Page 7 of Love for Thea

“Benji.”

He froze, hand halfway to the rack of keys. His mother stood there, a dish towel still draped over her shoulder. She didn’t look at the tactical bag. She didn’t look at Reef, who stood by the back door like a sentry. She stared Ben’s jaw: that hard, iron line he got when something was broken and needed fixing.

“Ma.” His voice dropped an octave. “Just heading out for a bit. Thea’s having some, ummm, trouble with her satellite rig. I’m going to go help her reset it.”

Marjorie Adams stepped closer. She reached out, her fingers brushing the heavy canvas strap of his pack. She knew he was lying. She’d spent eighteen years reading his tells before he’d ever left for the Navy, and fourteen more learning to read the silences between his phone calls from overseas.

“Your father always says that the mountains don’t care about your intentions, son,” she said softly, her eyes searching his. “Hope for the best, Benji. But you’ve got that look in your eyes that says you’re preparing for the worst.”

She reached up, cupping his face for a fleeting second. “You bring her back. And you keep your head down. I’ve already got enough biscuits in that oven to feed a rescue party, so don’t you dare make me use them.”

Ben leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You and your biscuits, don’t worry. I’ll be back before the party’s over, Ma.” He flashed her a devilish grin that made her laugh despite herself.

“See that you are,” she whispered, stepping back into the light of the kitchen as if nothing had happened. But a flicker of unease shadowed her eyes for a moment, an old mother’s intuition whispering that this time might be different. She swallowed the feeling, steadying her breath and forced a smile before turning away.

Ben watched her go, the warmth of the kitchen fading as he turned back to the shadows of the mudroom. He took a single, deep breath, adjusting the weight of the rucksack on his shoulder. The soft light in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, secondary focus of a mission lead.

Picasso was waiting by the door, his silhouette nearly invisible against the dark wood. He had been watching the exchange with the quiet respect of a man who knew exactly what it cost to leave a mother’s table for a fight.

“Stay frosty, Grizzly,” Picasso said, his voice low so as not to alert the family in the next room. “If you aren’t back or we don’t get a ping by the time the party’s over, we’re coming in behind you.”

Grizzly gave a sharp nod. He turned to Reef, who had already used the distraction to swap his board shorts and surfer shirt for rugged tactical pants and a dark flannel that hid his sidearm. Reef slung his rucksack over one shoulder, the pack settling snugly as if he’d carried it on countless long hauls.

The sounds of the party buzzed around them, laughter and excitement blending into a vibrant wave. But Grizzly felt entirely insulated from it now.

“Let’s go,” Grizzly grabbed the keys to his dad’s truck.

The warmth and chaos of the family gathering faded behind them as they stepped into the cool evening air. Once they were settled in the heavy F-350, Grizzly revved the engine. With the ranch disappearing in the rearview mirror, his focus locked entirely onto Thea. He reflected on her fierce intelligence, her passion for her work, and the bond they shared. She was more than just his sister’s best friend; she was someone he had come to care for deeply. Doubts began to creep into his mind. What if something was really wrong? What if he was too late?

The road narrowed with each twist and turn heading into the wilderness, and Grizzly pushed the accelerator a little harder, urgency coursing through him. Whatever was out there, he would confront it head-on.

“Are you ready for this?” Reef asked, breaking the silence as he checked the slide on his Glock 19.

“Always,” Grizzly replied, determination steeling his nerves. “Let’s bring her home.”

THREE

THEA

Thea sat at the small wooden desk, the glow of her laptop the only light inside the cabin. She ignored the ache in her shoulders and focused on the screen, her fingers flying as she finished the day’s log.

May 3rd. Observation: Herd 4C continues to skirt the perimeter of Grid C5. Soil samples from the runoff site show a 400 percent increase in heavy metal particulates. This is not natural erosion. Someone is bypassing the aquifer protections. If this reaches the main tributary, the entire ecosystem will experience acute bioaccumulation of toxins, disrupting trophic cascades and leading to widespread contamination of primary water sources. This could result in increased mortality rates among keystone species and irreversible degradation of habitat viability.

Addendum: Sector C5—Vegetation and Thermal Anomalies. The Aspen grove at the northeast perimeter is showing advanced necrotic symptoms. It’s not a blight or a parasite. The leaves aren’t just dying; they are scorched. I took a soil probe at the root zone: 118°F. That’s a forty-degree jump in seventy-two hours. The trees are literally being boiled from the bottom up.

Water update: The tributary feeding into the C5 basin is off-gassing. Significant sulfur scent and localized boiling. This shouldn’t be possible here—there are no known thermal vents in this grid. If the drilling has breached a hydrothermal cap, the pressure shift alone could be…

A faint crunch of dry pine needles from outside made her fingers freeze over the keys.

She held her breath. The silence of the Wyoming wilderness was usually a comfort, a symphony of wind and rustling leaves. But this wasn’t the frozen, instinctive stillness of a deer or the patient wait of a predator. This was a tactical silence, a deliberate suppression of movement that felt artificial, like a held breath that didn’t belong in the woods.

She didn’t try to rationalize the sound. A hiker wouldn’t be moving with that kind of rhythmic suppression, and a Forest Service Ranger would have called out. This was a sweep. She waited, her senses straining, until the breeze shifted. It carried the same acrid tang of diesel exhaust she’d smelled earlier that afternoon: a heavy, industrial scent that had no business being in a protected wilderness zone. There were no fire roads within fire miles. An engine meant a motorized intrusion, and the “cracks” she was hearing meant they were closing in on her coordinates.

Her stomach tightened with dread as memory of the Vanguard legal threats flashed through her mind. They weren’t just sending emails anymore; they were clearing the board.

Thea didn’t reach for the light. Instead, she retreated into the deepest shadows of the kitchen, her eyes wide, cataloging the forest outside. Then she saw the first anomaly: a rhythmic, ghostly flicker through the trees. It wasn’t a flashlight; the beam was too narrow, catching only the floating particles of the evening mist in tiny, artificial green pulses.

People. Not hikers.