A heat signature flares.
Low to the ground. Moving fast. Hotter than the surrounding air.
My lungs lock.
The reticle locks on.
I exhale, emptying my lungs to steady the aim. I tighten my finger on the trigger. The slack fades. One pound of pressure remaining. Ready to end it. Ready to kill.
The shape leaps. It clears a snowdrift with a clumsy, desperate grace, pausing to turn its head.
Antlers.
A deer. A fucking deer.
I lower the weapon.
I watch the animal as it disappears into the woods, terrified by the storm, tripping the laser wire in its panic. It vanishes into the white, leaving me standing alone in the dark.
The adrenaline crashes.
Snow gathers on my shoulders. My ribs heave. The chemicals flooding my system have nowhere to discharge. They curdle into toxic sludge in my veins. My pulse pounds a war drum for a battle that never materialized.
False alarm.
But it wasn’t false. It was a reminder.
You let your guard down. You got distracted. You were busy trying to bury yourself inside her instead of watching the line.
I stand there for another minute, letting the cold punish me. Letting it freeze the sweat on my back. Letting it remind me that comfort acts as a lie and warmth is a weakness.
I turn back to the house.
The walk back pushes harder. The adrenaline gives way, leaving only the cold. My muscles seize. My teeth chatter.
I slam the door behind me. The lock clicks home.
The warmth of the interior rushes at me, but I’m still freezing. My skin goes numb. The transition triggers a violent shiver that racks me to the bone.
“Boyd.”
The name hangs as a whisper.
Iris stands in the hallway.
She isn’t in the safe room.
She wraps her arms around herself, wearing only the thin T-shirt she slept in. Her legs are bare. Gaze wide, dark pools of panic. Her glance flicks to the gun in my hand, then to my face, then to the snow melting on my bare torso.
She stands in the open. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Rage flares, hot and immediate. It mixes with the adrenaline, turning volatile. Terror transmuted into fury. The realization of how easily she could have died while I chased a deer.
“I told you to get to the safe room.”
I snarl the words. The voice isn’t mine. It belongs to the marshal. To the man who buries liabilities.
She flinches. Steps back, hitting the wall.
