Burn It All Down; It Ends Here!

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.