It was a sturdy structure built from hand-hewn logs, weathered gray by time but as solid as a bunker. Mike had built it himself when he decided to walk away from a world he knew too well and had grown tired of. There was no electricity, no cell service—just a wood stove, a bunk, and silence.
A silence he valued more than gold, and which these men were now shattering. As they approached the porch, Mike felt a cold anger rising. Usually, his dog, a large wolfhound mix named Blue, would be waiting on the porch.
But today the porch was empty. Mike silently thanked his luck. Blue had headed into the woods early that morning to track something.
If the dog had been here, he would have lunged at the intruders and likely taken a bullet. The death of his only friend would have been the trigger that forced Mike to act immediately, messy and fast. But with Blue safe, Mike had room to maneuver.
“Open it!” Tiny barked, kicking the door with a heavy boot. Mike pulled the latch, and the door creaked open, releasing a puff of warm air smelling of cedar and woodsmoke. The thugs barged in, immediately filling the small space with their bulky presence.
Mike entered last, carefully closing the door to keep the heat in. His eyes instantly noted the position of every object in the room. The hatchet by the stove. The heavy cast-iron skillet on the table.
The skinning knife he’d left on the bench after cleaning some trout that morning. Scar walked over to the table, sweeping a mug of coffee onto the floor. The sound of shattering ceramic cut through the room.
“Alright, Pops, where’s the jar? Where’s the cash?” he laughed, looking around the modest room. “Don’t play poor with us. We know you hermits always hide your social security under the mattress. You probably haven’t spent a dime in years.”
“I don’t have any cash,” Mike said calmly, taking off his hat and shaking the snow from it. “What would I need it for out here? There aren’t any stores.” “Don’t lie to me!” Scar barked, and with a quick motion, he backhanded Mike across the face.
The blow was hard and insulting. Mike’s head snapped back, and blood began to trickle from his lip. He stumbled back against the log wall.
The taste of his own blood was salty and metallic. It was the taste of the field. A taste he had tried to forget for fifteen years.
Inside him, in the deep recesses of his mind where the professional lay dormant, something clicked. The safety was off. The targeting system was active.
But outwardly, he remained the same—a frightened old man wiping his lip with his sleeve. “Don’t hit me, fellas. Look around, maybe you’ll find something. I don’t remember much,” he muttered, looking down.
“That’s better,” Tiny smirked. “Jimmy, check the trunks. I’ll look behind the stove.” The thugs began to tear the place apart.
They dumped drawers onto the floor, ripped open bags of flour, scattering food across the dirty planks. Jimmy, the youngest, opened an old wooden chest in the corner. It held clothes—wool socks, spare flannels, old sweaters.
He tossed the items out one by one until his hand hit something hard at the bottom, wrapped in an oiled cloth. “Hey, Scar, look at this!” Jimmy shouted, unwrapping the bundle. It wasn’t a wallet or a stack of bills.
It was an old, worn holster with a service pistol, the grip engraved with a commendation. Beside it lay a small velvet pouch. Jimmy emptied its contents onto the table.
The clink of metal on wood silenced the room. A Silver Star, a Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service Cross, and several other medals that were only given to those who did things the newspapers never wrote about. Scar walked to the table and picked up the Silver Star, turning it in his fingers.
His face changed. The mockery turned to confusion, then a mean squint. “A soldier boy, huh?” he drawled, turning to Mike.
“A real hero. And I was wondering why you were standing so tall. You think these shiny trinkets are gonna save you?” Mike looked at his medals lying among the spilled flour and cigarette ash.
It was a desecration. It was worse than the blow to his face. Those medals were paid for with the blood of his friends—men who didn’t come back from the Gulf, from Mogadishu, from the mountains of Tora Bora.
Each one was a story of pain and sacrifice. And now, the dirty fingers of a common criminal were pawing at them like cheap jewelry. “Put them back,” Mike said quietly.
His voice had changed. The elderly crack was gone. It was the voice that gave orders under mortar fire.
A voice that didn’t accept “no.” The room went silent. Scar froze, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.
Tiny stopped rummaging through the cupboard and turned around. Jimmy giggled nervously. “You think you’re invincible, old man?” Scar asked, slowly sliding the Silver Star into his jacket pocket.
“This is my trophy now. And you’re gonna tell me where the rest is. You have a gun, you have ammo. And you have a stash.”
He stepped right up to Mike, looming over him. “Listen close, Grandpa. We’re gonna play a game. I’m gonna hurt you until you remember where the money is.”
Scar reached out to grab Mike by the collar. It was his last mistake as the hunter. The moment the thug’s fingers touched the rough fabric of the jacket, time slowed down for Mike…
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