Chapter 7 - The Safehouse in the PinesThe cabin sat fifty miles inland from Port Haven, hidden deep within a thick stand of white pine and balsam fir where the logging roads turned to mud and cell service died completely.
It was a sturdy, timber-framed structure Roman had bought a decade ago as a fallback position—a place with no address, reinforced steel window shutters, and a generator buried beneath three feet of concrete.
Inside, the wood-burning stove crackled, filling the main room with a rich, resinous warmth that chased away the damp chill of the Maine woods.
Mara sat cross-legged on a thick woolen rug, coloring a picture of a lighthouse with a box of Crayola crayons Eli had scavenged from a roadside store.
Evelyn sat in a rocking chair by the hearth, knitting a woolen scarf that was growing longer by the hour. Her fingers moved with a rhythmic, hypnotic click of wooden needles.
Roman stood by the heavy oak front door, looking through the narrow observation slit carved into the timber. His hand rested on the grip of his SIG Sauer.
"They're moving," Eli said, stepping away from a satellite communications rig set up on a camp table in the corner. The screen glowed with green topographical maps and thermal feeds from perimeter motion sensors hidden half a mile down the access road.
"How many?" Roman asked without turning around.
"Two vehicles. Ford Expeditions. No plates. They bypassed the local sheriff's checkpoint ten minutes ago," Eli reported, his fingers flying across the laptop keyboard as he queued up camera feeds from the tree line. "Professionals, Boss. Ex-military. They’re running thermal gear and suppressed carbines. They didn't come to negotiate."
Roman turned slowly from the door. His face was carved from granite—hard, cold, and entirely devoid of fear. The protective instinct that had lain dormant for nine years—since the day he buried an empty space in his heart—now roared through his veins like high-octane fuel.
"They think they can take my daughter twice," Roman said softly.
He walked over to the camp table, picked up a spare magazine, and slammed it into the well of his rifle with a crisp, mechanical clack.
Evelyn didn't stop knitting. She didn't even look up from her wool, though her needles slowed for a fraction of a second.
"Be careful, Roman," she said, her voice steady and unyielding. "Don't leave a mess for her to clean up."
Mara looked up from her coloring book, holding a blue crayon in her hand.
"Are those the bad men from the fish market?" she asked, her green eyes wide and curious behind her smudged glasses.
Roman knelt down beside her, placing his heavy hand gently on her shoulder.
"No, Mara," Roman said, looking deep into her eyes. "These are just men who made a very bad mistake about who they were coming to visit. You stay right here with your grandmother. Keep coloring your lighthouse."
May you like
Mara nodded solemnly, picked up her blue crayon, and returned to her picture. "Make sure you don't step in the mud, though. Your shoes look expensive."
Roman let out a short, grim breath that sounded almost like a laugh, then stood up and walked toward the back exit with Eli right behind him.
