Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
The three of us go still.
“I picked up a ping on my equipment. Garbled, no coordinates, but it was repeating on a loop for about fifteen minutes before it cut out. Couldn’t trace the source, but I flagged it with RCMP dispatch and started keeping an eye out.” She looks us over. “That was you.”
“That was us,” Liam says. “We pulled a Wi-Fi module out of a surveillance camera and jury-rigged it to broadcast.”
“Well, it worked. Sort of. Not enough to find you, but enough that when three people show up at my door looking like they crawled out of a war zone, I’m not starting from zero.
“How many?” she asks. “Coming after you.”
“Six that we saw. Maybe more.”
“Armed?”
“Serious hardware. Tactical weapons, body armor.”
She nods slowly, like we just told her a storm was coming and she’s calculating how much firewood she’ll need. “Well. That’s not ideal.” She steps back from the door. “Get inside. I’ll make coffee and call for extraction. Not necessarily in that order.”
The station is warm. She moves through the small space with easy efficiency, one hand on the radio while the other sets a kettle on the stove. Her voice is steady as she coordinates with RCMP dispatch, rattling off coordinates and situation details like she’s ordering supplies.
“Four to six hours,” she says when she hangs up. “Nearest helicopter. Protocols and paperwork.” She pulls three mugs down from a shelf. “Bureaucracy doesn’t move fast even when people are trying to kill you. Cream and sugar?”
“Black,” Knox says.
“Same,” from Liam.
“Whatever you’re having,” I manage.
She pours with a steady hand, then doctors her own mug with enough honey to make my teeth ache just watching. “I’m Michelle, by the way. Since we’re apparently going to be under siege together, seems like we should be on a first-name basis.”
“Hailey. That’s Knox, and Liam.”
She looks the three of us over. “And there’s more to this than you’re telling me, but that’s fine. People end up out here for all kinds of reasons. Most of them don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going to ask questions.”
“You’re taking this very calmly,” Knox says.
Michelle shrugs, those curls bouncing. “I’ve been doing this job for almost ten years. Started right out of high school—only thing I ever wanted to do. Three weeks ago I had to chase a wolverine out of my storage shed with a broom. Last summer a guy showed up convinced he was being hunted by the CIA. Turned out he’d eaten some bad mushrooms, but I didn’t know that for the first six hours.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Armed mercenaries are new, I’ll admit. But panicking never helped anyone.”
Something about her steadiness is infectious. I feel my shoulders drop slightly, the tension easing just a fraction.
“The station,” Knox says. “How defensible is it?”
“Built to handle the worst this territory can throw at it. Walls are reinforced—we get grizzlies up here, and they’re persistent when they’re hungry. Windows are small, good sight lines. I’ve got ammunition, supplies, and a backup generator.” She meets his eyes. “I’m not saying we can hold off an army. But six people? We can make them work for it.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Liam says. “We can lead them away from here, draw them off—”
“Stop.” Michelle holds up a hand. “You showed up at my station asking for help. That means you’re under my protection until the RCMP gets here. That’s how this works.” Her jaw sets. “I don’t hand people over to be killed. Not ever. So drink your coffee and let’s figure out how we’re going to keep everyone alive.”
I decide I like her.
Knox and Michelle move through the station together, checking sight lines, counting ammunition, discussing approaches and choke points. She knows the terrain, knows where attackers would likely position, knows the weaknesses and how to compensate for them.
Liam works the radio equipment, boosting the signal to reach a bar in a nearby town.
“Armed hostiles incoming,” he tells whoever answers. “Anyone with a gun, we’ll pay whatever you ask. Get here fast.”
“Long shot,” Michelle says when he hangs up. “But people up here help each other. Bill at the Rusted Moose knows everyone within fifty miles. If anyone’s coming, he’ll send them.”
We wait. We fortify.
I help Michelle gather anything useful—flares, gasoline, kitchen knives. She moves through her supplies with practiced efficiency, handing me things without needing to explain what they’re for.
“You’ve done this before,” I say. “Not the mercenary thing. But the survival thing.”
“Grew up out here.” She pulls a box of ammunition from a high shelf. “My dad was a trapper. Mom was a bush pilot. I learned to shoot before I learned to drive.” A quick smile that transforms her whole face. “City people think the wilderness is peaceful. It’s not. It’s constantly trying to kill you in creative ways. You either learn to handle that or you don’t last long.”