The Hunter at the Door
When Eliza returned to the cabin on the ridge, the front door hung slightly ajar, creaking in the freezing wind.
Panic gripped her throat. She drew the small hunting rifle from her pack and stepped onto the porch, her boots crunching softly on the snow.
Inside, the cabin was overturned. Shelves of dried herbs had been swept to the floor, jars of salves shattered against the stone hearth. In the center of the room sat Captain Cole, the chief of Mercer’s private security, his mud-caked leather boots resting on a kitchen chair. He was carving an apple with a long hunting knife.
"Miss Thorne," Cole drawled, not looking up. "Quite a hike up this mountain for a girl selling mint leaves."
"You're trespassing, Cole," Eliza said, keeping the rifle leveled at his chest. "Where is the patient I was treating?"
Cole smirked, popping a slice of apple into his mouth. "The mute fellow? Tracked his blood in the snow. He bolted out the back window toward the Old Mine ridge. But he won't get far. In this cold, the mechanism in his skull will freeze up his motor nerves within the hour."
May you like
Cole stood up, sheathing his knife. "Mercer values his proprietary equipment, Miss Thorne. Return what you extracted from him, or your father's tragic fate might become a family tradition."
Before Cole could reach for his sidearm, a heavy shadow dropped from the loft above. Eli crashed down onto Cole’s back, driving the guard to the floorboards with crushing force.
