Chapter 1 - THE HUNT IN THE FROZEN HELL
“If They Find the Cabin, We Don’t Just Die—We Vanish.”The storm outside the groundskeeper’s cabin did not just howl; it screamed like a dying beast. Inside, the single lantern flickered violently, casting long, grotesque shadows across the wooden walls.
Sarah’s hands were slick with Dominic Rossi’s blood. She could feel the erratic, thumping pulse beneath his skin—a frantic rhythm that told her he was slipping away. Her makeshift packing of the wound with whiskey and old gauze from a rusted kit was holding, but barely. Every ragged breath he took sounded like tearing silk.
“Sarah…” Dominic’s voice was a gravelly whisper, his fingers locking onto her wrist with surprising, desperate strength. His eyes, usually a cold, calculating steel gray, were wild with fever and adrenaline. “Listen to me. The cabin… it’s not safe. Lorenzo’s men… they aren’t just cleanup crews. They’re tactical. They’ll check the perimeter footprints before the snow buries them completely.”
“We can’t move you, Dominic!” Sarah hissed back, her voice cracking with exhaustion. She wiped a mix of sweat and melted snow from her forehead with a bloody forearm. “You lose any more blood, and your heart stops. I am a nursing school dropout, not a miracle worker!”
“If you stay here, you’re a corpse,” he grunted, his jaw clenching as a spasm of agony racked his torso.
Suddenly, the wind shifted outside. But it wasn’t just the wind.
Crunch.
It was the distinct sound of heavy tactical boots compressing frozen snow right outside the cabin door.
Sarah’s breath hitched. She froze, her gaze darting to the frost-covered window. Through the glass, a beam of a high-powered flashlight cut through the swirling white abyss, bouncing directly toward the cabin door.
Lorenzo’s clean-up crew had arrived.
Dominic reached blindly into his jacket, pulling out a sleek, matte-black Walther PPK. His hand shook violently as he tried to lift it. He couldn’t even hold his aim. He looked up at Sarah, a grim, tragic finality in his eyes. He shoved the gun into her wet palms.
“Hide behind the door,” Dominic whispered, his chest heaving. “When he steps in… don’t hesitate. You shoot until it clicks.”
Sarah had never held a gun in her life. The cold metal felt heavier than the marble polishing machines she operated every night. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled behind the rusted iron stove near the door, pulling her knees to her chest, holding the weapon with both hands.
The door handle rattled.
The lock gave way with a sharp crack.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a tactical winter visor stepped into the cabin, a silenced submachine gun raised. The beam of his flashlight immediately washed over Dominic, who lay motionless on the floor, feigning death.
“Target located in the cabin,” the man muttered into his radio lapel. “He’s bleeding out. Moving in to confirm the—”
He never finished the sentence.
Sarah didn’t think. Her nursing instincts—the absolute drive to protect life—twisted into a primal urge to survive. She stepped out from the shadows, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The gun kicked violently in her hands. The man gasped, stepping backward as two rounds shattered his chest tactical vest and one pierced his throat. He collapsed into the snowbank outside the open door, his blood turning the white snow an instant, horrific crimson.
Sarah dropped the gun, gasping for air. She looked at her hands, then at Dominic, who was staring at her with newfound respect through his haze of pain.
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“We have to go,” Dominic breathed, dragging himself up by the edge of the table. “The radio… they know he found me. Grab his vehicle keys. There’s a snowcat parked at the northern logging trail.”
Sarah didn’t cry. She didn’t have the luxury of tears. She stripped the keys from the dead man's belt, hoisted Dominic’s heavy frame over her shoulder once again, and stepped out into the blinding, freezing whiteout, leaving her old life behind forever.
