Most years, winter in Oregon was something of a misnomer. It’s quite chilly, and very wet, but a far cry from what most people would associate with the season. Only twice in my first two years did we get more than an inch or two of snow in any single dump, the town reacting as most do and becoming effectively paralyzed until noon when it was all melted.

  This was proving to not be the usual type of year.

  Just days after Halloween, a storm system had moved down out of Canada, bringing one of the earliest snows in the modern era. Seeming to like the Willamette Valley, it had decided to park itself across the western third of the state, bringing with it lower than usual temperatures and record snowfall.

  Only halfway through December, every available forecasting model was predicting a miserable winter season, the sporting good stores in town already out of thermal gear.

  A fair bit of which seemed to be enveloping the person now standing before me. Bent at the waist, I could hear them breathing but see nothing more. Pulling the door shut, the angry howl of the wind died away, a spray of fresh snow on the ground around us.

  A thin smile on my face, I waited, taking a few steps to the side to position myself directly beneath the enormous fans pushing warm air down from the ceiling.

  “Miserable out there, isn’t it?” I asked.

  Staying bent at the waist a moment, the person rose to full height, panting slightly. “Yeah. Thank you so much.”

  Thick gloves covered both hands as they reached for their hood pulled down tight, shoving it back. Next off came a knit cap, revealing a head of dark hair.

  “Man, that is a bitch.”

  The words were out before Mira had even finished unwrapping herself, let alone bothered to look my way. A small chuckle slid out as I cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her to glance over.

  When she finally did, the reaction was every bit as priceless as I would have imagined.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, more color rushing to her cheeks, an embarrassed smile coming to her face as she turned away for an instant before looking back my way. Pressing her lips together tight, she forced the smile back into place and said, “Hello.”

  “Kyle,” I said, raising my eyebrows slightly. “The name you’re looking for is Kyle.”

  More color came to her cheeks as her eyes slid shut for an instant. “Yes, I know your name, thank you.”

  “Well, I mean, after last time and all, I wasn’t sure.”

  Reaching out, I grabbed the handle of the second door and pulled it open, motioning her through from the buffer zone into the interior of the building. Without the overhead blowers, it grew three decibels quieter, though it also brought with it a drop in blessed warmth.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mira replied. “I’ve been meaning to thank you ever since, but at first I was too embarrassed, and then a week or two passed...”

  “And then your mom came to visit,” I inserted.

  Without any real destination in mind, we both sort of ambled forward. Given the time of day and the time of year, the halls of the building were thin, just the last of the finals takers left around. To either side, low-slung benches lined the walls, billboards with postings for everything imaginable tacked to them, a flurry of paper hanging at odd angles.

  “And then my mom came to visit,” she repeated, saying the words before realizing it, her face twisting up as she turned to look at me. “Wait, how did you know my mom came to visit?”

  “Mostly from stalking you,” I replied, glancing over before looking back, my face completely neutral. “But bumping into her in line for the bathroom at the Civil War helped.”

  It took a moment for the reference to land, Mira continuing to look just as confused before realization set in. “You were the guy my mom met in line for the bathroom?”

  “There was a guy? Your mom said that?” I asked, unable to hide the smile on my face.

  “No, no, I didn’t say that.”

  “You said you were the guy, which would denote there was a guy your mom mentioned,” I countered, my cadence picking up, the grin growing larger.

  “No, I said there was a guy. Not all about you.”

  Opening my mouth to respond, to counter back, I let the moment pass. As much fun as the banter was, the hallway was only so long, my destination fast approaching.

  “Well, in any case,” I said, “I met your mother. Very nice lady, and up until I saw you come bounding up the sidewalk back there, quite possibly the coldest person I have ever seen in Corvallis.”

  A single laugh burst from Mira, a coughing sound that almost resembled a bark. Leaning forward at the waist a few inches, she unleashed the first smile of the day that wasn’t steeped in embarrassment as she looked my way.

  “Why is it so damn cold? I checked and rechecked every website imaginable and it’s never this bad up here.”

  Shrugging slightly, I said, “I don’t know. Far and away the worst since I got here. Maybe it knew we had some folks from San Diego coming up and wanted to show you all a proper winter.”

  “I’ve seen a proper winter, thanks,” Mira replied. “Seventy-one and partly cloudy. Looks lovely while staring up from lying on a paddleboard.”

  For an instant, I tried to imagine such a thing. Warm sun on my face, palm trees filing past, the sound of gulls floating by on the wind.

  “So that’s how you’ll be spending your Christmas break I take it?”

  “Every chance I get,” Mira replied. “I fly out tomorrow, plan to spend twelve glorious days in the sun before I have to come back and start gearing up for the season. You?”

  “The only thing of what you just said that sounds similar is the part about coming back early to get ready for the season. Otherwise, a lot of fireplaces and home cooking.”

  Slowing my pace slightly, I turned. With gloved hands holding the straps of my backpack on either side, I gestured to the door beside me. “Okay, this is me. Chemistry study group.”

  “Eesh,” Mira said, wincing slightly, a wrinkle forming across her nose. “And I thought English Lit was bad.”

  “If I don’t see you before then, have a nice vacation. Enjoy that paddleboard.”

  “You as well,” Mira replied, taking a step forward and turning to face me, walking backward down the hall. “Enjoy your mama’s cooking.”

  “Oh, I will. Speaking of which, last chance for you to tell me what your mama said about me.”

  Matching smiles formed again as her pace increased, the gap between us growing. “Thank you, again, for what you and your girlfriend did for me on Halloween. I appreciate it.”

  Confusion came to my face as I watched her go, trying to place what she was alluding to. “My what now?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The home I share – shared - with my wife is a one-story in a section of the city known to be more residential than anything else. While most of the guys in the service either live on base or take advantage of the housing stipends offered by the military to live near the beach, we decided to push inland. Much like her family home in La Mesa, Mira had spent years away from her beloved city, anxious to get back to someplace with canyons and friendly neighbors and all the usual trappings of suburban life.

  I never cared one way or another, more than happy for us to be back on the American mainland.

  Painted white with red shutters, it is arranged in the shape of the letter L, done so to better accommodate the small lot it sits on. The bedroom portion of the house juts out close to the road, the kitchen and living room behind it. The garage is off to the side, the driveway leading past the bedrooms and connecting to it.

  Out back is a small patch of grass and a terraced staircase down to a pool, with a fence behind it overlooking the Tecolote Canyon.

  In total, it is a nice place. The yard is barely larger than a postage stamp, with houses close to us on either side. One guy that lives down the street likes to play his music loud and rev his car engine when he drives in misguided displays of masculinity, but by and large, it is a perfect starter home in a bucolic neighborhood.

  And it is most certainly the last place on earth I want to be.

  If given my druthers, I would be anywhere else right now, but I have nowhere else to go. I’m wearing Swinger’s shirt, I still have Mira’s blood on my hand, and it is not yet even noon. I’ve not eaten and barely slept. All are reasons to go inside and do what I need to.

  They all pale compared to having to step inside and face what I know will be waiting for me.

  Easing the car down the driveway, I don’t bother opening the garage door. I’m not going to be here long. Instead, I climb out and circle around the front, using my key to unlock the door.

  Standing on the front stoop, seeing the mat that says ‘Welcome’ in seven different languages, I can’t help but feel a second strong wave surge up within me. Starting low, it rises like effervescent bubbles, pushing through my stomach, bringing palpitations to my heart and sweat to my brow.

  This home isn’t mine. It was ours. It is indelibly marked by Mira in a way that will never change. There is no way for me to even stand where I am without remembering the day she bought the mat or the way she would so often exclaim one of the various foreign words printed on it while greeting a guest.

  Very rarely did they get the reference, wondering why she was standing there with her arms spread above her head, a smile on her face.

  Just thinking about it now, I can’t help but feel a small grin play across my face. Doing my best to hold the thought, the feeling, I twist the knob and head inside, making it no further than a single step before pulling up sharply. The smile flees, leaving behind one of the few expressions I hadn’t expected to make upon entering.

  Unbridled shock and confusion, both playing out in equal amounts, each a direct result of the chaos that has destroyed the inside of our home.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My first move is to go directly back out the front door. Any previous concern I’d had, any trepidation about entering to find so much of my fallen wife’s energy, has evaporated, replaced by the feeling I’d had the night before in the wake of what happened. Years of training and muscle memory have kicked in, slamming shut certain compartments in my psyche, pushing others to the fore.

  Basically, I am in a state known as a reptilian brain. The only things I can quantify right now are aggression and self-preservation, my entire focus linear, aimed with laser precision on the two feet in front of and behind me.

  It is a state I have become comfortable with in a way most non-military psychiatrists would describe as alarming, a place I settle back into without even thinking, my mind pushing aside everything and focusing only on what must be done.

  Retreating straight from the house, I circle back out to the car, this time going for the trunk. Using the key fob, I pop it open and shove everything before me away, a handful of half-empty plastic bags and cans of emergency Fix-A-Flat sliding to the side. Twice I peer out around the side of the upraised trunk, looking at the blinds hanging closed over the windows, listening for any sounds of life.

  Aside from a stray dog braying down the street, I can hear nothing.

  Reaching the bottom of the trunk, I grab for the oversized plastic wingnut deep-set into the panel and begin to twist. It opposes for just an instant before sliding to the side, spinning with increasing ease with each revolution. After just a few seconds, it comes free, toppling to the side.

  Inserting my fingers into the gap it left behind, I wrench the piece of carpeted plywood that serves as the floor of the trunk to the side, needing no more than a few inches to get to what I need.

  A single black plastic case stowed beneath it.

  The case offers no opposition as I tug it out and drop it down on the lopsided floor of the trunk. A quick entry of my mama’s birthday into the combination lock releases the hasps on either side, my hands moving quickly to raise the top of it.

  The Heckler & Koch Mark 23 handgun was specifically chosen by the United States Special Operations Command for use by special operations units, narrowly beating something similar created by Colt. Chambered for a .45 ACP round and coming complete with a laser aiming module and a suppressor, the piece is the definition of offensive firepower. It was specifically engineered to create a lot of damage, the kind of thing needed when deep in the muck and diplomacy is a long way in the rearview mirror.

  Sliding a twelve-round magazine into the handle of it, I can feel the metal components click into place. I tug back on the slide along the top to chamber a round, the combined sounds and the smell of gun oil sending my senses into the stratosphere.

  Never before have I had to open the box in the trunk. I put it there while we were living in Guam, the sort of thing I hoped I would never have to touch. The fact that I’m doing so now only serves to prove how messed up the last fourteen hours have been.

  “Alright, asshole,” I mutter, extending the weapon straight before me. Holding it with my left hand, my right is cupped beneath it for support. I don’t give a damn who is about or who might see me as I enter, using my foot to shove the front door open wide and step inside.

  Five minutes earlier, I was fearful of entering my own home. I was scared of what the pictures of Mira hanging on the walls might do to me, what coming across her clothes, her favorite things, even her smell, might mean to my already fragile state.

  Now, all of that is gone. Somebody had entered, effectively ending any association of my wife to the place, at least for the time being. Instead, it has become an active hot zone, a place that could still be crawling with hostiles.

  Keeping one shoulder tight to the wall, I slide forward, my gaze tracing over the open living and dining rooms. Light filters in through the windows, long shadows everywhere, casting shades of darkness over the ruin that is our home.

  Seeing nothing active, I swing a hard right, the elongated front tip of the Mark 23 tracing back and forth. Seeing only more of the same degradation strewn the length of the hallway, I inch forward, clearing the bathroom and both bedrooms in order.

  Start to finish, it takes just over a minute. No active signs of life, no obvious clues such as hand or footprints to be seen. The front edge of the weapon dips just slightly as I reemerge from the bedroom out into the hallway, still hyperaware as I step back into the living room and survey my surroundings.

  The events in the park the night before were not random. The actions of the man were too precise to have been, even before seeing the images from Cartwright’s and determining that he was most definitely there for us. Coming home and seeing my home in ruins only reinforces that point, making it clear that whatever is happening is a result of meticulous planning.

  The question of the matter, though, is why? Why in the hell is someone targeting us? What interest do the Wolves have in all this?

  Knowing the answers to none of those questions, my first thought is to call it in. To let the police bring in a team of investigators and scour the place for forensics, entering it all into whatever databases they have.

  Just as fast, I recall the self-righteous look on Detective Marsh’s face while sitting in his office and push the notion aside. All calling him here would do is give him free reign to try and find more dirt to heap on me. I’ve got enough to deal with at the moment without needing to be looking over my shoulder for his ass too.

  Removing my right hand from the base of my weapon, I reach into my back pocket and extract my phone. I glance at it just long enough to fish out the number I need before dialing and raising it to my face.

  “Hey, it’s me. There’s more.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For the second time in the last half-day, I am standing out near the curb when Jeff Swinger’s enormous rig comes rumbling into view. Moving fast, it takes the corner at a speed that any reasonable person would deem unsafe, the weight seeming to sit on one edge of the chassis before leveling out as he tears forward.

  Hidden beneath dark tinted windows, I can see nothing until he pulls to a stop a few feet away from me, the smell of scorched rubber from his abrupt slide rising to my nose. Ignoring it, I wait as the driver’s side door opens and he steps out, dressed in his blue camouflage uniform.

  None of that surprises me in the slightest. What does is when the passenger door opens and a second person steps out, dressed exactly the same way he is. Almost running, Emily Stapleton heads around the front and comes straight for me. Recognizing the look of intention on her face, I don’t move as she comes for me, flinging her arms around my neck and wrapping me tight.

  The combined force of the move and her body slamming into me cause me to stagger back a couple of steps, having to catch my balance before returning the gesture, my hands rising to her shoulder blades.

  “I am so, so sorry,” she whispers, her cheek wet as it presses into mine. For almost a full minute she remains that way, only slowly releasing her grip and sliding back a few inches, the front of her uniform rumpled from the embrace. Her cheeks shining with moisture, the skin bright pink, she stares at me a moment before flicking her right hand out, swatting me across the face. “I shouldn’t have had to hear about this from Jeff this morning.”

  She is right. She shouldn’t have. But in the last hours, I haven’t exactly been in my right state of mind, just as I can hardly say the same right now.

  Reptilian. Straight forward or straight back.

  “What happened?” Swinger asks, pulling our attention his direction. Given that they are both in uniform, the implication is clear. They are on their lunch break and don’t have a lot of time.

  Casting a glance to Stapleton, I motion with the top of my head toward the house. “Come on.”

  Neither say a word as I lead them past my car and up the drive. The front door is cracked open a few inches, the hinges barely making a sound as I nudge it open and step inside. Shifting a step to the left, I wait a moment as they file in behind me, light from the open door streaming through the space.