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25

ZOEY

The storm hits full force within the hour, rain coming sideways hard enough to sting exposed skin, wind loud enough that Rebecca has to shout instructions even standing close beside me. We move the last family from the northernmost homes toward the ravine shelter, a young couple with twin toddlers who cling to their mother's coat as we half-carry, half-guide them through underbrush that's already turning to mud beneath our boots.

"Almost there," I tell the mother, taking one of the toddlers when her arms start shaking from exhaustion and cold. "The shelter's just past that rock formation."

We make it to the ravine entrance as the storm reaches its worst intensity, thunder rolling almost continuously now, lightning flashing bright enough to briefly illuminate the whole forest in stark white relief. Rebecca ushers the family inside, checking supplies against the list we prepared days ago, and I catch my breath against the shelter's entrance while the wind howls past outside.

That's when I see it. A brief flash of something metallic through the trees, too deliberate to be storm debris, hovering with a stability that no natural object could maintain in this wind.

"Drone," I say, pointing toward the movement. "There, past the second ridge line. Someone's flying reconnaissance even in this weather."

Rebecca follows my gesture, expression hardening as she confirms what I've spotted. "That shouldn't be possible in these wind speeds. Whatever they're using, it's expensive, military-grade equipment built to handle exactly this kind of extreme weather."

"Which means they're serious about maintaining visibility no matter what the storm throws at them." I study the drone's flight pattern, old instinct kicking in from years spent identifying exactly this kind of aerial surveillance during high-profile events. "It's not moving randomly. That's a search pattern, methodical, covering ground grid by grid."

"They're looking for something specific."

"Or someone." The realization settles cold despite the relative shelter of the ravine entrance. "If that's actively searching instead of just monitoring, that means Cross's people are moving into direct confrontation right now, not just maintaining surveillance from a distance."

Rebecca relays the information over the radio the pack's been using for coordination, static crackling hard through the storm's interference, and we get confirmation moments later that two other teams have spotted similar drone activity converging from different directions. Cross isn't just observing anymore. He's actively hunting, using the storm's chaos exactly the way Kellan predicted he might.

"We need to get the rest of the families moved faster," Rebecca says, already checking the map for remaining evacuation targets. "I'll take the western homes. You circle back through the ridge trail, check on the Hendricks family near the old logging road. They should have evacuated already, but confirm before you head back to the den."

"On it."

I move fast through the storm, the navigation lessons Kellan drilled into me over the past month proving their worth as I track the ridge trail despite reduced visibility and driving rain. The Hendricks cabin sits empty when I reach it, evidence of hasty but organized evacuation, exactly what I'd expect from a pack that's clearly drilled for exactly this kind of emergency.

I'm turning to head back toward the den when I hear it, a branch snapping too close, too deliberate to be storm-driven debris. I freeze, every instinct honed over weeks of surveillance analysis screaming that this isn't wildlife or wind. Someone's tracking me, close enough now that hesitating means capture.

I don't run blindly. I remember exactly what Kellan taught me, using terrain instead of fighting it, and cut sideways through a stand of dense pine that should slow pursuit while I circle toward higher ground. The footsteps behind me adjust, faster now, confirming I've been spotted rather than just sensed.

A man breaks through the treeline behind me, dressed in tactical gear soaked through from the storm, moving with the trained efficiency I recognize immediately from Kellan's descriptions of Cross's operatives. He's fast, closing the distance despite the mud and driving rain, and I understand with sudden clarity that outrunning him directly isn't an option.

I remember the ravine's second entrance, a narrow crevice Rebecca showed me days ago that most people would walk past without noticing, too tight for anyone not intimately familiar with the terrain. I cut hard toward it, boots slipping on wet stone, the operative close enough now that I can hear his breathing over the storm's roar.

I barely make it through the crevice ahead of him, squeezing through an opening that would be impossible to spot without knowing exactly where to look, and press myself against the rock face inside, breathing hard, listening for any sign he's found the entrance too.

Long minutes pass with nothing but storm and my own hammering pulse. Then, finally, the sound of him moving away, cursing something into a radio about lost visual, giving up the pursuit rather than risk getting lost himself in weather this severe.

I don't move for several more minutes, waiting until I'm certain he's genuinely gone, before finally working my way back through the crevice and into the storm outside. That's when I hear my name, Kellan's voice raw with something close to panic, carrying even through the wind's roar.

"Zoey!"

"Here!" I call back, moving toward the sound, relief flooding through me at the confirmation he's close.

He reaches me within seconds, pulling me hard against him the moment we're close enough, checking me over with quick, urgent hands despite the storm still raging around us. "Rebecca said you went dark on the radio. I thought—" He stops, unable to finish the thought, holding me tighter instead.

"I'm okay. Someone tracked me near the Hendricks cabin. I used the second ravine entrance to lose him." I press my face against his soaked jacket, adrenaline finally starting to fade now that I'm actually safe. "It worked. I'm fine, Kellan. I'm right here."

"I told you to stay with Rebecca's team."

"I got separated checking the last evacuation. I handled it. You taught me exactly what I needed to survive that. It worked."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight again today. Not after that."

"I wasn't planning on arguing." I take his hand, steadying myself against the last of the adrenaline still coursing through me. "Whatever's happening out there, I want to face the rest of it beside you. Not separated, not worried about where you are while I'm somewhere else entirely."