By marilyn quillen
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The diner was a relic, the kind of place time forgot. Its faded booths, cracked linoleum floors, and flickering neon sign made it perfect for secrets—no cameras, no questions, just the low hum of the ancient refrigerator in the back. Alex Dane sat at the corner booth, nursing a bitter cup of coffee. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering just enough to make the shadows in the room dance.
He didn’t like the man sitting across from him.
The guy was sweating through a tailored suit, his collar loose, tie askew. He looked like a man who’d been running from something—or someone—for far too long. His hands were trembling as he slid the manila folder across the table.
“You’re the best,” the man said, his voice a low rasp. “That’s what they said. The best tracker. No one gets away from you.”
Alex ignored the compliment, flipping open the folder. The first thing he saw was the face: Ethan Grayson. Mid-thirties, lean, angular features, eyes like ice. The grainy surveillance photo showed a man slipping through a crowd, his hood pulled low, blending seamlessly into the chaos around him.
“Military,” Alex said, more to himself than to the client. His fingers flicked through the pages, noting key details: background in special forces, expertise in survival, evasion, and counter-surveillance.
“Black ops,” the client confirmed, his voice tightening. “He was part of a unit that went bad. Disappeared two years ago after some...incident overseas. Officially, he’s dead. Unofficially, we’ve been tracking him.”
Alex looked up, raising an eyebrow. “And why’s he worth this much effort?” He tapped the envelope on the table, thick with cash. “You’ve already doubled my fee just to talk. What makes this guy so special?”
The client hesitated, his fingers twitching as he reached for his coffee cup. He didn’t drink, just stared into the black liquid like it might offer him answers. “Grayson’s not just running. He’s hiding something. Something dangerous.”
Alex leaned back in the booth, his expression unreadable. “And you don’t want to tell me what that something is?”
“That’s not your concern,” the man snapped, his tone sharpening. “Your job is to find him and bring him in. Dead or alive.”
Alex tilted his head, considering. “You realize the Cascade Range in winter isn’t exactly friendly territory. If he’s holed up out there, he’s not just hiding. He’s prepared. People like him don’t make it easy.”
“That’s why we’re hiring you,” the client said.
Alex smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And what happens if I don’t come back? You hire someone else to clean up your mess?”
The client’s lips twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he slid another envelope across the table.
“Half now,” he said. “The rest when you bring him in. But be careful, Dane. Grayson’s not like anyone you’ve tracked before.”
Alex pocketed the cash and the folder, finishing his coffee in one long, bitter gulp. “They never are.”
The drive out to the Cascades took the better part of a day. The mountains rose like jagged teeth against the horizon, their peaks disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Snow blanketed the forests, muffling the world in a cold, suffocating silence.
Alex pulled his truck to a stop at the edge of a remote trailhead, killing the engine and stepping out into the freezing air. He was dressed for the weather—thermal layers under a heavy jacket, gloves, and boots designed for traction on ice. His pack was loaded with essentials: food, water, a small stove, and extra ammunition for the rifle slung across his back.
He scanned the area, his breath visible in the cold air. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, the dense pines forming a wall of shadows. It was the kind of place that swallowed people whole, leaving nothing behind but rumors and ghost stories.
Grayson’s last known location was about five miles up the trail, near a series of old logging roads that had been abandoned decades ago. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was enough to start.
Alex adjusted his pack and set off, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The cold bit at his exposed skin, the wind carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. He kept his senses sharp, scanning for signs of movement, disturbed snow, or anything out of place.
For hours, there was nothing. Just the sound of his breathing and the rhythm of his footsteps.
But as the sun began to sink behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the snow, Alex found his first clue: a bootprint, faint but unmistakable, leading off the trail and deeper into the woods.
He crouched to examine it, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of the print. The snow was packed firm, the edges still sharp—it was recent, no more than a day old.
Grayson was close.
Alex’s pulse quickened as he followed the trail, each step taking him deeper into the trees. The light faded rapidly, the shadows growing darker, and the air colder. His hand hovered near his rifle, every nerve on edge.
Ahead, through the trees, he saw it: a cabin, half-buried in snow, smoke curling weakly from the chimney.
Alex slowed, his instincts screaming at him to stop. The cabin looked wrong—too obvious, too exposed. But it was the only lead he had.
He approached cautiously, his footsteps silent. The door was ajar, creaking softly as it swayed in the wind. Alex stepped inside, his rifle raised, scanning the interior.
The room was a mess. Maps and papers were scattered across a rickety table, some torn, others burned. A single cot sat against the far wall, its blanket rumpled, and a wood stove emitted a faint warmth.
But it was the writing on the wall that stopped him cold.
Scrawled in black ink, in jagged, uneven letters:
“The hunter doesn’t always stay the hunter.”
Alex stared at the words, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faintest sound of crunching snow.
He wasn’t alone.
| Author Notes | This is my first full novel and am hoping to get some good honest opinions before publishing! Thanks |
By marilyn quillen
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Into the Wild
________________________________________
The snow fell in heavy, muffling waves, coating the forest in a fresh layer of silence. Alex crouched by the cabin's window, the rifle resting lightly in his hands as he scanned the clearing. The faint crunch he'd heard moments ago was gone, swallowed by the storm.
His eyes traced the tree line, watching for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the steady fall of snow and the creaking groan of frozen branches bending under its weight.
Alex's pulse was steady, but his senses were on high alert. He didn't believe in coincidences. Whoever had been out there wasn't just passing through.
The cabin was a mess of scattered clues, each more unsettling than the last. The maps on the table were marked with circles and arrows, but none of it made immediate sense. A few had burned edges like someone had tried to destroy them in a hurry. Notes were scrawled in the margins "Shift north," "Avoid ridge," "Three days left?" none of it offering clarity.
But it was the writing on the wall that stayed with him: "The hunter doesn't always stay the hunter."
Alex straightened and moved back into the center of the room, his boots crunching over the layer of snow that had blown in through the broken windows. He picked up a sheet of paper lying on the floor. Most of it was gibberish coordinates and scribbled diagrams but one phrase was circled in thick black ink:
"STAY AHEAD. STAY AHEAD."
The trail picked up again just beyond the cabin, faint but deliberate. A line of bootprints curved toward the trees, disappearing into the dense undergrowth. Alex followed cautiously, every step measured, his rifle slung across his chest.
The storm eased as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest. The temperature dropped sharply, and Alex adjusted the scarf around his face, his breath frosting in the frigid air.
The bootprints led him to the edge of a frozen stream. He crouched, studying the pattern. The tracks continued across the ice, but there was something odd about the spacing too precise, too perfect.
He reached out, brushing a gloved hand over the surface. His fingers caught on a thin, almost invisible wire.
A trap.
Alex followed the wire's path to a nearby tree, where it connected to a crude mechanism with sharpened stakes rigged to spring if the wire was tripped. He let out a soft breath, more frustration than relief. This wasn't just evasion; it was a warning.
"Smart," he muttered under his breath.
He disarmed the trap with practiced ease, his movements quick and precise. But as he stood, he noticed something else: the bootprints stopped just beyond the stream. They didn't veer off, didn't fade they just ended.
Alex frowned, scanning the area. A faint indent in the snow caught his eye, leading to a cluster of low-hanging branches. He followed it, pushing through the trees until he saw it: a piece of fabric, torn and caught on a jagged branch. It flapped weakly in the wind, a bright slash of color against the white.
Too easy.
Alex didn't trust it. Grayson was ex-military, a ghost by trade. This kind of carelessness didn't add up.
He looked up at the surrounding trees, their skeletal branches weaving into an impenetrable canopy. The shadows seemed to move in the fading light, shifting in ways they shouldn't. His gut told him to turn back, but the hunter in him pushed forward.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he pressed deeper into the forest. The cold was sharper here, biting through his layers and settling into his bones. Every step felt heavier, every sound louder in the oppressive silence.
He wasn't following Grayson's trail anymore. He was walking into a trap.
By the time night fell, Alex knew he couldn't keep moving. The forest was too dense, the terrain too unpredictable in the dark. He found a sheltered spot beneath a rocky overhang and set up a small camp. The fire was minimal, just enough to stave off frostbite, its flickering light barely illuminating the surrounding trees.
Alex sat with his back against the rock, his rifle resting across his knees. His eyes scanned the darkness beyond the firelight, watching for movement. The shadows played tricks on him, the faint rustle of branches sounding like footsteps. He didn't relax. He didn't sleep.
Hours passed, the fire crackling softly as the storm raged overhead. Then, just as he began to think the night might pass uneventfully, he heard it: a faint crunch of snow.
Alex's body tensed. The sound came again, closer this time, deliberate and unhurried. His grip tightened on the rifle as he scanned the perimeter, his breath slow and controlled.
"Grayson," he called out, his voice cutting through the silence. "You've got my attention."
No response. Just the whisper of the wind and the steady crunch of footsteps circling his camp.
Alex stood, his boots crunching in the snow as he moved to the edge of the firelight. The shadows stretched long and jagged, warping the trees into unrecognizable shapes. He raised the rifle, aiming toward the sound.
"Show yourself," he said, his voice low and steady.
The footsteps stopped. For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a voice low and calm, barely louder than the wind.
"You're not the first, Dane. But you might be the last."
Alex's stomach dropped. He turned sharply, scanning the darkness for movement, but the forest remained still.
The fire flickered, casting eerie shadows across the snow. The voice didn't come again, but the weight of it lingered, heavy and suffocating. Alex stayed awake until dawn, his rifle never leaving his hands.
When the first light broke through the trees, Alex found footprints circling his camp dozens of them, deliberate and precise, their pattern taunting.
In the center of the camp, etched into the snow, were three words:
"Stay ahead, Dane."
| Author Notes | This is my first full length novel and I'm hoping for some honest opinions before publishing. Thanks |
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| © Copyright 2015 marilyn quillen All rights reserved. marilyn quillen has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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