The prospect of freezing in the woods scared them more than jail. “What’s gonna happen to us?” Jimmy asked, sniffing. “You’ll live,” Mike answered, pouring himself some water. His hands were shaking slightly. “Some serious people are coming.”
“You’ll tell them everything. About Lefty. About the hit. About scaring an old lady. If you cooperate, maybe you’ll get a lighter sentence. If not, there’s plenty of room in the state pen.”
He didn’t bother tying them up again. There was no need. They were broken.
They sat in the corner, quiet as mice, looking at Mike with pure awe and terror. Mike went over to Mrs. Gable, who was sitting by the stove, wrapped in a blanket. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Mrs. Gable,” he said softly. “Oh, Mike. You saved me. I thought it was the end. I had no idea you were… well, that.”
She looked at him differently now. Not as the grumpy neighbor, but as a protector. “Who are you, really?”
Mike smiled for the first time that night. It was a tired smile, but a real one. “I’m just a woodsman, Mrs. Gable. Just a woodsman keeping the pests away.”
Two hours later, the thump of rotors broke the morning silence. Two black helicopters with no markings hovered over the clearing. Men in full tactical gear fast-roped down.
They worked fast, efficiently, without a word. The mercs’ bodies were bagged. Weapons collected.
The snowmobiles were loaded. The thugs—Scar, Tiny, and Jimmy—were handcuffed and led to the chopper. They went willingly, glad the nightmare was over.
The team leader, a fit man in his forties with sharp eyes, walked up to Mike. He didn’t salute, but he offered his hand. “Major,” he nodded. “The General sends his regards. Asked if you wanted to come back to civilization?”
“You’ve got a commendation coming, medical care, a place in D.C.” Mike shook his hand. The grip was firm.
“Tell the General thanks. But my home is here. There’s not enough air in D.C. And too many people.”
The commander nodded understandingly. He looked at the bullet-riddled cabin, the broken windows, the blood in the snow. “We’ll send a crew. They’ll fix the windows, the door. Bring supplies. It’s the least we can do.”
“Vance’s file is closed. No one will bother you again. His organization will be dismantled by nightfall.” “Good,” Mike said. “Let the mountain have some peace.”
The helicopters left, kicking up a snowstorm. Mike stood on the porch, leaning against the frame of the new temporary door the team had put up. Blue sat beside him, bandaged up, watching the machines disappear.
The sun was rising over the ridges. It was a cold, winter sun, but bright. The rays played on the hemlocks, turning the snow into a field of diamonds.
The silence returned. That ringing, primal silence Mike loved. He pulled an old cigarette case from his pocket, then remembered he’d quit ten years ago and put it back.
“Well, boy?” he told the dog, scratching his ear. “Enough war for one day. Let’s get the stove going and make some breakfast. Life goes on.”
Mike Sullivan, the legend they called Ghost, turned and went inside. He knew the scars would remain, on his body and his mind. But he also knew that as long as he was here, in these woods, evil would think twice before coming back.
Because the mountains don’t forgive weakness, but they always protect those who belong to them. And somewhere far away, in a secure office, a file marked “Classified” was being archived, and the story of the old man who took down an elite merc squad alone was becoming another myth. A story whispered by recruits at Fort Bragg.
But for Mike, it was just another long night.
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