The woods, which had felt hostile just minutes ago because of the intruders, now seemed to embrace him, hiding him in the shadows. He was the master here. They were the prey.
Suddenly, in the distance, from the direction Jimmy had run, a shot rang out. The sharp, dry crack of a handgun. Then—a wild, terror-filled scream that cut off as abruptly as it began.
Mike froze. That wasn’t the scream of someone being shot. It was the scream of someone seeing something worse than death.
Mike gripped the shotgun tighter and picked up his pace, moving in a low tactical jog. The game had changed. There was someone else in the woods.
Or something else. And Mike was going to find out who had decided to join his private war. A shadow flickered among the trees ahead.
Too fast for a man. Too heavy for a coyote. Mike pressed himself against the trunk of a pine, merging with the bark.
His heart beat steadily; his breath was silent. He was part of the forest. He was the Ghost.
The night lay ahead of him. A long, cold night full of secrets. And Mike Sullivan was ready for all of them.
The silence that followed Jimmy’s blood-curdling scream was heavier and more ominous than the wind. Mike Sullivan stood perfectly still, a shadow against the hemlock. His breathing was shallow, invisible.
His heart rate slowed, obeying a mind forged in dozens of black ops. He was a part of the mountain now. The snow didn’t crunch under his feet.
Mike knew how to distribute his weight so that even dry twigs under the crust remained silent. In his head, a tactical map of the terrain was unfolding. The enemy was ahead—thick brush to the left where the sound came from, and an open clearing to the right, bathed in ghostly moonlight.
He moved forward, flowing from tree to tree. Scar’s shotgun felt natural in his hands, though he preferred his own gear. But you use what you have.
He had seven rounds in the pistol and four in the shotgun. Enough for a small war, but what had happened in the dark worried him. Jimmy’s scream hadn’t just been fear; it was primal horror.
And that shadow—massive, fast, silent. In these woods, only big predators cast shadows like that. But wolves rarely attacked an armed man alone unless provoked.
After fifty yards, Mike caught a scent. It wasn’t the smell of gunpowder he expected after the shot. It was the smell of fresh blood, hot and metallic, sharp against the scent of pine.
And another smell—wet fur and dog. Mike allowed a small smile to touch his lips. The pieces fit.
He reached the edge of a small ravine choked with laurel. Below, in the snow, a figure was curled up. Jimmy lay on his back, clutching his right arm to his chest. Blood was soaking into the white snow, turning it a deep crimson.
His pistol lay a few feet away, useless. And standing over him, baring white fangs and letting out a low, guttural growl, was a massive dog. “Blue!” Mike said softly but firmly, lowering the shotgun.
The dog, a wolfhound mix with a chest like a barrel, instantly turned his head toward his master’s voice. The fire of the hunt was still in his eyes. But recognizing Mike, the beast stopped growling.
He wagged his tail once but didn’t move, keeping his eyes on the intruder. Blue hadn’t been “out on his own business.” The old dog had likely caught the scent of the thugs long before they reached the house and had circled back to wait.
His guardian instinct was flawless. He’d let them in, but he’d cut off their escape. Jimmy, seeing Mike, began to whimper.
His face was as white as a sheet. His eyes were wide with terror. “Get him away! Get that monster away from me!” he screamed, his voice cracking.
“He bit me. I’m bleeding out. Help me.” Mike slowly descended into the ravine.
He didn’t rush. Every step was a display of control. Reaching the thug, he kicked the discarded pistol further into a snowbank.
Then he knelt down, looking into the eyes of the kid who had been threatening him thirty minutes ago. “Blue, easy,” Mike commanded. The dog reluctantly backed off a step but kept a heavy gaze on Jimmy.
“Let me see the arm,” Mike said curtly. Jimmy, sobbing, pulled his hand away; the forearm was mangled. Blue had done a clean job: the grip was solid, the fangs had pierced the winter jacket.
But the bone looked intact. No major arteries hit, or there would be a fountain. “You’ll live,” Mike said indifferently. “If you don’t freeze first.”
“Now get up. And don’t try anything. Blue is faster than a bullet, and I’m a better shot than you are a runner.” “I can’t… it hurts…” Jimmy whined.
Mike grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. The kid cried out but stayed upright. “Pain is just a signal that you’re still alive, kid. Get used to it.”
“We have a long talk ahead of us.” He shoved the prisoner toward the trail leading back to the cabin. Blue fell in at his side, occasionally nudging Mike’s hip with a wet nose, checking on his master.
Mike patted the dog’s thick neck. This animal was the only creature in the world he trusted completely. The walk back to the cabin took longer…
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