Chapter 3 - The Men in the Woods
The drone of the snowmobiles grew deafening, vibrating through the old floorboards of the cabin. Elena didn't panic; her years in the ER had trained her brain to operate with icy precision during a crisis. She grabbed Maisie from the kitchen table, pressed a finger to her lips, and lowered her through the trapdoor into the subterranean root cellar beneath the pantry rug.
"Stay with the puppies, Maisie. Do not make a sound until I open this door," Elena instructed, her voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She lowered the heavy wooden door, kicked the braided rug back over it, and turned to Julian.
He was already struggling to his feet, utilizing the heavy wooden poker from the fireplace as a crutch. His right hand was tucked into the waistband of his trousers, desperately searching for a weapon he no longer had.
"Where is my coat?" he demanded quietly.
"Under the sink, soaking in bleach to get the river mud out," Elena said, grabbing her double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun from the wall mount. She cracked the barrel, checking the brass cartridges. Two rounds of heavy buckshot. Not enough for a firefight, but enough to make a statement. "Sit back down. If they see a wounded man of your description, we're both dead. Let me handle this."
"Elena, these are professional hitmen from Boston," Julian growled, trying to step between her and the door. "You don't know what you're dealing with."
"I deal with rabid wolves and five-hundred-pound rams every winter," she countered coldly, pushing him back toward the shadows of the bedroom doorway. "Stay out of sight, or my stitching was for nothing."
The snowmobiles cut their engines right outside the porch. Heavy boots crunched on the frozen snow, followed by a sharp, authoritative rap on the heavy oak door.
Elena unlatched the deadbolt, keeping the shotgun held at her side, angled downward but ready. She pulled the door open three inches, leaving the security chain attached.
Two men stood on the snowy porch. They were dressed in high-end, black tactical winter gear that looked entirely out of place in rural Maine. The taller one had a jagged scar running from his earlobe to his jawline, his eyes scanning the interior of the cabin with predatory efficiency.
"Morning, ma'am," the scarred man said, his voice carrying a thick South Boston drawl. He flashed a badge that looked impressive from a distance but lacked the state seal Elena knew by heart. "We're with state forestry. We had a report of a vehicle going off the road near the lake last night during the squall. You see anything unusual?"
"I saw a blizzard," Elena replied flatly, her breath pluming in the freezing air. "The visibility was zero after six o'clock. I've been snowed in since yesterday afternoon."
The scarred man’s eyes dropped to the snow-covered porch boards, then drifted to the side of the cabin where the metal logging toboggan lay. The deep tracks from last night had been mostly filled by the drifting snow, but the faint indentation of a heavy drag line was still visible.
"That's a heavy sled you got there," the second man said, stepping closer to the door, his hand resting casually near the zipper of his tactical jacket. "You haul much timber in a whiteout, lady?"
"I haul firewood so my daughter and I don't freeze to death when the power lines go down," Elena said, her voice hardening. She stepped back just enough to let the barrel of the 12-gauge slide into plain view through the gap in the door. "Now, unless you have a warrant signed by the county sheriff, step off my porch. My livestock is nervous, and I have work to do."
The scarred man stared at the shotgun, then looked up into Elena’s unwavering hazel eyes. A tense, suffocating silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind whistling through the pine branches.
"We're just doing our jobs, ma'am," the scarred man finally said, offering a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "If you see anyone... suspicious wandering around, don't try to help them. There's a dangerous fugitive lost in these woods. Give the state troopers a call."
"I'll keep that in mind," Elena said, and slammed the door shut, throwing the heavy deadbolt into place.
She stood frozen against the wood, listening as the boots crunched away, the snowmobile engines roared back to life, and the whine of the machines faded back into the deep woods. Only then did she let out a shaky breath, her knuckles white around the shotgun stock.
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When she turned around, Julian was standing in the bedroom doorway, holding his bleeding side, watching her with an expression of profound, unadulterated awe.
"Remind me," Julian murmured, his lips curving into a faint, dangerous smirk, "never to get on your bad side, Elena Vance."
