Chapter 9: Only a total moron would trust the girl just like that
The weight was a brutal, honest truth. The climb in had been a test of desperation and stealth. The climb out was a test of raw, physical will. Every piece of gear, every box of ammunition, every grenade in the overstuffed backpack declared its presence in screaming detail across his shoulders and back. The M4 slapped against his hip, the sniper rifle's strap dug a deep, burning groove into his collarbone. The two knives on his belt felt like anchors. He was a walking armory, and every muscle fiber screamed in protest.
Getting back to the oak tree was a journey through a minefield of his own making. Every shadow seemed to hold a watching eye. Every creak of a settling building was a shouted alarm. He moved with a painful slowness, melting into the deep ink between structures, his breath held until his lungs burned. The watchtowers were his focus, their dark silhouettes stark against the slightly less-dark sky. He waited for what felt an eternity, watching for the tell-tale glow of a cigarette or the shift of a head, before making each agonizingly slow dash across an open space.
Reaching the base of the oak was only half the battle. Hauling the impossible weight up and onto the branch was a Herculean effort. He used the M4's sling, looping it over a limb and using it as a crude purchase, his boots scrambling for grip on the rough bark. The wood groaned under the combined burden of man and metal. For a heart-stopping second, his grip slipped, and he dangled, the straps of the backpack cutting off his air, before he found his footing again and dragged his body, inch by torturous inch, onto the branch. He didn't drop down on the other side; he half-fell, half-slid, landing in a jarring heap on the forest floor, the impact shuddering through his bones.
He was out.
But he was far from safe. The woods at night were a different kind of prison. The pitch black was absolute, a suffocating blanket that turned the world into a labyrinth of unseen threats. Every rustle was a Ripper. Every snap of a twig under his own heavy foot was a signal to every predator for miles. He moved by feel and by memory, his internal compass set to south-east, the direction Skylar had given. The heavy pack threw off his balance, forcing him into a stumbling, awkward gait. Branches, invisible in the dark, lashed at his face and snagged on his rifles. It was a nightmare march, a brutal slog where every step was a victory against the crushing weight and the paralyzing fear.
When the sound of water finally reached him, a soft, gurgling whisper, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He pushed through a final thicket and there it was: the small river, a silvery ribbon cutting through the oppressive darkness. He didn't stop to drink. He turned upstream, his body operating on the last dregs of adrenaline.
Dawn was a faint suggestion in the sky when he saw it: a darker patch in the cliff face that bordered the river, a scar in the rock partially veiled by hanging vines. The cave.
He stopped a hundred yards short, his instincts screaming. Was he going to enter it? Fuck no.
Only a total moron would trust the girl just like that. He didn't consider himself a genius, but six months of surviving alone had sanded away any naivety he might have once possessed. Trust was a weapon you handed to someone else, and he'd just stolen an arsenal. He wasn't about to be ambushed in a dark hole because he'd thought with his dick.
He needed a position. Somewhere hidden, with a clear line of sight. Somewhere high.
He moved away from the river, circling the area, his eyes scanning the terrain. He found it on the opposite side of the water: a rocky outcrop crowned with a dense cluster of pines. It was perfect. It offered a commanding view of the cave entrance, the approach along the riverbank, and the woods behind it. Anyone coming for a meeting, or an attack would be visible.
The climb up the rocky slope was the final agony, his muscles burning with lactic acid, his vision spotting at the edges. But he made it. He settled into a nest of pine needles between two large boulders, the gnarled roots of the trees providing perfect cover. He was invisible.
Slowly, carefully, he unslung the sniper rifle. The weight of it was comforting, a promise of control. He settled into a prone position, the stock cool against his cheek. He peered through the powerful scope, the world snapping into sharp, magnified focus.
The cave entrance was a dark, waiting mouth. The riverbank was empty. The woods were still.
He adjusted the focus, his finger resting lightly outside the trigger guard. He would wait. He would watch. If Skylar came alone, maybe, just maybe, there was a deal to be made. If she brought Kaelan and his militia… well, he had the high ground, a case of 7.62mm rounds, and nothing left to lose. The sun began to rise, casting long, sharp shadows, and Nate became a part of the rock, his eye forever fixed to the lens, waiting for the future to arrive at the mouth of the cave.