I feel the same urge every time I look at her.
"They're not attacking," I note. "It's a siege."
The standoff lasts twenty agonizing minutes, the caribou frozen in their defensive knot, the wolf still as a statue.
Then, slowly, the wolf stands. He turns his back on the herd, the ultimate insult, and trots back into the trees.
The herd explodes into motion, but not away from the trees. Waldo drives them parallel to the ridge, keeping to the high ground, moving fast toward the rocky scree where the footing is treacherous, but the snow is thin.
"He didn't take the bait," I say, impressed. "He knew the trap was in the valley."
"He's smart," Aris says, breathing again at last. "He outsmarted them."
"For today," I say. "But that wolf … he wasn't disappointed. He was testing them."
I pack up my binoculars, a cold knot forming in my stomach that the temperature can't explain.
"What do you mean?"
"He was checking their reaction time. Seeing who was slow. Seeing which way they'd run." I look at Aris, needing her to understand the gravity of this. "That wasn't a hunt, Aris. That was reconnaissance."
"Reconnaissance? You make them sound like soldiers."
"A pack that coordinated? A pack that isn't afraid to show itself to humans?" I gesture to our exposed position on the ridge. "He saw us, Aris. He looked right at us before he went back into the trees."
"He saw us?" She pales slightly.
"May was right. This isn't a normal pack. They've lost their fear."
I shoulder my pack, checking the rifle scabbard on the sled. It's secure, but suddenly it feels inadequate.
"We need to move camp," I say. "We're too exposed here. If they're working this ridgeline, we're in their territory."
"But we need to stay close to Waldo," Aris argues. "If they attack tonight …"
"If they attack tonight, there's nothing we can do about it from a mile away except listen." I grab her arm, maybe a little too hard. "We are moving. Now."
She looks at me, surprised by the edge in my voice. Then she nods, the professional mask sliding back into place.
"Okay. You're the guide."
"Yeah," I say, looking back at the dark tree line where the gray shape vanished. "I am."
We pack up in silence, the earlier lightness of the afternoon gone. The banter about coffee and Fairbanks feels like a distant memory.
As we ride back to the sleds, I keep one hand near the throttle and one eye on the woods. The wilderness feels different now, less like country to cross and more like a chessboard.
And as much as I want to believe we're just observers … I have a nasty feeling we just became pieces in the game.
Chapter Eleven
ARIS
Panic has a specific taste.It tastes like copper and cold air.
We're fleeing. Nash wouldn't call it that, he'd call it a "strategic relocation to a defensible position"—but I know fleeing when I feel it. We broke down the observation post in record time, shoving expensive optics into cases with zero regard for organization, and now we're tearing across the valley floor as the light bleeds out of the sky.
The wolf, the scout, is gone. But the feeling of being watched is heavy enough to weigh down the sleds.
