Page 5 of Hunted By the Mountain Man
His jaw tightens slightly. "More or less."
I sense there's a story there, but I don't push. Instead, I look around the cabin again, noting details I missed in last night's hypothermic haze.
"This place is incredible. You built all this yourself?"
"Most of it. Had help with the solar installation and some of the communications equipment." Cole sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. "Needed somewhere secure, self-sufficient. These mountains provide both."
"Secure from what?"
For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he sets down his mug and meets my eyes directly.
"My former commanding officer. The military justice system. Private contractors who don't appreciate soldiers with inconvenient consciences." His voice is matter-of-fact, but I hear the pain underneath. "I testified about war crimes in Afghanistan. Some people didn't appreciate my honesty."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "War crimes?"
"Civilian casualties that could have been avoided. Rules of engagement violations. Mission objectives that prioritized politics over human lives." Cole's expression is carefully neutral. "I was a combat medic. I saw what those decisions cost."
"So you reported it."
"And got marked for elimination when the investigation got buried." He shrugs, but there's nothing casual about the tension in his shoulders. "Turns out the U.S. military doesn't like whistleblowers any more than organized crime does."
The parallel hits me like a physical blow. "We're the same."
"Both stupid enough to think telling the truth mattered more than staying alive," he agrees with a rueful smile. "Both learning that justice is a luxury most people can't afford."
"But you're still fighting." I gesture around the cabin. "This isn't hiding—this is preparing."
Something shifts in his expression. "Maybe. What about you? Still planning to testify?"
"If I live long enough." I push food around my plate, appetite suddenly gone. "Costa's reach is long. Even if I make it to trial, there's no guarantee he'll be convicted. Or that I'll survive the attempt."
"You will." The certainty in Cole's voice makes me look up. "Both. You'll testify, and you'll survive."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because you're not alone anymore." He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. The contact is warm, steady, grounding. "Costa's men are good, but they're street fighters playing in mountain terrain. They're out of their element."
"And you're not?"
"These mountains are my element. This is where I've trained myself to disappear, to fight, to survive." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, probably unconsciously. "They want to hunt you in my territory? Let them try."
The confidence in his voice should be reassuring, but it's the protective edge that makes my breath catch. The way he says "my territory" like it includes me now.
"Speaking of which," Cole continues, releasing my hand and standing to check something on his communications array."Storm's cleared enough for radio traffic. Your friends are chattering on their comms."
"What are they saying?"
Cole adjusts frequencies, and harsh voices fill the cabin—accented English mixed with what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian.
"They're frustrated," he translates after a few minutes. "Lost your trail in the storm, two men down with frostbite, having to regroup and expand their search pattern."
"How many?"
"Sounds like eight or ten left. Originally twelve to fifteen, but the mountain's taking its toll." Cole's smile is sharp. "They're not equipped for extended winter operations in this terrain."
"But they won't give up."
"No. Costa's paying them too well." Cole turns from the radio, his expression serious. "Which means we need to be smart about our next moves."
