
Another trap.
He crouched, brushing the snow aside to reveal a wire stretched taut between two stakes. Following its path, he found the detonator buried beneath a nearby rock. The charge was small but effective, designed to send shards of shrapnel in every direction.
Alex disarmed it quickly, his fingers steady despite the cold. As he straightened, a faint sound behind him sent a jolt through his chest a single step, deliberate and close.
He turned sharply, his rifle snapping to his shoulder, but the trail was empty.
Then he heard it again: the whistle. Closer now, almost playful.
The Confrontation
Alex didn't wait. He bolted through the gap between the boulders, his rifle raised and ready. The trail opened into another clearing, this one smaller and more enclosed, the trees forming a jagged ring around its edges.
At the center stood Grayson.
The man's posture was relaxed, his rifle slung casually over one shoulder. Snow clung to his dark jacket, his face shadowed beneath the brim of a hood.
"You're persistent," Grayson said, his tone calm. "I'll give you that."
Alex leveled his rifle, his jaw tightening. "You're done running."
Grayson smirked faintly, stepping closer. "Running? Is that what you think this is?"
Alex didn't lower the weapon. "You've been leading me in circles, laying traps, playing games. It ends now."
"Does it?" Grayson asked, his voice low. "Tell me something, Dane. Do you even know why you're here?"
Alex hesitated, his finger brushing the trigger. "To bring you in."
Grayson's smirk widened. "They told you that, didn't they? Told you I was dangerous. That I needed to be stopped."
"You killed people," Alex growled.
Grayson shook his head. "I survived. And you're not here to stop me. You're here because they sent you. Same as they sent me."
Alex's grip tightened on the rifle, his heart hammering. "What are you talking about?"
Grayson took another step closer, his voice dropping. "You're not the hunter, Dane. You're the bait."
The words hit Alex like a blow, freezing him in place.
And then, from the shadows, came the sound of footsteps.
Not Grayson's.
By marilyn quillen
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The footsteps echoed through the clearing, heavy and deliberate, cutting through the suffocating silence. Alex didn't move, his rifle still trained on Grayson. His breath plumed in the freezing air as his pulse thundered in his ears.
Grayson stood calmly, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. "You feel that?" he asked, his voice low. "The weight pressing down? That's the sound of realization."
"Who's out there?" Alex growled, his eyes flicking to the tree line.
Grayson didn't answer. He simply tilted his head, gesturing toward the shadows.
The first figure emerged slowly, moving with deliberate precision. A man in tactical gear, his face obscured by a balaclava, his rifle held low but ready. Then another. And another.
Alex's stomach dropped as more figures stepped into the clearing, their weapons trained on him. They moved like a unit, their coordination flawless, their intentions unmistakable.
"Friends of yours?" Alex asked, his voice edged with tension.
Grayson smirked faintly, lowering his rifle. "Not mine."
The lead figure stopped a few feet away, his cold eyes visible beneath the mask. His voice was calm, clinical. "Alex Dane. Put the weapon down."
Alex didn't move. His finger hovered over the trigger, his mind racing.
"Now," the man repeated, his tone sharper.
"Who the hell are you?" Alex demanded.
The man exchanged a glance with one of his comrades, then turned back to Alex. "We're here to clean up a mess. You've been compromised."
The Setup
Grayson laughed softly, breaking the tension. "Compromised? Is that what you're calling it these days?"
"Shut up," the lead figure snapped, his weapon shifting toward Grayson.
Alex's grip tightened on his rifle. "Someone start explaining, or I start shooting."
The man sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You were sent to track Grayson. To eliminate him if necessary. What you weren't told is that you were also part of the mission."
Alex narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're the insurance policy," Grayson said, cutting in. His tone was almost amused, though his gaze never left the masked men. "If I got away, they'd use you to flush me out. If I didn't...well, they'd have two loose ends to clean up instead of one."
The realization hit Alex like a punch to the gut. The nervous client in the diner, the cryptic warnings, the deliberate lack of information it all clicked into place.
"You're lying," Alex said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Grayson's smirk widened. "Am I? Take a good look, Dane. Do they look like reinforcements to you?"
Alex's eyes darted between the masked men. Their posture was rigid, their weapons trained on him with military precision. They weren't here to help.
The Standoff
The lead figure took a step forward. "This isn't personal, Dane. You've done your job. Hand over the weapon, and we'll make this quick."
Alex's grip on the rifle didn't waver. "And if I don't?"
The man sighed, almost disappointed. "Then you end up like him." He nodded toward Grayson.
Grayson raised his hands mockingly. "Guess that makes two of us."
The clearing felt smaller now, the trees pressing in as the tension mounted. Alex's mind raced, calculating his odds. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and cornered but he wasn't finished.
"Three seconds," the lead figure said, his tone cold. "Then we do this the hard way."
"Don't let them take you alive," Grayson said quietly, his voice barely audible over the wind.
Alex made his decision.
The Fight
He moved fast, dropping into a crouch and squeezing the trigger. The rifle's crack split the air, and the lead figure went down, clutching his shoulder as blood bloomed across his gear. The clearing erupted into chaos.
The masked men opened fire, their bullets tearing through the snow as Alex rolled behind a fallen log. Splinters flew as rounds chewed through the wood, but he didn't stop. He fired again, dropping a second man, then scrambled toward the trees for better cover.
Grayson moved too, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.
The masked team regrouped quickly, their movements precise and methodical. Alex had no doubt they were professional mercenaries, likely hired by the same people who'd sent him after Grayson.
"Move in!" one of them barked, their voices sharp and clipped.
Alex fired blindly, forcing them to spread out. The forest exploded with sounds of gunfire, shouted commands, the crack of branches underfoot.
His heart pounded as he darted between the trees, his breaths ragged in the freezing air. He was running out of options and ammunition.
The Unexpected Ally
A shot rang out from deeper in the forest, sharp and deliberate. One of the masked men dropped instantly, a clean hole through his helmet.
Alex turned sharply, his rifle ready, but he didn't fire.
Grayson stepped out of the shadows, his sniper rifle raised, his expression cold. "You're welcome," he said, his voice carrying over the chaos.
Alex didn't answer. He ducked as another burst of gunfire tore through the trees, then returned fire, dropping the last man standing.
The clearing fell silent.
Alex straightened slowly, his rifle still raised, and turned to Grayson. "Why?"
Grayson lowered his weapon, his smirk faint but humorless. "Because if anyone's going to kill you, it's going to be me."
The Fallout
The snow fell heavier now, the flakes swirling in the dim light. Alex stood in the center of the clearing, his rifle slack in his hands. The bodies of the masked men lay scattered around him, their blood staining the pristine white.
Grayson leaned against a tree, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "You get it now, don't you? You were never the hunter. You were just bait."
Alex didn't respond. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of the mission, the lies, the betrayal.
Grayson pushed off the tree, his voice quieter now. "You've got two choices, Dane. Keep playing their game...or join me and burn it all down."
The offer hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.
Alex didn't lower his rifle.
And Grayson just smiled.
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