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8
OLIVER
OFF-THE-GRID, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA – THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER
Letting go of my bag, I set my forehead against the bark of a tree and closed my eyes, wrestling with the pain taking over every part of my body.
I was pretty sure I’d torn the stitches at my side ten minutes earlier when I’d had to jump an unexpected hurdle and dodge the metal jaws of a bear trap to keep it from clamping into my leg.
March in Canada meant the ground beneath my boots was frozen over, it was below thirty out, and snowing. But there I was, in the middle of the woods playing a game of survivor. One wrong move and the elements would vote me off the island.
Taking a moment to steel my nerves, I closed my eyes, thinking back to how I even got there.
Money, that’s how. I used up every dollar I had in my go-bag to buy myself passage from Singapore to Jakarta.
Once I’d arrived in Indonesia, I’d called on an old Army buddy who lived there with his wife, and he helped arrange transport to Canada without anyone knowing.
I couldn’t look Mya in the face again after what almost happened to her and what she’d then had to witness me do.
I’d lost control. Snapped. Savagely murdered the man who’d touched Mya. Even now, I wanted to kill him all over again. Swim in his motherfucking blood for what he did and what he’d forced me to do.
I’d never be the same again. No more operating. And I sure as hell couldn’t have a relationship with Mya now.
So, I ran.
Like a fucking coward.
I opened my eyes and a broken sound fell from my lips, but there were no tears. Instead, the harsh bitter cold filled my lungs as I gasped for air, ignoring the searing, burning feeling at my side.
Finally peeling myself free from the tree, I tossed a look toward my intended destination, then picked up my bag, narrowly dodging another trap.
Somehow, some-fucking-how, I made it to the front porch of the cabin without dying. It was small and well-hidden, blending right in with the natural surroundings of the Kicking Horse River Valley within Yoko National Park. Just as its owner had intended.
Bag down, I knocked and immediately lifted my hands in surrender, prepared to show the homeowner I was unarmed and not a threat.
The door creaked open. As expected, I found myself face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun.
Realizing it was me, he lowered the gun to his side while shoving the door farther open, staring at me wide-eyed beneath slanted brows.
“Why didn’t you let me know you were here?” He set aside the shotgun and looked around, probably curious if I was alone.
“I was afraid you’d send me away,” I shared, remembering the awful game of dodge the minefields and other traps I’d just spent thirty minutes dealing with to get there. I’d bypassed his cameras. Electric fence. All the other traps. Just barely, though.
“How’d you not die trying to get to my front door?” His voice was deeper than I remembered. Gruffer. Or maybe he was just pissed to see me. Angry his security measures failed to stop an intruder.
“I know how you think,” was all I managed out, slowly lowering my hands to my sides. The overhead roof protected me from the snow but did nothing to shield me from his scrutiny.
I didn’t want to cry in front of him. My tears would probably freeze on my face anyway, so I did my best to suck it up.
“What are you doing here?” He stepped back, and I hoped that was an invitation to come inside, but I couldn’t find it in me to budge.
My eyes fell closed before I slowly lowered to my knees, my legs no longer able to hold my weight. “I get why you left us now. I understand.” Blinking back those tears I’d been trying so hard to keep from escaping, my hand slipped to my aching, bleeding side. And in a hoarse voice, I pleaded, “I have nowhere else to go, Dad.”
9
OLIVER
TWO WEEKS LATER, MID-MARCH
