The Mission That Went Sideways
A high-value target inside Europe. Paperwork said he was financing a shadow cell. Intel said he was meeting bomb-makers. The hit went clean — clean enough that Rapp didn’t realize the man had a son until moments after the trigger pull.
The kid lived. But he saw Rapp’s face.
Which is how the most lethal man in the covert world ended up in the middle of nowhere.
The Cover: Appalachia
A town that isn’t on most maps. Old-growth forest. Logging trucks growling down one frozen road. Half the population gone by the time the winter hits; the other half stays because they don’t feel safe anywhere else. A place where people mind their own goddamn business.
He lives in a small cabin tucked into the tree line, wood-burning stove, generator, no Wi-Fi, no prying eyes. He chops his own wood, tracks the wildlife, times the freight trucks, memorizes the post office schedules — not because he enjoys rural life, but because he doesn’t know how not to map threats.
He runs every morning before sunrise. He shoots only in the back hills where no one goes. He doesn’t talk unless spoken to.
He kept to routine. Up before dawn. Run the ridge. Check the snares. Chop wood. Keep quiet.
Most days passed without seeing another human.
Until her.
First Time — The Edge of the Creek
He’d taken the long trail down toward the creek to gauge how close the nearest property line came. Snowmelt made the ground slick, and he moved quiet out of habit, feet finding the soft patches.
That’s when he saw movement across the water.
A woman. Hair tied back, rifle slung across her shoulder, boots caked in mud. She was checking for tracks — not the tourist kind. The survival kind.
She didn’t see him. The wind was in his favor. She crouched, touched the prints, and whistled once.
A dog — big, black-and-tan female — materialized from the brush like she was summoned.
They vanished together without a word.
He stayed still until she was gone. Not because he feared her. Because she moved like someone who didn’t want to be followed.
He respected that.
Second time —The Post Office
He hated town days. Too many eyes. Too many questions disguised as friendliness.
He had just stepped out of the post office — new blades for the axe, fake utility bills sent to the alias — when the door opened right behind him.
He didn’t have to turn to know it was her. That dog gave her away before he even heard her steps.
Her eyes flicked up to him. Winter-gray. Evaluating, not interested.
No smile. No fear. Just… assessing.
Same look he’d used his whole life.
She slid past him with a parcel under her arm. No perfume, just wood smoke and cold air. The postal clerk called after her, something about her son helping her out around the place if she’d ever ask. She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.
He ended up behind her outside, purely by coincidence.
She held the leash loose, but the dog stayed glued to her side — disciplined, confident.
He caught himself studying her posture: weight evenly distributed, dominant leg ready to pivot, weapon on the right hip under her jacket.
He wasn’t attracted. He was curious. Two very different things.
Third time—The Storm
The blizzard hit fast — sideways snow, wind cutting through walls, the kind that shuts down roads and takes trees with it.
Near midnight, a gunshot cracked through the woods. Just one.
Not hunting. A warning shot.
Mitch grabbed his rifle and coat and slipped outside. He didn’t go toward danger — he went parallel to it, tracking sound and echo.
A downed pine had crushed her back chicken coop. Bears were sniffing around, desperate in the cold. She’d fired to scare them off.
When he saw her, she was halfway through cutting the fallen trunk apart — in the middle of a blizzard — coat dusted white, hair frozen to her scarf, dog circling.
She never saw him.
She didn’t need help.
She just kept working alone because no one else was coming.
And then her dog alerts her of his presence.