Ranger stopped at the edge of a fast-moving creek.
Ray expected the dog to lean down and drink, but Ranger only sniffed the wet, mossy stones before carefully stepping across a weathered, dangerously rotting plank bridge spanning the water.
Marcus knelt at the muddy bank before crossing, his eyes tracking the ground.
“Hold up. Tracks.”
Ray crouched beside him, resting his hand on his knee.
Boot prints. Deeply pressed into the soft black mud.
They were recent. Very recent. The edges of the imprints were still crisp, not yet melted by the morning dew.
Someone had walked this trail. Going up, and coming back down.
Marcus pointed a thick finger at a second set of prints slightly overlapping the first. “More than one person. Different tread patterns. One set of heavy lug soles, one set of lighter tactical boots.”
Ray felt the first icy edge of caution finally overcome the blinding shock of the note. The combat instincts he had spent decades trying to dull flared to life in his chest.
He stood up, his eyes scanning the tree line with sharp, predatory focus.
“Stay alert. Keep your voice down.”
Marcus gave him a dry, humorless look. “Oh, now you say that. Glad we’re doing tactics now.”
They crossed the bridge in silence, placing their feet on the structural crossbeams to avoid snapping the rotted wood.
Ten minutes later, the elevation leveled out. Ranger disappeared around a thick stand of towering evergreen pine trees.
Ray hurried after the dog, pushing through the fragrant, sticky branches.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
A cabin stood in the center of a small, hidden clearing.
It was small and impossibly old, built from dark, weather-beaten timber with a rusted, corrugated metal roof. Wild ivy and creeping vines had climbed one entire wall, nearly consuming a side window, and fallen branches from a recent storm covered part of the wraparound porch. It looked like a relic from a forgotten century, completely isolated from the modern world.
At first glance, it looked entirely abandoned.
Then Ray noticed the fieldstone chimney.
A thin, gray line of wood smoke rose steadily into the late afternoon air, dissipating into the pines.
Marcus stepped up beside him, his breathing shallow. “Someone's home.”
Ranger didn't hesitate. The dog walked directly across the clearing, his tail wagging slightly, and headed straight toward the porch.
Ray's heart began beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He scanned the perimeter. There was no vehicle nearby. No dirt driveway leading out. No mailbox. No power lines or telephone poles visible through the dense canopy. It was entirely off the grid.
Yet, the front window glass had been recently cleaned. Firewood was neatly stacked in a dry cord against the wall.
Someone lived here.
Ray approached the cabin slowly, his heavy boots making no sound on the soft pine needles.
Ranger climbed the first wooden step of the porch, gave a low whine, and stopped, looking back at Ray.
A large, battered metal water bowl sat beside the heavy oak door.
The name RANGER had been scratched into its metal side with the tip of a knife.
Ray stared at the bowl.
“This is where he lives,” Ray whispered.
Marcus remained several feet behind him, standing near the edge of the clearing, scanning the tree line. “Or it’s where somebody wants us to think he lives. Ray, this is a perfect fatal funnel. If there's a sniper in those trees, we're already dead.”
Ray ignored him. He kept his eyes locked on the door.
No movement from the windows. No sound from inside.