Unedited sneaky peek!
“Hands! Show me your hands!” Pav kicked the door open, rifle up, finger resting beside the trigger.
The smell hit him before he cleared the doorway.
Coffee. Freshly brewed. Not the instant shit he usually drank to stay warm.
Good stuff and not his.
He stepped into the kitchen, weapon raised.
Two men.
The first was heavyset, bearded, tattoos visible above the collar of a black tactical jacket. He stood at Pav’s stove with Pav’s french press, pouring coffee into Pav’s mug like he was hosting a fucking dinner party.
The second sat at Pav’s table, boots propped on the scarred wood, scrolling through a phone with one hand. Blond, lean build, expensive tactical gear that screamed operator. The jerky in his other hand was from the batch Pav had made two weeks ago.
Neither flinched at the rifle or the door slamming open.
Professional contractors.
“How do you like your coffee?” The bearded one asked in a cultured English accent, holding up the mug as if this was normal.
What the hell—
“Milk? Sugar?” The man continued like Pav hadn’t spoken. “I’m guessing black, but—”
“Get on your knees.” Pav motioned to the floor with his gun. “Both of you. Now.”
The blond one sighed, still chewing. He swung his boots off the table with exaggerated slowness. He raised one hand in a placating gesture, still holding the jerky. “Look, this is a surprise. We get that—”
Pav fired.
The rifle’s report cracked through the small space. Wood exploded from the center of his table, splinters flying as the bullet punched through and buried itself in the floorboards beneath.
Both intruders stared at the smoking hole.
Their attention shifted back to Pav.
The blond one cranked an eyebrow. “You know that’s your table, right?” His accent was Russian but tinged with something else. Scandinavian?
Pav chambered another round. “Last chance. On your—”
The bearded one lunged, closing the distance between them in a split second, his hand going for Pav’s rifle barrel.
Pav pivoted, pulled the weapon back and using the man’s momentum against him, drove the stock toward his ribs.
The bearded man grunted under the impact and grabbed the rifle with both hands. For seconds they grappled, fighting for control.
The other man was strong, and heavier than Pav.
Pav released his hold on the gun.
The sudden lack of resistance threw the man off balance. Pav stepped in, drove his fist up into the man’s jaw. His knuckles connected hard. His attacker’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his split lip.
Movement. The Russian.
Pav spun, but the Russian was already on him. An arm hooked around Pav’s throat from behind, locked tight in a professional chokehold.
Fuck.
Pav gagged, dug his hands into the restraining arm. The Russian was lean but strong, his grip rock-solid.
The bearded one grabbed Pav’s rifle from where it had fallen and aimed it at Pav’s chest, breathing hard. “Gentleman. We’re all very dangerous. We’ve established that. Can we please skip to the part where we don’t kill each other?”
The space heater clicked and wind rattled the window.
“I’m going to set the rifle down,” he said slowly. “Then my friend Zak is going to release you. And then, we talk. Fair?”
Pav calculated. Two on one. If this went sideways, someone was dying. It was always like this. Two options. One loss you didn’t see until it was too late. But they’d had the opportunity to kill him and hadn’t. Pressure eased on his throat.
Pav swallowed. “Talk. Then leave.”
The heavyset man lowered the rifle slowly, and set it on the counter. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace.
The Russian, Zak, released Pav, allowing him to step back, putting distance between himself and the two men.
Beard man dabbed his split lip, examining the blood on his fingers. “Well. That went about as expected.” His accent was thicker now, rougher. He worked his jaw, testing it.
“You broke into my house.”
Zak laughed. “Fair point.”
Beard man grabbed the dish towel from the counter, pressed it to his bleeding lip. “Name’s Fox.” He gestured to the Russian. “And I’ve already told you, this genius is Zak.”
Zak removed the magazine from Pav’s rifle and set it on the table next to the bullet hole. He unholstered his hand gun and laid it next to the rifle. “Good faith.” He picked up a piece of jerky and waggled it. “You make this yourself? It’s tasty.”
“Why don’t we sit like civilized men and talk?” Fox kicked a chair toward Pav, then turned and poured three coffees.
Pav stayed standing, back to the wall. Fox was older, late forties maybe, but he moved like someone who stayed sharp. Military tattoos marked the backs of his hands as well as his neck.
Zak was younger, early thirties. Everything about him screamed money and elite training.
Fox brought the coffee to the table and took a seat. “I brought good beans. Can’t get good coffee for shit here these days. A peace offering if you like.”
Zak leaned against the beaten kitchen counter, relaxed.
Pav pulled the chair toward him, ignoring the screech of wood on wood. He sat and wrapped his hands around the mug. The heat bled through his palms and he took a sip. Fuck, it was good. Real beans. Who brings good coffee if they’re here to kill you?
“We worked together once.” Fox pulled a compact tablet from his jacket and laid it on the damaged table. “Eight years ago. Kazakhstan border, a retrieval op.” His eyes met Pav’s. “You tracked a target through a sandstorm. Found him in under six hours.”
Pav remained silent but he remembered the mission. He eyed the two men. “What do you want?” His throat still stung from the Russian’s chokehold.
Fox tapped the tablet. Photos appeared. An apartment, door hanging off its hinges. A laptop on the floor, screen cracked. Clothes scattered. Signs of struggle.
“My niece.” Fox swiped to another image. “Dr. Harper Fox. She’s been missing seven days.”
Zak crossed to the table. “She works for International Health Outreach, running a women’s clinic on the Siberia-Mongolia border.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a region two hundred kilometers south.
“She stopped calling home a week ago. That’s not like her at all. So we checked her apartment.” Fox’s finger tapped the image of the broken door. “As you can see, signs of forced entry and a struggle. But the locals claim she packed up and left voluntarily. Her passport says otherwise. So do her clothes, her medical bag, everything she’d need if she’d actually left.”
Pav studied the photos. The apartment had been tossed, but not thoroughly. Whoever took her hadn’t been looking for something. They’d just wanted her gone. “Call the authorities.”
“This is the border.” Zak snorted. “The cops are bought or useless. Probably both.”
“I’m not the man you want.” Pav set his mug down.
“Yes. You are.” Fox met his eyes, still pressing the towel to his lip. “This terrain in winter? You know this land. We don’t.”
Pav shook his head. “I don’t do this anymore. You’re wasting your time.”
Fox swiped the tablet. A different photo appeared.
Harper Fox was in her early thirties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a white coat with the IHO logo, a stethoscope around her neck. The kind of woman who’d land on the Siberian border thinking her medical degree and good intentions would protect her.
Pav’s gut tightened.
Wavy chestnut hair escaping its tie. A full mouth made for saying exactly what she thought. Smoky gray eyes bright with intelligence.
She looked like she asked questions and didn’t stop when the answers got uncomfortable. The type of woman who would fuck up your life just by paying attention.
Shit.
He pushed the tablet away like it burned. “No.”
“She’s a doctor.” Fox’s voice didn’t change, but something harder entered it. “She went out there to save lives, to help women who had no one else.”
“I don’t do extractions anymore.” Pav kept his voice flat. “I don’t do people.”
Because people made you choose. And you never chose right.
“You do wolves though.” Zak jerked his head toward the wilderness outside his window.
“What the—”
“People like to talk.” Zak smiled and sipped his coffee. “Interesting priorities.”
Pav’s jaw locked. “Wolves don’t ask for help.”
Fox killed the tablet. “You’ve been up here three years. Living like…” he paused, scanned sparse cabin. “Like you’re already dead. What’s that getting you?”
“Peace.”
“Bullshit.” Fox’s accent sharpened. “That’s not peace. That’s running out the clock.”
His words landed because they were true. Pav’s hands curled into fists on the table. The urge to hit Fox again was strong.
Three years. Three years of snow and silence and wolves. Three years of failing to forget his brother.
Three years of being dead.
And it still wasn’t enough.
Zak paced the room, his gaze skimming over the austere furnishings. “We’re offering you a opportunity. A chance to do something worthwhile. And get paid for it of course.”
“Help us.” Fox’s voice was quiet. “Find her. Bring her home.” He met Pav’s eyes. “Then if you want to come back here and be dead again, that’s your call.”
“What do you have to lose?” Zak asked.
Everything. He had everything to lose. That was why he was here, in the cold and the quiet, where the only things that bled were the ones he chose to help.
But the woman in the photo. Harper.
She was somewhere out there, scared, possibly hurt.
Like the wolf in the trap this morning. Yellow eyes watching him, waiting to see if he’d help or walk away.
And he’d helped the wolf.
“Three days. In and out. Then you leave me alone.”
Fox’s eyes slid to Zak. “Deal.”
“Does this mean we can finish the jerky?” Zak was already moving to where he’d left it.
“Touch my jerky again and I’ll break more than your lip.”
Zak grinned and wagged a finger. “I really like this guy.”
Fox woke the tablet with a touch. He traced the region with his finger, leaving small blood smears on the screen. “Last known location is the border clinic, here.” He tapped with one thick finger. “But she could be anywhere in a two-hundred-kilometer radius. The area is a warren of mining operations, homesteads, abandoned compounds.” He looked up. “That’s where you come in.”
Pav studied the map. The search area was massive, but he could narrow it. Human behavior was predictable once you knew what to look for.
“It’s already been a week. We’re running out of time.” Fox checked his watch.
Pav circled a location on the map. “We start here.”
“Let’s get it done.” Zak raised his mug.
Fox clinked his mug against it. “To Harper.”
Pav said nothing. Three days. He could do three days.
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