Page 64 of Easy, Tiger

Owen emerges from a grove of aspens, his pack lighter than when he disappeared an hour ago. "Medical supplies distributed across four locations. If someone gets injured, we're covered."

"Food stores?"

"Tripled the usual amount at each site." He checks his watch. "We're ahead of schedule."

By dawn on the second day, we've relocated enough supplies to sustain the entire enclave through the harshest winter conditions. The traditional route remains untouched, our usual markers in place. The illusion, for anyone surveying, stays perfectly intact.

Owen's radio breaks the hush of the kitchen where the three of us have gathered over coffee and the last of Sadie's biscuits. "Base, this is Lookout Three. Got eyes on suspicious activity near Allegheny Passage."

I grab the handset before Owen can reach it. "Details."

"Professional-grade equipment. Someone's setting up a long-term observation post. High-powered scope, camouflaged shelter, established right where the old route funnels through the narrows."

Owen reaches across the table, listening with the same hushed stillness he's exhibited since the fundraiser. "Any sign he's noticed the new markers?"

"Negative. He's dug in solid, like he's planning to wait days if he has to."

"Let him wait." Owen sets down his mug, satisfaction flickering across his face in what feels like weeks. "Good work, Lookout Three. Keep eyes on but maintain distance. No engagement."

"Copy that. Lookout Three out."

Halsey looks up from her coffee. "The traditional bottleneck point?"

"Exactly where we'd normally be most vulnerable." I can't keep the satisfaction from my voice. "He's preparing an ambush for tigers that won't be coming."

She sets down her mug, something calculating crossing her face. "How long will he wait before he realizes it?"

"Days, maybe. Long enough that by the time he does, we'll already be entrenched at the new sites." Folding the radio report, I tuck it into my jacket. "We hold the momentum entirely now, driving the pace while he scrambles to react to us."

Halsey reaches for my hand across the table, her fingers lacing through mine. "Then let's make sure he keeps waiting for something that never comes."

Outside, the sky has gone the pale gray of incoming winter. Under Caleb's orders, the most vulnerable enclave members—the elders and the cubs—are already packing to move out tonight under the cover of darkness, safely following the new, hidden paths we recently carved out for them. And somewhere on Allegheny Passage, a hunter camps in to stalk a trail that will stay empty until the snow closes it for good.

23

HALSEY

With the hunter apparently dug in at Allegheny Passage and the enclave's supply relocation winding down, I finally have a morning that belongs to no one but me. Nolan argued with me for ten minutes when I mentioned the fire lookout, his protective instincts warring with the partnership he'd promised me. Standing my ground, I insisted on finishing the commission to prove my career and life still existed, keeping industry ridicule at bay for at least one morning that felt completely mine. He struggled visibly to repress the urge to interfere, ultimately choosing to trust that my familiarity with false routes and emergency signals would keep me safe during a few hours alone. But he honored our partnership, and he let me go. It felt like something new between us, him choosing to trust my judgment instead of only his instinct to protect.

The abandoned fire lookout perches on the ridge like a forgotten sentinel, its weathered wooden frame stark against the gray autumn sky. Perfect for sketching the valley's transition into winter, bare aspens creating delicate lacework between the darker pines, the distant peaks already dusted with light snow, promising the harsh months ahead.

Setting up my portable easel on the lookout's narrow deck, the wind cuts through my jacket with teeth sharp enough to make my fingers ache. The enclave's frantic preparation has left little time for the work that originally brought me to Red Pine, and with the hunter camped at Allegheny Passage, this might be my last chance to complete the field guide before winter closes the mountains entirely.

The graphite moves across paper in quick, confident strokes, capturing morning light glittering on frost-brittle grass. Below, a red-tailed hawk circles thermals rising from the valley floor, and I pause to marvel at its effortless grace. Everything here has adapted to survive the coming cold—everything except the man who thinks he can hunt creatures that have called these mountains home for generations.

"Impressive work."

The voice comes from directly behind me, calm and conversational, as if we're meeting at a coffee shop instead of on an isolated ridge miles from town. My pencil snaps between rigid fingers.

I don't turn around. "Enjoying the view?"

"More than you might think." Footsteps cross the wooden deck in measured rhythm, military cadence hiding underneath the casual pace. "Though I have to say, your sketches of the local wildlife are far more interesting than the scenery."

The man moves into my peripheral vision, and my stomach churns with recognition. Same lean build, same close-cropped hair gone silver at the temples, though he's traded the tourist flannel for expensive camouflage gear now that he's stopped pretending. Those cold eyes zero in on me with the exact analytical attention I give my subjects. It's him—the man from the fundraiser.

"Nico Harlan." He extends a gloved hand as if we're being introduced at a dinner party. "I believe we have a mutual acquaintance."

I don't take the offered handshake. "Can't say I know anyone by that name."