Page 3 of Winter Reckoning
I scanned the treeline. Nothing moved except the branches swaying in the wind. For a Redline file, I expected more security. I inspected the corners of the house, checking for cameras. Nothing. No surveillance drones. No perimeter sensors. If this place had security, it wasn't anything the naked eye could see.
I worked my way up the steps, hand resting on a column holding up the porch. Hand-cut logs, a stone chimney, a single window glowing amber against the gray afternoon. It was as if I had stepped into a winter postcard. The only thing missing was the green wreath on the door.
Whoever lived here didn’t want to be found. Almost at the midpoint between Vanguard and Sin City, this would have been impossible to find. Even with a satellite guided GPS, I had missed the turnoff. Something about this mission already felt off, but now that I saw my home for the next three days, I should have questions.
Instead, I counted down the hours until retirement.
I approached the front, making notes about defense weak points. Not knowing the threat made it impossible. Logs wouldn’t stop a tank or a teleporter. Snow wouldn’t make a difference to a flier. I didn’t like not knowing what I was up against. I had convinced myself Alvarez gave me the file as an exit hazing. The more I inspected the cabin, the more I realized she gave it to me for my ability to adapt. The uncertainty didn’t faze me.
I raised my hand to knock. As my knuckles fell, the door opened.
A man stood in the doorway. Tall, maybe six-two, with silver threaded through his beard and hair. He hadn't seen a barber in months. The wool sweater had been mended at the elbows and corduroy pants that looked older than me. His eyes were pale gray and reminded me of the clouds of a winter storm. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he mirrored my slack expression.
"You're late."
“Snow.”
I tried not to stare, but assessing the situation came with the territory. This gentleman could be anywhere between fifty and seventy. He had a timelessness I couldn’t place. By the size of his belly, he had an affinity for junk food. Sweets. Chocolate. I suspected that if he flexed, I’d discover underneath the softness he had a good bit of muscle. Now the thought of him in nothing but socks stuck in my head.
He stepped aside without another word. No handshake. No introduction. Just the open doorway and the warmth spilling out from inside.
As I stepped inside, I continued inspecting the scene. The interior was larger than it looked from outside. The more I eyed the great room, hallway to the side, and staircase to the second floor, the exterior dimensions didn’t make logical sense. A wood stove crackled in the corner, radiating heat that broke through the outside chill. Exposed beams ran across the ceiling, darkened with age and smoke. A modest tree stood near the window, decorated with a single strand of lights that flickered every few seconds as if they were about to give up.
No panic button. No visible tech. No weapons mounted on the walls. Instead of defensive measures, he had a bookshelf sagging under the weight of old hardcovers. It didn’t read bunker, especially not with a couple of worn armchairs sitting close to the stove. This wasn’t a safe house, unless they had gone to extreme measures to make it cozy. It wasn’t the worst babysitting locale, not by a long shot.
The man who'd opened the door moved to the armchair and sat down with a mug in hand. He didn't offer me one. Didn't ask if I wanted to sit. Just settled into the chair and stared at the fire like I wasn't there.
Everything about this mission felt off. When I showed up for a protection detail, my charges had two attitudes. The first was the paranoid client who let reality turn them into a paralyzed mess. The other, the cocky type who believed that whatever threatened them wouldn’t survive the ordeal. He didn’t strike me as either type.
I stayed standing. Coat zipped. Duffel still in hand.
“Oh! You’re here. Put your bags down.”
The voice came from a doorway on the far side of the room. I turned and found a woman holding a box filled with Christmas ornaments. She was younger than I expected, mid-twenties maybe, with dark hair pulled into a messy bun and a hoodie with glitter smeared across one sleeve. Her feet were bare except for thick wool socks with reindeer on them.
“You must be Danny.”
His daughter? Perhaps he wasn’t the client. I still didn’t know any details about who I had been sent to protect. The big guy didn’t seem to have any desire to explain the mission. He put on round glasses, focusing on his book.
She moved across the room, dropping the box on the dining room table. On one side of the room, I had a man who acted as if I didn’t exist. She, on the other hand, stared at me as if I were a new toy. Everything about this mission set off the alarms in the back of my head.
“Welcome. We’re glad to have you here. Ignore him. He’s not very talkative.”
I didn't respond.
“Oh.” Her eyebrow inched up her forehead. “You’re going to be a fun one.”
Three days until retirement. I kept reminding myself.
“Charlene," she added, gesturing at herself. "Intern. His, not yours. I'm just here for the festivities. I keep the business from falling apart.”
She went back to rummaging through the ornaments, humming something under her breath. The humming turned into outright singing while she danced seated in her chair. It bordered on vulgar when she added the hip thrusts.
The man in the armchair turned a page in the book he'd picked up. From this distance, I could barely make out the crow’s feet as he squinted. I expected the book to be a classic, something on the required reading list in a college literature class. A man comfortable in silence, I had to admit, it made him attractive. It didn’t hurt that the buttons on his flannel fought to keep his shirt closed.
Neither of them looked at me.
“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath.
