The Hunt

Three hours of tracking. Maybe four. Time doesn't mean much anymore.

The trail's easy to follow. They're not bothering to hide it. Six sets of prints heading northeast, trampling through the snow like they own the forest. Confident. Arrogant.

Why wouldn't they be? They don't know I'm coming.

I read the signs as I move. They stopped once, maybe two hours into their journey. Rested for a bit, then kept going. The drag marks are less frequent here. They made her walk. Good. Means she's conscious, able to move.

I push the pace. She's alive. She's moving. I just need to reach her before they stop for the night.

The prints lead me deeper into territory I don't know. Further from the cabin, further from anything familiar. Doesn't matter. They have her. I follow.

Woodsmoke. Faint, catching in my throat before I even register what it is.

I slow, moving more carefully now. The rifle comes up naturally, my left hand settling on the stock. Every sense sharpens. Listening for voices, watching for movement.

The smoke smell gets stronger. I hear something. Laughter. Men's voices, casual, relaxed.

I stop, crouch low, scan the area ahead.

Through the trees, maybe two hundred metres out: a clearing. Figures moving. The orange glow of a fire.

I circle wide, looking for high ground, a good position. Find a ridge overlooking the clearing, good sightlines, covered by trees. I settle in behind a fallen log, scope the camp.

And count.

Nine people.

Nine. Not six. Nine.

My chest tightens. The scouting party that took her was five or six. This is all of them. Their whole group. She's not at some temporary camp. This is their base.

I force myself to keep looking, keep counting. Nine men, all armed. Knives visible, a few with improvised weapons. One has what looks like a hunting rifle. The rest have blades, clubs, axes.

Then I see her.

Zoe.

She's near the fire, hands bound in front of her, ankles tied. Her face is bruised, split lip, dried blood on her chin. She's shivering. No coat. They took her in what she was wearing and it's not enough for this cold.

But she's alive. Sitting upright. Eyes moving, watching them. Still fighting in her head even if her body can't.

Relief crashes into me so hard I have to grip the log to steady myself. She's alive. I found her. She's—

One of them grabs her by the hair, yanks her head back, says something I can't hear. She spits at him. He laughs, shoves her back.

The rage that follows the relief is white-hot. Pure. I have to force my breathing steady, force my hands not to shake.

Focus. Can't help her if you lose control.

I assess the situation. Nine of them. One of me. Can't just charge in. She's in the middle of the camp. Any firefight, she could get hit. Could get used as a shield. Could get killed in the chaos.

Need a different approach. Tactical. Distant. Pick them off before they know I'm here.

I scan the camp again. The man with the rifle is furthest from Zoe. Good. Take him first. Then work my way through the others before they can react.

One hundred and eighty metres. Clear shot. Light wind, left to right. Adjust for that.

I settle the rifle against my shoulder. Left-handed stance, comfortable, familiar. The scope comes up. I find the man with the rifle. He's standing, talking to another, completely relaxed.

My finger finds the trigger.

This is it.

The moment.

Time slows.

Something inside me resists. Some part that remembers what this costs. What it does to you.

I've seen what killing does to people. Seen it destroy them.

The scope's on his chest. Centre mass. Clean shot. Training screaming at me to take it.

If I pull this trigger, I can't take it back.

Zoe's face. Bruised. Bleeding. Shivering in the cold.

I breathe out.

I squeeze the trigger.

The rifle kicks against my shoulder. The crack echoes across the clearing.

The man with the rifle drops. Just drops. One moment standing, the next on the ground, not moving.

Something inside me breaks. Clean. Final. Like ice cracking.

The camp erupts. Shouting. Confusion. Men scrambling, looking around, trying to understand what just happened.

My hands are already moving. Chamber the next round. Find the next target. A man reaching for a weapon.

I don't think. Just shoot.

He goes down.

Training takes over. The part of my brain that knows how to function when everything else is screaming. Assess. Aim. Breathe. Squeeze.

Third shot.

Another one down. I work the bolt. Chamber the last round.

Fourth shot.

Magazine empty. My hands move automatically. Drop it. Fresh one in. Bolt forward.

They're panicking now. Can't see me. Don't know where the shots are coming from. Diving for cover, scattering.

One grabs Zoe, hauls her up, uses her as a shield. Others are running, disappearing into the trees.

I can't shoot. Not with her in the way.

Four down. Five left.

They're dragging her. Moving away from the fire, into the forest. The ones still alive are regrouping, pulling back.

I have to move. Can't let them get away with her. Can't pick them off from here anymore.

I'm up, moving down from the ridge. Faster now. The rifle feels light in my hands. Everything feels distant, like I'm watching someone else move through the trees.

The horror of what I just did is there. Waiting. But I can't touch it. Can't feel it. Not yet.

Right now there's only the mission: get to her. Finish this.

The cold doesn't touch me. The exhaustion doesn't matter. I keep moving.