"Someone’s messin’ with us," Tommy said, his voice tight with fear. “A sniper, maybe?”
“Sniper in this blizzard?” Dean scoffed, but his hand remained on the knife. “Probably just a mountain lion. Jim, you okay?”
“Okay? My five-thousand-dollar rifle is in pieces! I could’ve taken that elk’s head clean off!” Jim shouted, his face red with rage. “I want whoever did this!”
I shifted my position slightly, adjusting for the wind. It was time to apply a little more pressure. I targeted Dean’s backpack, the one containing the high-powered binoculars he'd been using to scout the ridge. Another suppressed shot. The pack disintegrated, sending gear scattering across the snow. Dean roared in frustration, whirling around, convinced he was being hunted. The game had changed. They weren't just poaching; they were being hunted.
Suddenly, a new alert flashed on my cabin’s monitor. A vehicle was approaching the north gate, moving fast. A pickup truck, dark blue, with no identifying markings. My blood ran cold. That wasn’t local. Who was coming, and what did they want?
Echoes of Kandahar
The truck rattled the north gate, trying to force its way through. Whoever was driving wasn’t bothering with subtlety. I quickly accessed the security camera focused on the gate. The driver was partially obscured by the falling snow, but I could make out a familiar silhouette: Sheriff Brody, the same sheriff who'd warned me about the Ashwells and Fowler. But he looked…different. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard. He wasn’t here to help.
“Brody?” I muttered, a knot forming in my stomach. “What’s going on?”
My mind raced. Brody had always been a quiet, unassuming man, content with small-town life. He’d seemed genuinely concerned about the poaching, even offering to increase patrols. Now, this. Something was terribly wrong. I replayed the footage, focusing on the truck's details. There was a dent in the passenger-side door, a faded sticker of a bald eagle, and a gun rack visible through the rear window. It was Brody’s personal vehicle, but it felt…wrong. Like a prop in a play I didn’t understand.
Meanwhile, above me, the Ashwells and Fowler were unraveling. Tommy, panicked and shivering, was trying to convince Dean to leave. “Let’s just go, Dean! This isn’t worth it. Something ain’t right.”
“Shut up, Tommy! We came here for a trophy bull, and we’re getting one!” Dean roared, ignoring his brother’s pleas. He was fixated on revenge, on finding whoever had disabled his binoculars and shattered Jim’s rifle. I knew he wouldn't back down easily.
I considered my options. Engaging Brody while dealing with the poachers was a recipe for disaster. I needed to understand why the sheriff was here first. But my gut told me time was running out. The arrival of the truck, the shift in Brody’s demeanor…it all pointed to a conspiracy, something much bigger than a few illegal elk. A memory surfaced, sharp and unwelcome: a dusty village in Kandahar, a compromised informant, a betrayal that cost lives. I couldn’t let that happen again.
I keyed the external microphone. “Tommy Ashwell, Dean Ashwell, and Jim Fowler, you are surrounded. Drop your weapons and surrender.” My voice, amplified and distorted, echoed through the mountains.
The Weight of Silence
Dean’s response was immediate and furious. “Surrounded?! By who, the ghost of Christmas past? We ain’t afraid of no…!” He didn't finish the sentence. A precise shot, aimed low, removed the rifle from his grasp. He stumbled, clutching his hand, a look of disbelief on his face. Tommy, frozen with fear, simply dropped his weapon. Jim, still nursing his wounded pride, cursed under his breath.
The truth was finally coming out — and there was no turning back now… (Continue to Part 3 →)
