North Jay Cemetery, 8 AM.

  The world was quiet. Not the quiet of an airless vacuum, but heavier silence, composed of falling leaves and motors echoing off the mountains miles away—a silence of drifting snow, that wraps the world in close, whispering embrace.

  A morning without shadow, the high sun already warming the fresh layer of leaves the night had left between the lines of memorial stones. Through the markers, two figures walked.

  Women, walking through the crosses, row on row, similar enough in hair and build to pass for sisters. Dark hair, thin-faced, tending towards the athletic. Each wore jeans and a green military surplus jacket. Waxed, frayed around the edges, but serviceable. The taller woman, darker skinned, let her fingers run across the rough granite tops of stones and crosses as they walked. The younger woman, shorter of the two, kept her hands buried deep within the pockets of her borrowed winter coat for warmth and to hide what she was. Not from the world, not out here, nor from her companion. Allison hid her prosthetic hand in the pocket of her jacket to hide it from herself.

  "It's that one, right?" Jael asked without pointing. She didn't need to. It was the only grassless grave in the cemetery, just leaves and dirt mounded beneath the pink granite stone.

  "Yep, that's Dad," Allison replied. She took a breath. "Can I have a few minutes?"

  "Say the word and I'm there," Jael smiled. "We all need moral support sometimes."

  "Thanks, Jael," Allison replied. "I won't be long. Just want to say goodbye."

  "Alright, do what you need to do." Jael turned and walked away, fingers still trailing over gravestones as she sought out the cemetery's oldest corner to be alone with her own thoughts.

  Allison Miles knelt alone, knees chilled against the cool October soil of her father's grave. She withdrew her warm left hand from the pocket and ran fleshy fingers against the stone, tracing the angular channels that made up his name, brushing her nails against edges so crisp they blunted her fingernails. A new stone for a new death—neither yet softened by the eroding passage of time.

  Jake Clarke.

  She traced his birthdate, wondering how his childhood compared to her own. Allison had never known her grandparents as anything more than names on stone. Just like her own father, now. Her fingers continued traveling horizontally along an all-too-short dash—until she reached his death date. The end of his story.

  Tears welled in Allison's eyes. "I came to see you, Dad," she whispered. "I'm sorry I got here so late."

  She rested her forehead against the stone, feeling the smooth surface. Frictionless and cool, almost wet against her skin, like a leech trying to draw heat from her body. There was no life here, only death. I wish I'd brought some flowers.

  "I'm sorry I never visited you. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you more. I'm sorry we lost each other." Her hand dropped, fingertips brushing against leaves at the stone’s base. She felt like a child lost in the woods.

  "I don't know what to do, Dad. I thought I'd find my way, but all I found here was disaster." She paused. It wasn't true.

  "It's hard," Allison sniffed, feeling the cold air rushing into her lungs. "It's gonna be hard, but I think I still have a chance." Uncle Betty, Jael, and the rest… they’d risked themselves for her.

  “I have friends now. We just have to figure things out. If I survive, I'll come back. With flowers this time," she said, almost as an afterthought. “But now I have to go. Goodbye, Dad."

  Both hands came out of her pockets then, because one cannot rise easily from the grave of their father without using every available support. She felt the stone with her left hand and pressed against it with her right.

  The light had changed again—the red light blinking now. Two short, one long, then off for two or three beats before starting again. Two long, one short. She didn't know what it meant. Her computer was toast. All she'd done over the evening was charge the prosthetic with a USB-C cable at Jael's house. The battery was topped off. Despite surviving ballistic, pyrotechnic, and underwater tests, the hand didn't have a scratch.

  She shivered. Because of the cold, because of the unknown out there beyond the shelter of the mountains, and because of what lay inside, closer—within her very limb.

  "You OK, kiddo?"

  Allison looked up, saw Jael looking down at her, and smiled.

  "Yeah. I've said what I needed to say."

  "Well, let's get back to the guys and see if we can't make some sense out of what's been shoved in that van of Matthias'."

  "All right."

  "What's that smile for?" Jael asked.

  "I just remembered—the first time I met him was right here."

  "You met Matthias at your dad's grave?"

  "I was visiting. He was walking. He stuck his foot in his mouth. Repeatedly."

  "Well, that sounds like Matty. I think you two will have plenty of time to discuss things on this road trip."

  "No. No, no, no." Allison shook her head, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "That's not what I'm looking for at all."

  "What would you say you are looking for?"

  Allison stopped among the stones, looked at the peaks of the trees rising around her, across the meadow to the far tops of further trees, and the already snow-brushed face of Whiteface Mountain in the distance among the high peaks.

  "I thought I was looking for where I belonged. Who I would become." She paused. "No. I think survival is all I can hope for."

  "There's got to be something beyond that, though," Jael said, pressing the matter. "You can't just survive for the sake of surviving. ‘He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.’"

  "Who said that?"

  "I read it in some book or other." Jael turned. "Come on, let's get back."

  "Not like I have anything to pack," Allison said.

  "Well, you could raid my closet. I think I've got a few numbers that are going to look just great on you. Who knows when or if I'm going to come back."

  "And a rifle.” She paused. “You didn't forget about the rifles, did you? I need to know how to shoot."

  "Down, girl,” Jael laughed. “We have a few spares after last night. I bet we’ll find somewhere between here and Kansas to train you up."

  “Can’t we do it today? If Hadley is capable of sending one team, he’s capable of sending another. We have to be ready. I have to be ready.”

  “Not today. Today, we put miles between us and the town. Trust me, Allison. I’ve been hunted before. The safest thing to do is keep moving.” The Israeli woman gazed out over the eastern ridge of peaks. “We’ll keep you alive, or die trying.”

  "All right," said Allison. Her pace increased, brisking past Jael. She looked ahead, past the waiting car, over the western peaks, and beyond the far horizon. “Let’s do this.”

  Brad Clarke stood in Matthias's garage, hands on his hips. His back ached. His chest ached too. His head didn't even bother—it just straight up hurt.

  He stared into the German's minivan. "What is that?"

  Matthias set down the gray plastic tote in his hands and followed Brad's gaze. Inside the burgundy vehicle, against the wall behind the driver's seat, dangled a series of canvas straps. The straps sprouted from various locations on a network of wall-mounted aluminum uprights. "A wheelchair rack. I figured we could use it to restrain Johansen."

  "No, no, I mean that." Brad jerked his finger toward something that looked very much like chainmail, if chainmail was made of light and dark stained wooden beads and worn by minivan bucket seats.

  "What, the lumbar massager?" Matthias replied, tossing another duffel into the van's open cargo hatch.

  "Why do you have a lumbar massager in your van?" Brad leaned in, sniffing the vehicle's interior. The van still had that new car smell, but also carried a faint hint of perfume and a generous dollop of body powder.

  "It was a gift from one of my clients. Mrs. Giebensleben."

  "Gibbon-what now?" Tony Dalotto popped into the garage, a violin case tight in his fist. His hair dripped, still damp from a recent shower. He'd spent a chunk of the morning with Brad, hauling remnants of last night's engagement to a more discreet location. The former mafioso was unused to hard labor, as evidenced by his still florid face.

  "Not Gibbon, dummkopf. Giebensleben. It's a common name."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Yeah, in Hamburg maybe." Tony set the ersatz gun case down beside the mountain of luggage. "You sure all this is gonna fit?"

  "My auto is up to the task." Matthias glanced at the seating. "Although we won't have room for hikehitchers."

  "Hitchhikers," Tony corrected.

  "Gesundheit," Matthias replied.

  "Oy vey." Jael's voice cut the air. "Maybe I'll just stay here and see what happens if you guys are gonna pull that Abbott and Costello routine all the way to Nebraska."

  "Kansas," Brad corrected, turning to see the Israeli woman standing in front of the open garage. She wore her regular olive drab jacket, her thick braid draped over one shoulder. She stood sideways, giving a glimpse of a rifle slung across her back and the oversized black duffel bag held just off the ground. He hadn't heard her and Allison return from their graveside visit. Either he was losing his edge, or she was that good at stealth. He hoped he didn't find out which.

  Allison came into view, wearing an olive-colored canvas duffel bag. The zippered bag sagged in the center, its strap riding lightly across her left shoulder. Her right arm carried a scavenged SIG Sauer MCX, its Cordura strap trailing along the ground.

  Brad had never realized how small she looked, her slight frame emphasized by the rifle and her borrowed jacket. His niece was not a large person, but Jael's coat draped over her like an oversized poncho.

  "That's it?" he asked, eyeing Allison's meager load.

  "I didn't bring much with me," she said, adding her bag to the pile of luggage behind the van. "And most of that blew up, along with Dad's house."

  Matthias disappeared into the garage's side door without a word. He reappeared a moment later holding something folded across both arms, the way a person carries something fragile or borrowed. It was a canvas field jacket, brown, dusty across the back and arms. Not burned. Not torn.

  "I found this earlier," he said, stopping in front of Allison. He held it out. "In the yard. Away from Jake's house. Blown clear of the fire." He paused. "I thought perhaps you would want to have it."

  Allison stared at the jacket. Her father's jacket. The shell of memory she’d worn during her brief stay.

  She took it from him, careful, as if it might come apart. It didn't. Against all odds, it still smelled, not of fire, but of him—sawdust, cigarettes, and the wind. His scent. The accumulated residue of a life lived outdoors.

  "Thank you," she said quietly.

  He nodded once, already turning back towards the pile of luggage, already to the next task—or maybe it was the kindest way he knew to give someone a moment alone.

  He looked at the bags, then into the trunk space. "Ja, this will fit. With room to spare."

  "Where do you plan to put these?" Jael asked, nodding at Allison's rifle while raising her own.

  "In here." Matthias leaned toward the van's hatch and depressed a button in the vehicle's frame. The trunk floor raised up, revealing several deep cubbyholes. He bent down, pulling out one crutch after another. By the time he was through, a half-dozen aluminum mobility aids stood in a row against the garage's unfinished sheetrock wall.

  Brad bent, staring into the unorthodox storage area. "That can't be stock," he said, standing up with a barely repressed groan.

  "An aftermarket upgrade," Matthias confirmed. "Useful storage in my line of work."

  "Too bad you guys weren't on the same page," Tony said. "Do you know how much hooch you could have moved with that sort of cover?"

  Brad looked at Tony, his mouth firmly set. "No."

  "I never did hear why you stopped," Tony continued, oblivious to his neighbor's pained eyes. "It was good stuff. Powerful."

  "Tony, ix-nay," Jael interrupted. "Let's pack into this microbus and make tracks."

  "This is a Chrysler, not a Volkswagen," Matthias said.

  "It's a German van. Same difference."

  "Here," Brad said, stepping between the bickering pair. "I pack, you tally up gear."

  He began systematically fitting long guns, loose or in cases, into the hidden compartments. Jael positioned herself nearby, jotting lines in a pocket notebook.

  A minute later, Brad stood, rolling his shoulders to undo a growing knot. "Okay. What've we got?"

  "Two scavenged MCXs, looks to be internally suppressed. My Galil, your MK18, Tony's Thompson. Some magazines for all of those," Jael rattled off. "A few handguns, like Brad's 1911, Allison's revolver, a couple Glock 17s, and whatever Tony's got there."

  "A .38 snubnose, made by some outfit named Taurus," he said, patting his waist.

  "A Taurus?" Brad asked. "You own an unneutered Thompson, and you're carrying a Taurus?"

  "What? Wheelguns never break," Tony shrugged. "It's my penultimate line of defense."

  Brad opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. "All right, we're set with hardware. Reloads will be our sticking point."

  "You dry on ammo?" Jael asked.

  "I had a pallet's worth in mixed calibers in the basement. It's probably 80 feet underwater at this point. Soon as we cross into Pennsylvania, we find a Cabela's or LGS."

  "What's an LGS?" asked Allison.

  "A local gun store," Jael said. "Even then, we can't buy enough to trip anyone's suspicions."

  "You guys think we're gonna need that much firepower?" Tony stared from Brad to Jael and Matthias. "I mean, we should be clear once we're out of the Adirondacks—right?"

  "Hopefully," Brad answered. "Until we have more info on Allison's arm or Hadley's capabilities, we're in the dark. Our best defense for now is evasion. Let's finish loading up, strap Johansen in, and roll out."

  "I still don't get it. The guy's a liability," Tony said, glancing in the direction of Jael's house. "We should just, uh—" He drew a stubby finger across his stubble-studded throat. "Let him go diving with his buddies."

  "No." Matthias shook his head. "He acted in ignorance. To slaughter him would earn us nothing."

  "Geez Louise, you Germans get real cute with that whole 'only following orders' shit," Tony muttered.

  Matthias crossed the distance in two steps. He grabbed a fistful of shirt around Tony's chest and pulled him in close.

  "You have no margin to talk," he spoke precisely, each word a pronouncement. "You are a criminal, and a traitor among crooks. He came to these woods to do a job. You fled here like a rat with its tail tucked between its legs, in place of the honor you have never known. Yes, he was following orders. He was under authority. That authority was once mine. Would you slit my throat, you brutish, balding buffoon?" His fist wrapped tighter around the shorter man's shirt. Burns, bruises, and broken knee forgotten, Matthias pulled Tony closer, lifting his feet from the smooth concrete.

  A hand landed on Matthias's shoulder. "That's enough." Brad's voice carried a level of authority the neighbors had never heard. "We are taking Johansen, Tony. Matthias is one of us. His word is as good as mine."

  "Alright, alright, sheesh," Tony muttered, stepping back and adjusting his shirt. "I ain't sitting with him, though."

  "Oh, cut the crap, Tony. I'll sit with him," Jael said. "But you're in the back with the gear."

  "Fine by me."

  "I will sit with Jael, act as navigator, and serve as emergency counselor," Brad said. "Matt's van, so he drives. Al, that leaves shotgun."

  "Okay, but I'm better with a pistol," Allison said. Brad's lip twitched. His niece had jokes—probably trying to thaw the chill of tension. He'd need to help her calm down.

  But first, they had to get out of there.

  "Matt, can you pack the rest of this stuff while I grab the prisoner?"

  "Ja," Matthias nodded. "The cooler will go in the middle, beside your feet."

  "Cooler?" Brad asked.

  "Food for the road," Matthias explained. "Sandwiches, energy bars, jerky, water. Enough for three days if we're conservative."

  "Alright. How are you on gas?"

  "The tank is full. We have four hundred miles, minimum."

  Allison stood apart from the group, watching. Brad caught her eye. "You good with this?"

  "I guess." She touched her right hand through her jacket pocket. "What choice do we have?"

  "That's the problem with life," Brad said. "There are always choices, each one with its own consequence. But I think the worst choice is inaction."

  "Then let's go."

  They loaded Johansen last. He was awake, shirt still damp, hands cuffed to the wheelchair rack with police surplus handcuffs Jael had produced from somewhere. He sat like a right angle—back against the van's wall, feet straight out.

  To avoid the awkwardness, Jael sat cross-legged in the middle row while Brad faced outward toward the sliding door, his feet pressed against the cooler. Tony wedged himself into the back beside a pillar of luggage. Matthias took the wheel.

  Suboptimal. Time to embrace the suck, Brad thought. At least Allison should be comfortable up front.

  Allison sat rigid in the passenger seat, left hand white-knuckling the armrest before Matthias had even cleared the driveway.

  It wasn't the driving. It was the driver. She had been caught up staying alive, reeling from Hadley's attack and its aftermath. Only now, in the tense silence of the gently rolling van, did it hit her.

  She was going to be spending a crapload of time with Matthias.

  His connection to Horus Overwatch didn't affect her. Not really. Everyone in the van had killed someone. Even her, now.

  It was his awkward presence, his awkward interactions. From her perspective, the only time the German wasn't blundering was when he was efficiently following a routine. She pressed her back against the seat, feeling the oversized shell of Carhartt around her.

  This was going to be a long ride to Kansas—and whatever lay beyond. And yet…

  Allison nestled deeper into her father’s jacket, trying to soak in his world as the cul-de-sac fell away behind them. She smiled faintly. Maybe it would be alright. After all, he had retrieved her father’s jacket. It was a start.

  Around them, stately maples and hundred-year-old oaks receded, their stripped branches reaching like open hands. The hamlet lay in ruins, the great lodgepole laying where it fell like a conquered giant. Windows shattered, walls perforated by bullet fire, or gone entirely. Three of the five chimneys still stood. The others lay scattered like cobblestones, covered by ashes or water. Her father's house had burnt out sometime after sunrise. No smoke traced curlicues toward the Jay Range now.

  Inside the pocket of her father's coat, a red light blinked its steady, unreadable rhythm.

  The gravel road climbed to the hill overlooking the small town. A doe had crossed her path here, the day she arrived. Now any marker of its presence had been obliterated, covered over by piles of spent brass, a shattered gun, and the skid marks of a fleeing transit van.

  They rolled down the hill, entering the woods once more. Birches, their yellow canopy thinned now to a lattice, light coming through in cold shafts. She'd felt something arriving here—a glory amidst the golden light. It had been a quiet thrill. Now it was gone, replaced not by despair but by numbness, which was somehow worse.

  The town's sign appeared, large and reversed in the side mirror, then faded quickly from view.

  WELCOME TO SANGUINE SPRINGS.

  Allison watched it until the road bent and took it, closing off the last glimpse of her father's handiwork. Then it, too, was gone. This time, she felt the pang of loss.

  The pines closed overhead, cloistering and dark. Her ears popped as Matthias followed the county road past red barns and rippling brooks. They crossed a bridge, following the river south along State Route 9. The sun rose while the Jay Range slid behind the tree line and was gone, faded like leaves kicked up by their passing.

  Allison unclenched her left hand from the armrest. Inside her jacket, unseen, the red light blinked once more—and went still, as if it too had given up on being understood.

  The sun worked its way through the late autumn sky, burying itself behind a shield of gray clouds. The van crossed a bridge, parting ways with the river and its wine-dark waters. Small towns faded like leaves on the wind as they continued toward the Northway, the mountains closing behind them like a door.

  The End.

  We have one more chapter left in Welcome to Sanguine Springs! Tune in next week (March Tenth) for the exciting conclusion and news on what happens next.

  And as always, If you're wanting updates as they happen, be sure to like, comment and subscribe.