Chapter 3: The Man Who Watches you
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing off Todd’s tense, quiet world. The hallway carpet, a garish pattern of deep reds and blues, felt spongy under her boots. Maree took a deep breath, trying to shed the coiled-wire tension in her shoulders. She could still feel the cold weight of the drive in her palm, a phantom sensation.
Go back to your friends. Try to enjoy yourself.
Right. As if her nerves weren’t buzzing like a downed power line.
The lodge bar was a cocoon of forced cheer. The roar of the fire competed with the din of a dozen conversations and the clatter of plates from the adjoining restaurant. The air was thick with the smell of melted cheese, pine, and wet wool. She spotted them immediately: Chloe, waving wildly from a high-backed booth in the corner, her face flushed with laughter and apres-ski glow. Ben was beside her, looking comfortably sprawled, a half-empty beer in front of him.
“There she is! The vanishing woman!” Chloe crowed as Maree slid into the booth. “We thought you’d been abducted by a yeti. Or a handsome stranger. Which would it be?”
“Just some tedious work stuff,” Maree said, forcing a smile. It felt stiff on her face. “Following a lead for that safety piece. You know how it is.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “On a ski trip? Maree, you’re supposed to be off. As in, not checking your email for seventy-two hours. You’re failing vacation.”
“I know, I know. My brain’s an asshole that doesn’t know how to shut up.” She caught the eye of a passing server. “Double Glenlivet, neat. Please.” The order was automatic, a ritual from a hundred stressful deadlines. The whiskey from last night with Todd had been a game; this one was armor.
Chloe leaned in, her voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, but seriously. You were gone for ages. And you have that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I just saw something I can’t unsee’ look. It’s the same face you made when you walked in on your roommate and that bassist sophomore year.”
Maree managed a genuine laugh, short and sharp. “God, don’t remind me. No, nothing that traumatic. Just… lodge bureaucracy. It’s soul-crushing.” The lie slid out, practiced and smooth. She was a journalist. Lying to protect a source, or in this case herself, was part of the toolkit. It just felt different when the stakes were your own skin.
The whiskey arrived. She took a swift sip, letting the heat bloom in her chest, a small internal fire to fight the chill that had settled in her bones. She tried to focus on her friends. Chloe was recounting a spectacular wipeout on a black diamond, complete with sound effects. Ben was debating the merits of different ski waxes with the earnest intensity of a Supreme Court argument. Normal life. Vacation life.
But her senses were dialed to eleven. Every time the main door to the bar swung open, her eyes flicked over. Was it the maintenance man? Derrick? Someone else with cold, acknowledging eyes? She noted a man sitting alone at the bar, reading a paperback. He hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Two women near the fire, nursing hot chocolates, their conversation seemed a little too still, their gazes sweeping the room too systematically.
Paranoia? Probably. Survival instinct? Absolutely.
“You’re miles away,” Ben said, nudging her foot under the table. “That lead must be a doozy.”
“It’s just got me thinking,” she said, scrambling for a plausible cover. “That guy who died. Petrov. It’s so sad. Makes you realize how quickly things can go wrong out here.”
Chloe’s smile softened. “Oh, Maree. Don’t dwell. It was a terrible accident, but that’s all it was. The ski patrol guys were talking about it at the lift. Said he was on a run way above his skill level. A misjudgment.”
That’s the story, Maree thought. That’s the seed they planted. “Yeah,” she murmured. “A misjudgment.”
She took another drink, larger this time. The alcohol was beginning to take the razor’s edge off her nerves, blurring them into a softer, manageable hum. She laughed at one of Chloe’s jokes. She argued half-heartedly with Ben about the best podcast for long lift lines. She played her part.
But a part of her was watching the door. Waiting.
An hour melted away. The bar got louder, more crowded. A group started a dice game at the next table. The man with the paperback finally left. The two women by the fire got up and left separately. Maybe she was imagining it all. Maybe the maintenance guy’s nod was just that—a nod.
Then she saw Derrick. He entered the bar not from the lobby, but from a staff door near the kitchens. He’d changed out of his manager’s blazer into a thick cable-knit sweater, trying to look like a guest. He didn’t mingle. He went straight to the far end of the bar, his back to the room, and ordered a drink. His shoulders were hunched, a bottle of stress.
He was waiting, too.
Her phone buzzed on the table. A text from Todd.
> East fire exit hallway. 2 minutes.
The words were a jolt of pure adrenaline, cutting through the whiskey fog. Game back on.
“Ugh, work again?” Chloe groaned, seeing her check the phone.
“Sorry. One quick thing. I promise I’ll be right back and will submit fully to vacation debauchery.” Maree slid out of the booth, giving Chloe’s shoulder a squeeze. “Order me another whiskey. I’ll need it.”
She weaved through the crowd, careful not to look at Derrick. She pushed into the quieter hallway leading to the restrooms, then ducked past them into a narrower, colder corridor lit by utilitarian sconces. This was the service artery of the lodge. She could hear the clang of pots from the kitchen. The east fire exit was a heavy metal door with a push-bar, marked by a glowing red sign.
Todd was there, a shadow against the gray metal. He’d changed into a black thermal shirt and dark pants. He looked like what he was: operational.
“Anything?” she asked, her voice low.
“The drive is encrypted. Good hardware. Military-grade. I can’t crack it here.” His words were clipped. “But Derrick’s phone log was more revealing. The number he called is a blind router, but the area code is local. Not a city number. A mountain exchange.”
“Meaning whatever ‘they’ are, they’re close. Not some distant agency.”
“Very close. The survey station Petrov found is seventeen miles northwest of here, up in the Thor’s Pass area. It’s not on any public maps. It was built during a geological survey in the seventies and supposedly dismantled in the nineties.” He glanced down the hall, listening. “Satellite thermal imagery from last week shows a consistent low-grade power signature. Someone’s home.”
The pieces were forming a terrifying picture. A hidden facility. A dead man with a key. People in the lodge watching, waiting. “So what’s the play? We call the police?”
“With what? A hunch and a stolen thumb drive? The local sheriff is probably on someone’s payroll, or at the very least, will be told it’s a national security matter and to stand down. We’d be detained, the drive would disappear, and we’d have an accident on the way to the station.” He said it with a chilling matter-of-factness. “Our only move is to go see for ourselves. To get proof.”
Maree stared at him. “Go? As in, go there? Todd, there’s a blizzard outside. You can’t see ten feet.”
“The storm is our cover. Everyone is holed up. No one will be moving on the mountain. It’s the best time.” He fixed her with that steady gaze. “I need to see that station. I have the coordinates and the access codes from the drive now. But I can’t do the next part alone.”
“What’s the next part?”
“Creating a diversion. A clean, believable reason for me to be away from the lodge for several hours, and for you to be… occupied.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two foil-wrapped packets—energy gels—and a small, rugged-looking satellite phone. He pressed them into her hand. “I need you to go back to the bar. In forty-five minutes, you’re going to have a very public, very messy row with your friend Ben. Loud. Emotional. The kind that draws a crowd and gets staff involved.”
Maree blinked. “What? Why?”
“Because at the same time, the main power to the lodge is going to flicker and go out. Generator will kick in, but it’ll cause confusion. In that confusion, during your dramatic scene, I’ll slip out the west service entrance where the snowmobiles are kept. With everyone focused on the lights and your shouting match, no one will notice. You, publicly distraught, will retreat to your room for the night. A perfect alibi.”
It was audacious. It was insane. It might work.
“What do I fight with Ben about?”
“Make it up. He hit on Chloe. He thinks your career is vapid. He insulted your skiing. You’re tipsy and emotional. Sell it.” Todd’s hand rested on the fire exit bar. “The maintenance guy from earlier? His name is Carver. He’s not lodge staff. He’s made you. This row gets you to your room safely, where you’ll lock the door and wait for my call on that sat phone. It’s encrypted. If I’m not back or haven’t called by dawn… you call the number pre-programmed as ‘Delta.’ Don’t trust anyone else.”
The finality in his voice was a cold rock in her stomach. “This is really happening.”
“It’s been happening.” He looked at her, and for a split second, the operational mask slipped. There was something else there—a flicker of apology, of shared burden. “You’re a hell of a journalist, Maree. Now go be a hell of an actress. Forty-five minutes. Start the whiskey waterworks soon.”
He pushed the bar. The fire exit opened with a sigh of cold air and a shriek of wind, swallowing him into the white frenzy. The door swung shut, cutting off the storm’s voice.
Maree stood in the silent hallway, the energy gels and sat phone heavy in her hand. Back to the bar. Back to laughter and warmth. To start a war with one of her best friends.
She took a deep, shaking breath, smoothed her sweater, and walked back toward the noise, already constructing the fight in her mind, each cruel line, each tear. The story, this time, was hers to write. And the cost of getting it right felt higher than any deadline she’d ever faced.
The warmth of the bar hit her like a wall, a suffocating blanket of artificial cheer. She slipped the sat phone into her back pocket, the hard edge a persistent reminder against her skin. Her friends’ booth felt a thousand miles away across the noisy room.
Every laugh, every clink of glass, was a needle in her ears. She wove through the crowd, her smile feeling brittle and foreign.
“Success?” Chloe asked, sliding the fresh whiskey toward her as she sat. It was amber liquid cowardice, and Maree embraced it.
“Mostly. Just tying up loose ends.” She took a gulp, the burn a welcome anchor. Ben was watching her, his lawyer’s eyes missing nothing.
“Loose ends,” he echoed, not unkindly. “You know, most people’s loose ends involve forgetting to tip the housekeeper or losing a glove. You look like you just negotiated a hostage release.”
“It feels about that dramatic sometimes.” She forced a laugh, but it came out thin. “Sorry I’m such a downer. Tell me more about the black diamond disaster. Did you actually lose a ski?”
Chloe launched back in, grateful for the audience. Ben let it go, turning his attention to the sports highlights on the muted TV above the bar. Maree nursed her drink, watching the clock in her mind tick down. Twenty-five minutes.
Her eyes found Derrick again. He was staring into his beer, his fingers tight around the glass. The maintenance man—Carver—was nowhere to be seen. That was worse.
“So, the grad school interview,” Chloe said, poking Ben’s arm. “You’re still prepping for that?”
“Next week,” Ben sighed, finally looking away from the TV. “It’s just a formality. The offer’s basically in hand. They need someone who can argue a tort case and also not face-plant on a double black diamond. I’m their man.”
“Of course you are,” Maree said, her tone lighter than she felt. “The human golden retriever. Who could say no?”
Ben grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Says the woman who interviewed a warlord in a contested zone last year. My career trajectory looks like a gentle hiking trail. Yours looks like… fucking free soloing El Capitan.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned forward, his playful edge sharpening. “You’re on vacation, Maree. You’re in a beautiful lodge, with friends who miss you, and you’re physically here but you’re… not. You’re always chasing the next story, the next dark corner. Even when it’s dangerous. Especially when it’s dangerous.”
The opening was perfect. Todd’s instructions echoed. She felt a surge of genuine anger, hot and defensive. It wasn’t about Ben. It was about Carver’s eyes, Petrov’s frozen body, the weight of the drive.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her voice cooled, cutting through the bar’s haze.
“It means maybe not every mystery needs to be solved. Maybe some corners should stay dark. You’re going to get yourself hurt, or worse, and for what? A byline?”
The words landed exactly wrong. They were too close to the terrifying truth whispering in her ear since yesterday. She clung to the manufactured conflict, letting real fear bleed into faux outrage.
“For the truth, Ben. That’s the ‘what.’ Or does that not fit into your neat, risk-assessed future?” She set her glass down too hard. “Not all of us want a life that’s a gentle hiking trail. Some of us actually want to see what’s at the edge of the map.”
“And what if the edge of the map eats you?” His voice rose, matching hers. Chloe’s eyes darted between them, her festive glow evaporating. “What then, Maree? We get a nice article in the Columbia Journalism Review about your dedication?”
“Better than a fucking obituary about playing it safe!” she snapped. The bar around them had hushed, voices dropping as their booth became the center of attention. Derrick was looking now, his nervous face pale. Perfect.
“Guys, come on,” Chloe hissed, grabbing Maree’s wrist. “Everyone’s staring.”
Maree shook her off. “No, let’s hear it. Since Ben’s got my career and my life choices all figured out. What’s your professional opinion, counselor? Should I just… stop?”
Ben ran a hand through his hair, genuinely exasperated. “I’m saying maybe you could pump the brakes. Just once. For your own sake. This isn’t about your career, it’s about you being a gravitational pull for chaos.”
The lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
The entire lodge plunged into a profound, roaring blackness. The fire in the great hearth was the only source of light, casting monstrous, leaping shadows on the panicked faces around them. A collective gasp was followed by a beat of stunned silence, then a rising babble of confusion.
The generator kicked in with a thump that vibrated through the floorboards. Emergency LEDs bathed the room in a weak, sulfurous glow.
In that first second of darkness, Maree had seen it. A figure detaching from the wall near the kitchen doors. Carver. Moving with purpose, not surprise, his gaze scanning the room before he melted into the deeper shadows.
“See?” Ben said, his voice strained in the eerie half-light. “Even the universe agrees. It’s a sign.”
Maree stood up, her chair scraping loudly. The emotional whiplash was no longer an act; she was shaking, the adrenaline and fear and guilt a toxic mix. “The universe can go to hell. And so can your condescending concern. I’m going to bed.”
“Maree, wait—” Chloe called.
She didn’t look back. She pushed through the disoriented crowd, feeling dozens of eyes on her back—the dramatic, hysterical friend. Derrick’s gaze was a terrified flicker as she passed. She hit the main lobby, where a clerk with a flashlight was trying to calm guests, and took the stairs two at a time, her boots echoing in the concrete stairwell.
Her room was an icebox. She’d left the balcony door cracked for air hours ago. Wind-driven snow had dusted the floor like icing sugar. She slammed the door shut, locked it, and slid the heavy bolt across.
Then she leaned against it, breath coming in ragged gulps. The sat phone was a brick in her pocket. She pulled it out, its green power light a solitary eye in the dark room.
Outside, the storm shrieked. Somewhere in its white heart, Todd was moving toward the ghost of a survey station. Here in the false safety of her room, she was alone with the consequences of her performance. Ben’s wounded, confused face swam in her vision. She had done that. To protect him, she told herself. To protect all of them.
She walked to the window, brushing away the condensation. The world was a swirling, violent white void. Nothing was visible, not the trees, not the next building.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom below her balcony. A man, looking up, his features obscured by falling snow and a pulled-up hood. He stood for three heartbeats, then turned and trudged away, his footprints filling instantly.
Carver had followed. He knew her room.
Maree stepped back from the glass, the cold pane biting her forehead. She didn’t turn on the lights. She sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, cradling the silent sat phone in both hands, and waited for it to judge her.
The phone remained dark and silent. The wind howled a consistent, aching note against the glass. She counted the seconds, each one a grain of sand piling into a heavy mound inside her chest.
Her performance with Ben replayed in vicious fragments. The hurt in his eyes had been real. She’d used their friendship as a blunt instrument, and the guilt tasted more bitter than the whiskey. A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The sound didn’t repeat.
It was just the old building groaning under the storm’s weight. Probably.
She stood, her joints stiff, and paced the small space between the bed and the balcony door. The snow on the floor had melted into dark, shapeless stains. Her reflection in the black window was a ghost trapped between the room and the blizzard. She looked pale, her eyes too wide. The person who interviewed warlords felt like a stranger she’d read about.
Another sound. Not a creak. A faint, metallic shush, like something dragging lightly across the door’s lower panel.
Maree stopped breathing. She stared at the stripe of yellow light seeping under the door from the emergency-lit hallway. A shadow interrupted it, blotting out the glow for three long seconds before moving on. Someone had stopped outside her room. Someone had listened.
Carver.
The sat phone vibrated in her hands.
A jolt of pure electricity shot up her arms. The screen glowed with a harsh, greenish light, displaying no number, just the word: CONNECTING... The signal icon pulsed, weak and intermittent. She fumbled, nearly dropping it, and pressed the device to her ear.
“Todd?”
The connection was a tunnel of static and wind noise. His voice broke through in jagged pieces. “—are you secure?”
“Yes. Someone was just outside my door.”
“Expect that.” His words were eaten by a roar of interference. “Station is… not abandoned. Single heat signature. Going in silent.”
“What did you find?” She pressed the phone harder against her head, as if she could physically pull his voice from the chaos.
“Petrov was right. It’s a… relay. Not geological.” A crunch of noise, like footsteps on compacted snow. “Hardware is new. Last six months new. Classified designators on the crates. I’m looking at a… damn.”
The line dissolved into a digital scream for a heart-stopping second.
“Todd? What is it?”
His voice returned, lower, urgency straining each syllable. “Signal intelligence array. Disguised. They’re not listening to rocks, Maree. They’re listening to… everything. Phones, sat-coms, private networks. Blanket coverage of the whole valley and the airspace above it. This is a passive intercept nest.”
The implications unfolded in her mind, cold and terrifying. A hidden ear. Listening to every conversation in the luxury lodges, every corporate retreat, every private satellite call. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“Working on it. There’s logged data. I’m trying to access—” His sentence cut off. In the background, over the wind, she heard a new sound. A low, hydraulic whine, then a solid, echoing clunk.
“What was that?”
“The outer door,” he whispered. The wind noise from his end vanished abruptly. He was inside. “Someone just engaged the manual lock. I’m not alone in here.”
Maree’s stomach dropped. “Get out. Todd, get out now.”
“Too late for that.” His breathing was calm, measured. She heard the soft rustle of his clothing, the click of a safety being switched off. He’d brought a weapon. Of course he had. “The heat signature is moving. Above me. There’s a second level.”
“You have to—”
“The data stream is live,” he interrupted, his voice a focused murmur. “They’re uploading. Right now. I can see the destination routing.” A pause. Keys clacked softly. “It’s not a government server. The path is bouncing through offshore layers. It’s a private intelligence harvest. Corporate or… something else.”
Another clunk, this one heavier, directly above him. Dust or snow sifted down from the station’s ceiling; she could hear it through the phone.
“He knows I’m here.” Todd’s voice lost all its whisper. It was flat, operational. “I’m sending you a data packet. Everything I’ve screenshot. The sat phone will store it.”
“Todd, please.”
“When this call drops, wait ten minutes. Then call the Delta number. Don’t wait for dawn.” A door squealed open above him, a flood of brighter, artificial light washing down a metal staircase. She could picture it perfectly. “Maree. The upload they’re finishing. The target packet is tagged with a project code. ‘Satellite Rings.’ You need to remember that. ‘Satellite Rings.’ Now shut up and listen.”
He went silent, but the line was open. She heard his slow, retreating footsteps on concrete. Heard the deliberate, hollow thuds of someone descending the metal stairs. One. Two. Three steps.
A voice, unfamiliar, male, filtered and calm, echoed in the space. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Todd didn’t reply.
The stranger’s voice again, closer. “The journalist has the drive. We know. She’s in her room. Carver will collect her shortly. This doesn’t have to escalate.”
Maree’s blood turned to ice. They knew. They knew everything. Carver wasn’t just watching. He was coming.
Through the phone, a swift, sharp inhalation. Then Todd’s voice, loud and clear, no longer hiding. “Maree. Run.”
A deafening concussion slammed through the earpiece, a sound of pure, violent force. The connection didn’t drop. It filled with new sounds: a guttural shout of pain that wasn’t Todd’s, the screech of metal on concrete, a body hitting the floor.
Then a rapid, fading series of digital tones.
And a final, crystal-clear silence.
The sat phone’s screen winked out, the connection dead. Maree stood paralyzed in the center of the dark room. The blizzard’s scream was the only sound. Satellite Rings. They knew. Carver was coming.
A heavy, deliberate knock shook her door.
“Ms. Evans?” Carver’s voice, polite and utterly cold, oozed through the wood. “Lodge security. We had a report of a possible water leak from your balcony. I need to check the seals.”
Her eyes darted to the balcony door, to the main entrance with its bolted lock, to the phone in her hand that was now just a dead plastic brick. Ten minutes. She had to wait ten minutes to call Delta.
The knob turned, tested. The bolt held.
“Everything’s fine in here,” she called, her voice miraculously steady. “No leak.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist. For the structural integrity of the building.” The polite menace in his tone was worse than a shout. A new sound joined the storm’s chorus: the jingle of a key ring. He had a master key.
The ten-minute wait was a death sentence. Delta couldn’t help her now.
She was on her own.
Maree’s gaze locked onto the balcony door, to the white hell beyond. The drop was two stories to a snowdrift. Unforgiving, but perhaps soft. Inside the room, the key slid into the lock with a smooth, metallic snick.