It wasn’t a comfort; it wasn’t therapy. It was the cold pragmatism of a man who understood that trauma could either destroy or temper. And the choice, however unfair, ultimately belonged to the survivor. “We’re here,” Dean announced, turning onto a tree-lined private drive that led to a sprawling estate hidden behind high walls and iron gates that opened automatically as they approached.
A medical team was waiting at the entrance. Three people in scrubs, a gurney ready, equipment bags in hand. The SUV came to a smooth stop. The doors opened in a coordinated sequence, and Ellen—still unconscious but breathing steadily—was transferred into hands that knew exactly how to pull her back from the edge. Maya started to follow the gurney, but Roman’s hand on her shoulder stopped her gently. “Let them work first. Five minutes.
Then you can stay with her as long as you want.” Maya nodded, watching her mother disappear behind pristine white doors. She was still alive. They were both still alive, and for now, that was enough. The safe house was a study in contradictions. Luxury wrapped around security. Elegance hiding violence. Crystal chandeliers hung over surveillance monitors.
Marble floors gleamed beneath weapon racks hidden behind false panels. This was a place where men like Roman conducted business that never appeared in ledgers or court documents. Maya sat in an oversized leather chair in the study. Her muddy feet dangled inches above a Persian rug. Someone had brought her warm tea she hadn’t touched and a blanket she had wrapped around herself like armor.
Through the open doorway, she could see the medical staff moving efficiently around her mother in the adjoining room. Roman stood by the window, a phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and controlled. Victor had vanished somewhere into the depths of the house. Dean and Matt remained outside, standing guard like silent sentinels. “Yes,” Roman said into the phone. “Total confidentiality. No police reports. No records.”
A pause. “Because I said so.” He ended the call and pocketed the device, his attention shifting to Maya. The little girl was staring back at him with eyes that saw too much, understood too little, but trusted completely. “Your mother is stable,” Roman said. “The doctors are cleaning the lacerations on her wrists. She’ll have scars, but she’ll heal.”
Maya nodded slowly. “Can I see her?” — “Soon. They’re finishing up.” The door swung open. Victor walked in with a quick purpose, his expression darker than usual. He carried a tablet in one hand and held it out to Roman without preamble. “We have a problem.” Roman took the device, his eyes scanning whatever was displayed there. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
The only outward sign that he was processing information. “Show me.” Victor tapped the screen, and Maya watched Roman’s face as he absorbed information she couldn’t see. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “When?” Roman asked. “While we were en route. Dean went back to the clearing after we left. Fresh tracks. He photographed everything before the medical team arrived.”
Roman handed the tablet back, his mind already working through the implications and responses. He glanced at Maya, then back at Victor. “Take her to her mother. Stay with them both.” — “Boss…” — “Now.” Victor understood the dismissal for what it was. Protection, not disrespect. He reached out a hand to Maya. “Come on. Your mom is asking for you.” Maya’s face lit up. “She’s awake?” — “Barely, but she wants to see you.”
The little girl scrambled out of the chair and took Victor’s hand, casting one look back at Roman before vanishing through the doorway. Roman waited until he heard the door to Ellen’s room click shut before speaking. “Dean,” he called out, not raising his voice. The man appeared in the doorway within seconds, as if he’d been waiting for the summons. “Show me everything.”
Dean pulled out his own phone, scrolling through a series of photos with methodical precision. “I went back after we loaded Ellen into the SUV. Wanted to document the scene in case we needed proof later.” He handed the phone over. Roman took it, his eyes narrowing as he studied the image. The clearing looked different in the photos—less ethereal, more clinical. The massive oak dominated the frame, the rope still dangling from its branch like a severed limb.
But it was the ground that told the real story. Boot prints, dozens of them. Some old, ground into the mud during the initial assault, but others—fresh, deep, purposeful—crisscrossed the clearing in a pattern that led away from the tree. “These weren’t there when we arrived,” Roman said. It wasn’t a question. — “No, sir. I’m certain. I checked the perimeter when we first went in. These tracks were made after we left. Someone went back.”
Roman swiped to the next image. A close-up of a print with Dean’s tactical knife placed next to it for scale. Large boots, heavy tread, military-grade soles—the kind worn by men who expect trouble and dress accordingly. “Four distinct patterns,” Dean continued. “Four different men. They approached from the northeast, the same direction the original attackers fled.
They stopped at the tree, likely found the cut rope, then fanned out, searching the area.” — “They were looking for their friends,” Roman said quietly. Dean nodded grimly. “Tracked us back to the main road. I found prints near where we parked the SUVs. They would have seen the tire tracks, the direction we went.”
“Did they follow?” — “Unknown. I lost the trail on the asphalt. But, Boss…” Dean hesitated, which was unusual for him. “They know someone intervened. They know their operation was compromised, and they’re looking for whoever did it.” Roman handed the phone back. His expression was carved from ice. “How many did we leave in the woods?” — “Three confirmed. A fourth escaped during the initial encounter.
Ran before we could pin him down. Description: medium build, red jacket. Moves fast. Matt clipped him with a shot, but he made it to a vehicle we didn’t know about. A dirt bike, by the sound of it.” Roman was silent for a long moment, processing the variables. Four men returning to the clearing meant the original group was larger than they’d assumed. Organized. Coordinated.
The kind of crew that didn’t take losses lightly. And now they knew someone had stepped in. “They’ll retaliate,” Roman finally said. “Against who? They don’t know who we are. They know someone took Ellen. They know someone took her. And they know enough to come back and look.” Roman’s eyes turned toward the closed door where Maya and her mother waited. “They’ll go to the places she might run. Her home, her job, people she knows.
She’s here, with us. She’s protected for now, but we can’t keep her forever. And they’ll be waiting.” Roman’s jaw set with resolve. “No.” Waiting gave them time to regroup, to plan, to bring in reinforcements. “What do you suggest?” Roman met Dean’s gaze, and in that look was the cold calculation of a man who had built an empire on decisiveness. “We go back tonight. We find them before they find us.”
Dean didn’t smile, but something like satisfaction flickered across his face. “I’ll tell Matt to prep the full gear. This won’t be a conversation.” — “Understood.” As Dean left, Roman turned back to the window, looking out over the manicured gardens that hid nothing darker than expensive landscaping. The forest remembered what happened in its shadows. Tonight, it would remember more.
The hunting cabin was located three miles northeast of the clearing. Hidden behind a wall of pines and accessible only by a dirt road that hadn’t seen maintenance in years, it was the kind of place people went to disappear. Either by choice or by force. Smoke curled from a rusted metal chimney, gray against the darkening sky. Golden light leaked through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Inside, voices rose and fell in heated conversation, punctuated by the occasional crack of a beer bottle or a kicked piece of furniture.
Roman watched it all from the edge of the woods, crouched in absolute stillness fifty yards from the structure. Beside him, Dean scanned the perimeter through night-vision binoculars while Matt circled around to cover the back exit. They had left Victor at the safe house with strict instructions: protect Ellen and Maya at all costs. This was a different job. This required a different kind of focus.
“Four targets confirmed,” Dean whispered. His breath was barely visible in the cold evening air. “All armed. Two rifles visible. Likely more we can’t see. They’re agitated. Lots of movement. Lots of shouting.” Roman studied the cabin with predatory patience. The structure was old but solid. Thick logs, minimal windows. One main entrance and one rear exit.
Defensible, if you knew it was coming. A trap, if you didn’t. “They’re scared,” Roman noted quietly. “With good reason. They went back and found their friends gone. Not just gone—vanished. No blood trail, no bodies, no evidence. That’s worse than finding corpses. At least corpses give you answers.” Through the gaps in the shutters, Roman could see shadows moving.
Men pacing, gesturing emphatically. One shadow was larger than the rest, dominating the space with aggressive body language. The leader, most likely. The one who made the decisions. “We could smoke them out,” Dean suggested. “An old cabin like that would go up fast.” — “Too loud, too visible. Smoke draws attention.” Roman’s eyes never left the structure. “We go in. We take control. We make them understand what happens when you put innocent women in trees.”
Dean lowered the binoculars. “You want them alive?” — “I want them to answer questions first.” And then Roman didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Matt’s voice came softly through Roman’s earpiece. “In position. Back door secured. No activity on this side.” Roman touched his earpiece. “Hold until my signal. Nobody leaves.” — “Copy.” Roman checked his sidearm—a matte black pistol that had seen enough use to feel like an extension of his hand.
Dean did the same, his movements automatic and efficient. They had done this before—not often, because Roman preferred to build empires rather than dismantle small-time operations. But sometimes, examples had to be made. Sometimes, the forest demanded blood. “On three,” Roman said. They moved like smoke through the trees, covering the distance in seconds. Roman’s approach was direct. No stealth, no subtlety.
He walked up to the front door and kicked it with enough force to half-tear the old hinges from the frame. The door slammed inward. The four men inside scrambled to their feet, hands reaching for weapons that no longer mattered. Roman stepped through the threshold, his pistol raised and steady. Dean followed a step behind, covering the right side of the room while Roman held the left. “Don’t,” Roman said quietly.
The word carried more weight than a shout. All four men froze, their hands hovering near rifles leaned against walls or pistols tucked into waistbands. These were rough men, scarred faces, hardened expressions—the kind who spent their lives operating in the spaces where the law didn’t reach. But they recognized death when it walked through their door. The largest man, the leader, stood near a battered wooden table covered in beer bottles and what looked like a map.
He was maybe forty, with a thick beard and a tattoo of a snake eating its own tail on his left arm—the same tattoo Maya had described. His eyes widened with recognition. Not of Roman specifically, but of the type of man he represented. Professional. Calm. Absolutely certain. “Who the hell are you?” the leader demanded, though his voice carried less conviction than his words suggested. “The man who took Ellen out of your tree,” Roman replied evenly.
The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop. The four men exchanged looks. Fear mixed with confusion, mixed with the beginning of understanding. “That wasn’t your business,” the leader said, his hand moving slowly toward the pistol at his hip. Dean’s weapon shifted a fraction of an inch. The movement was tiny but impossible to miss. The man’s hand stopped. “You put a woman in a tree and left her child to watch,” Roman continued.
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