Page 80 of Easy, Tiger

The forest blurs past in streaks of white and green, wind stinging my cheeks, and ever since this ordeal began, I let myself feel something close to exhilaration instead of fear. Broddi navigates the storm-scoured terrain like it's second nature, adjusting his stride around drifts and fallen branches without ever losing momentum.

A shifter at full sprint is a force of nature. We devour the miles down the mountain, bypassing the winding switchbacks entirely. We reach the camp in a fraction of the time it took Nico's snowmobile, and Broddi shifts back the moment we clear the treeline, putting his clothes back on while I'm catching my breath.

"I'll circle the perimeter," he says, already moving toward the treeline. "Yell if you need me."

"I will."

The camp sits exactly where I remember it, the same small clearing ringed by pines where Nico first brought me. It looks different now. The struggle from last night left its mark everywhere, visible in the tent's rear panel slashed wide open while gear remained scattered across trampled snow and the folding table was knocked onto its side with maps half-buried in drifts. Somewhere in this clearing, Nolan fought a man for my life, and the wreckage of that fight currently sits frozen in place.

Broddi moves along the treeline while I circle the camp, registering everything with the same attention I bring to field sketches. The shelter where Nico held me displays the full extent of last night's chaos, seen in a sleeping bag twisted and half-buried beside an overturned crate, while empty MRE packages lie scattered near the cold fire ring.

Righting the folding table, I smooth out the maps still weighted down by scattered rocks. Migration routes traced in red ink, elevation markers, and seasonal timing notes written in Nico's handwriting. Without my phone, crushed to fragments on the fire lookout deck, I have no way to photograph any of it. Instead, I start placing documents directly into my pack, folder by folder, trusting the physical evidence over any picture I might have taken.

"Anything I should be looking for?" Broddi calls from the treeline, eyes sweeping the treeline on constant guard.

"Anything with a letterhead. Anything with names. He's been documenting this for years. I want all of it."

The tactical tent I never entered yesterday stands sealed tight, its olive drab fabric stretched taut over military-grade poles, untouched by whatever happened outside it. My fingers work the zipper, and the stale air hits me immediately, diffusing the weight of musty paper and leather alongside the metallic tang of electronics.

Inside, ruggedized, waterproof transit cases line the walls, each labeled with dates spanning decades. File folders bulge with photocopied documents inside the heavy-duty tubs, and a laptop sits closed on a camp table surrounded by padded external hard drives. This is more than surveillance. It's an archive. Living entirely off the grid, this fanatic moves constantly and carries his life's work wherever he hunts, trusting his obsession to his own care alone.

I press the transmit button. "Nolan, I'm in his main storage tent. This is bigger than we thought. He's got files going back twenty years."

"What kind of files?"

Lifting the lid on the nearest box, I freeze. The letterhead on the first folder reads Appalachian Conservation Institute, my former employer. My fingers tremble against the stiff cardboard of the manila envelope as I pull it free, a cold wave cresting over me at the sight of the label: Gallagher, H. – Remedial Action.

"Halsey? Report."

"I..." My voice catches. "Give me a minute."

Inside the folder, photocopies of my own artwork stare back at me, the illustrations that supposedly contained falsified data. But these are the original migration patterns I'd documented, the ones that raised questions nobody wanted answered.

Clipped to the front is a printed email chain. The sender's address belongs to Dr. Lincoln Pascal, the Institute's former research director—the man who testified against me during my ethics hearing. At the top, a handwritten sticky note in Pascal's scrawl reads:

"Nico—She found the geographical blind spots your trackers keep missing. We need her eye for micro-patterns to finish the map, but she's asking too many questions. Initiate the plagiarism protocol we discussed. Burn her credibility so no one believes her, then push her commission to Red Pine."

The text blurs as understanding crashes over me. Pascal engineered the entire scandal. Beneath the printed email, a business card reads: Nico Harlan – Wildlife Tracking Services.

My legs give out, and I sink onto a supply crate, staring at evidence of my own professional execution.

"They destroyed me on purpose," I whisper into the radio. "The scandal, the plagiarism accusations, it was all planned. I was getting too close to something they needed hidden."

The truth spreads through me like frost, each revelation clicking into place with sickening accuracy. Flipping through more documents, I find correspondence between Pascal and Nico dating back three years before my career imploded. Purchase orders for "consultation services." Payment schedules that line up exactly with my most controversial discoveries.

"They were systematically destroying anyone who might expose it," I continue.

The speaker splutters, then Nolan's voice, sharp with disbelief. "Say that again."

Tucking Pascal's memo into my pack, my hands are steadier now that anger has replaced shock. "The plagiarism accusations, the falsified data allegations, all of it was orchestrated. Dr. Pascal hired Nico to discredit me because my wildlife illustrations were documenting patterns they needed hidden."

"The migration routes."

"Exactly. And here's the brilliant part, once they destroyed my credibility, no one would ever believe anything I discovered afterward. I could stumble across absolute proof of shifters and the scientific community would dismiss it as a desperate revenge fantasy from a disgraced illustrator."

Static fizzes before Nolan's voice returns, tight with controlled fury. "How long has this been planned?"

Digging deeper into the files, I discover surveillance photos of me hiking near my old apartment alongside detailed psychological profiles analyzing my personality for weaknesses. The scope of it steals my breath.