The Approach
The predawn darkness made the world feel suspended, waiting. The air was frosty enough to sting the lungs, and the gravel under their boots crunched softly as they crossed the parking lot. No one spoke. Words felt too loud for what they were about to do.
Evan led the way, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who knew the land by memory, not by map. Elijah followed close behind, breath steady but tight. Marianne walked beside him, scanning the treeline with the practiced vigilance of someone who had spent years reading danger in the smallest movements. Carter Hayes brought up the rear, his federal jacket zipped high, his expression unreadable.
Behind them, parked at the far end of the lot, the federal trauma unit idled quietly. Tactical medics checked gear under red lights. And standing beside them, rifle slung, jaw set, eyes sharp, was Eliza Morningstar.
She wasn’t coming with them into the coulee. She was guarding the exits.
Hayes had pulled her aside before they left the vehicles. “If they try to move Chet,” he’d said, “you stop them. No matter what.”
Eliza had nodded once. “I’ll be here.”
Now she stood with the medics, watching the tree line, watching the road, watching everything. She lifted two fingers in silent acknowledgment as the team passed. Elijah returned the gesture.
They reached the edge of the lot where pavement ended and dirt began. Evan paused, looking back at them.
“Once we cross this line,” he said quietly, “we’re committed. No turning back.”
Elijah nodded. “We weren’t turning back anyway.”
Evan gave a short, grim smile. “Didn’t think so.”
They stepped into the trees. The forest swallowed them almost immediately. The canopy overhead blocked what little starlight remained, leaving only the faint glow of the horizon behind them. Evan moved with purpose, weaving through underbrush, stepping over fallen logs, avoiding branches that would snap underfoot. The others followed his path, trusting his instincts.
After a few minutes, Marianne spoke in a low voice. “How far to Split Tooth?”
“About a mile,” Evan replied. “Then another half-mile along the coulee wall. The service road’s on the far side.”
Carter adjusted the strap of his pack. “And you’re sure NorthStar doesn’t monitor that approach?”
Evan snorted softly. “They monitor the obvious routes. Gates. Roads. Perimeter sensors. But Split Tooth Coulee? It was too steep. Too broken. Too much work to patrol. They think no one would be stupid enough to come in from that direction.”
Marianne glanced at Elijah. “Lucky for us, we’re not stupid. Just desperate.”
Elijah didn’t respond. His mind was still on the image from Leah’s laptop — Chet’s trembling hand, the pencil scratching across the paper, the geometric bear claw taking shape again and again. A symbol repeated like a heartbeat. A plea he could feel more than understand.
He forced himself to focus on the present. On the mission. On the path ahead.
They climbed steadily; the incline grew steeper with each step. The ground was uneven, littered with loose stones and patches of frost. Elijah’s legs burned, but he kept pace. He had to. Every minute they lost was a minute Chet didn’t have.
When they reached the lip of Split Tooth Coulee, Evan raised a hand, signaling them to stop.
A deep, narrow coulee carved by ancient water lay sharply dropped away in front of them. The coulee forked in two directions farther down; the split giving it its name. Shadows pooled thickly at the bottom, hiding everything except the faint suggestion of a dry creek bed.
Evan pointed. “From here on, we stay low. In places, the coulee walls stick out. If they’ve got thermal or motion sensors pointed this way, we don’t want to silhouette ourselves.”
Marianne nodded. “We crawl if we have to.”
Carter checked his watch. “Sunrise in forty minutes.”
Elijah looked east. The sky was lightening, a faint gray creeping along the horizon. They had little time.
They descended into Split Tooth Coulee carefully, using roots and rocks for support. The walls rose sharply on either side, towering above them like the ribs of some ancient creature. The air grew colder as they dropped lower, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier.
Evan moved along the dry creek bed, stepping where the ground was softest to avoid noise. The others followed, their breaths visible in the cold air.
Halfway down the coulee, Marianne stopped abruptly. “Hold.”
They froze.
She pointed to a patch of disturbed earth near a cluster of scrub brush. “Tracks.”
Evan crouched beside her. “Not animals.”
“No,” Marianne agreed. “Boots. Heavy ones.”
Carter joined them. “Patrol?”
“Maybe,” Evan said. “But not recently. The frost hasn’t melted around them.”
Elijah exhaled slowly. “Then we'll keep moving.”
They continued deeper into the coulee, following the winding path of the dry creek bed. The walls narrowed in places, forcing them to move single file. In others, the coulee widened into shallow basins filled with dead grass and brittle branches.
Evan finally raised his hand again. “We’re close.”
They crouched behind a natural outcropping of rock where the coulee wall sloped upward toward the service road. Above them, through sparse trees, they could see the faint outline of the road — a narrow strip of packed dirt leading toward the distant silhouette of Fourteen.
Even from this distance, the facility looked wrong. Too angular. Too deliberate. A place built to keep secrets, not people.
Marianne studied it through her binoculars. “No movement. No vehicles.”
Carter frowned. “That’s not good.”
Elijah’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
“Because NorthStar doesn’t do quiet,” Carter said. “If it looks still, it means they’re doing something inside.”
Evan scanned the tree line. “We need to get closer.”
Marianne lowered her binoculars. “We’ll take the coulee wall up to the road. Stay in the brush. Move slow.”
Elijah nodded. “Let’s go.”
They climbed the coulee wall carefully, using roots and exposed rock to pull themselves upward. The ground was slick with frost, and more than once Elijah felt his foot slide, but he caught himself each time. He couldn’t afford to fall. Not now.
When they reached the top, they paused again, listening. The forest was silent. Too silent.
Evan whispered, “Something’s off.”
Marianne agreed. “I don’t like it.”
Carter checked his comm. “Leah, do you copy?”
Static crackled, then Leah’s voice came through, strained. “I’m here. The feed’s getting worse. I keep losing the signal.”
Elijah’s pulse quickened. “What about Chet?”
A pause. Too long.
Then Leah’s voice, tight. “He’s still drawing. But the implant—something’s happening. The pulse is stronger. He’s reacting to them.”
Elijah closed his eyes for a moment. “We’re close. Hold the feed as long as you can.”
“I will,” Leah said. “Just… hurry.”
The line went quiet.
Evan pointed toward the road. “We move now. Stay low.”
They crept through the brush, inching closer to the service road. Elijah’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing like a drum. He could almost feel the walls of Fourteen ahead of them, cold and unforgiving.
When they reached the edge of the road, Marianne raised her fist, signaling them to stop. Elijah followed her gaze.
A single set of fresh tire tracks cut across the dirt, heading toward the facility.
Evan crouched beside them. “These are new.”
Carter’s voice was low. “Someone’s inside.”
Marianne looked at Elijah. “We need to move. Now.”
Elijah nodded, gripping the strap of his pack.
But before they could take another step, a faint sound drifted through the trees — a low, mechanical hum, growing louder.
Evan’s eyes widened. “Get down.”
They dove into the brush just as a vehicle rounded the bend — a dark, unmarked transport truck, headlights off, moving slowly, deliberately, toward Fourteen.
Elijah’s breath caught.
He recognized the type of truck.
The girls' descriptions had contained it. He’d seen it in the RCMP files. He’d seen it in nightmares.
Marianne whispered, “That’s a transfer vehicle.”
Carter’s jaw tightened. “They’re moving something.”
Evan looked at Elijah. “Or someone.”
Elijah’s blood ran cold. “Chet,” he whispered.
The truck rolled past them, heading straight for the facility.
And Elijah knew — with a certainty that hollowed him out —