Chapter 10: The Hunter's Shelter

Because of my injury, we spent two days and a night holed up in that cave. Snow—the version that didn't really exist—kept showing up at my side. I just ignored her.

This wasn't an ordinary cave. It was a natural cavern, but you could see the human touches everywhere. To put it simply, it was a hunter's "cabin." Even in the twenty-first century, hunting is still a tradition in this country. Hunters search out caves, gullies, even build wooden huts in these mountains—places to rest and resupply.

Inside the cave was a stone-built fireplace, a clean water barrel with a wooden lid held down by a rock, bags of rice or barley buried under the floor, and even sleeping bags, blankets, and other essentials.

That's the thing—these hunters go out into the wild with a gun, some food, and a dog, and they can always find somewhere to rest or restock. There's an unwritten rule, though: no matter how hungry or thirsty you are, never take everything. And when you come back, you bring enough supplies to pay back what you used last time.

That's the code. Not a law, but everyone follows it. You never know—one day it might be your life depending on it.

There's an old superstition out here, a Russian story the locals still half-believe. In the deep forests, hunters and trappers sometimes stumble across shelters that feel older than the men who built them—half-rotted cabins, buried in snow, marked only by strange carvings or an animal skull above the door. The villagers call them "spirit huts."

Nobody claims to own these places. Nobody locks the door. Inside, you might find a little food, a rusty kettle, sometimes even a bottle of vodka left behind. But there's a rule, passed down from the old-timers: take what you need, never more; leave something for the next traveler, and always—always—show respect. Some men will leave a coin under a stone, or scratch a prayer into the wall, or whisper a thank-you into the darkness.

They say the forest remembers those who break the rule. A hunter who gets greedy, or dirties the place, might find the next storm comes quicker, or his luck runs dry. Some blame wolves or weather. Others say it's the hut itself, or something inside it, that decides who lives and who gets lost for good.

Back to the present—

The second night, I geared up, had a short talk with our European allies, and we headed out again.

These three European operators were mainly tasked with getting us into possible Extremis territory, then providing backup. The real assault—if it came—was on Ghost Squad. Why cooperate with them? Because we had no idea where Extremis was hiding. The Europeans had been tracking them longer, and knew the patterns, if not the precise location.

My wound ached deep, but I skipped painkillers—I wanted it to heal clean.

We moved all night—over ridges, crawling, sliding, the kind of movement that leaves your muscles shredded.

Even though the allied team was here to help, I couldn't fully trust them. Old habits.

Around dawn, I ordered a halt and walked over to where the Europeans were camped.

"How's the wound?" their team leader asked.

"Fine," I said. "How long until we reach the next waypoint?"

He was chewing, pulled out some maps and papers, scanning them again and again. I didn't crowd him. It wouldn't help. Their info was their own, and only they really understood it.

He sucked in a breath. "Look, this is where we're headed." He handed me a big chart—latitude, longitude, black shapes blurred along the edges. Drone images.

"What are these shadows?" I asked.

He shook his head. "God knows."

I just stared at him.

"We'll go here first," he said, pointing at a spot on the map.

I checked the coordinates—this place and our target weren't even close.

"Why not head straight for the objective?" I asked.

One of the others spoke up. "First we find the underground river. Follow the water, and we'll find Extremis."

"You're saying they're underground?"

"If they were above ground, our planes would have found them by now."

I nodded.

Back with my squad, Anchor helped me shed my gear, changed my bandages.

"What'd you talk to those Euro guys about, Bro?" Buzz asked, sipping his hot water.

"Route info," I gritted out.

"Hang in there," Anchor said quietly.

"You still seeing Snow?" Buzz asked with a lopsided grin.

I just looked at him and said nothing.

"Come on, what's she look like now?"

"Tell our allies: ten minutes, we move," I told Buzz.

"Let Bolt do it. I don't want to talk to them. Who knows, maybe we'll be enemies one day," Buzz muttered.

"Come on, weren't you always dreaming of Euro girls? Now's your shot—go make a contact," Castor said from his post.

Buzz snorted. "Euro girls? Don't need spies for that. The real heroes are in the here and now. We're history in the making, right?"

"What's a hero supposed to act like?" Anchor asked.

"You don't know? Just act like me" Castor replied, deadpan.

That made me laugh, which yanked my wound and left me gritting my teeth, unable to keep laughing.

"You guys just don't get it," Buzz muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Go!" I snapped.

"Come on, man, I've done more before breakfast than most people do in a year. I mean, you want heroes? You're looking at one. Give me a map and a good rifle, I'll take on the world…..."

"Go!" I cut off his endless talking.

Buzz gave me a look and yelled, "Bolt!"

Bolt was eating but jumped up at Buzz's shout. "What's up, Bro?"

"Job for you. Go see our friends." Buzz herded Bolt toward the allies.

The day's march was long and fast. By midnight, we reached the base of a low, snow-capped ridge. I checked the coordinates. We were close to the spot the Europeans had marked.

Their leader came over. "Let's rest here. We'll look for the entrance after."

I checked my watch. "Ten-minute break."

Ten minutes later, he came back. "We're heading out."

"Hold up," I said. "Take him and him with you."

He nodded.

I sent Nox and Reaper to search for the entrance with the Europeans.

When they'd gone, I called Bolt over. "Shadow them from a distance. Report back if anything goes wrong. And map out the route."

Bolt nodded, ready to move.

I grabbed his shoulder. "The overall route. Not just where you walked—understand?"

Bolt looked confused.

Anchor chimed in, "He means get the lay of the land. Map everything, not just the path you walk."

Bolt nodded at me, finally getting it.

An hour later, I set out with Castor, Anchor, and Buzz, following Bolt's markers.

It was another ninety minutes with no news. I felt the tension building.

I turned to Buzz. "Pick up the trail. Move fast."

Buzz nodded and took point.

I was exhausted—dry, freezing. Anchor kept urging me to rest, reminding me about my wound.

I ignored him.

A little after 4 a.m., Bolt and Buzz finally found us.

I hurried over. "What's the situation?"

Bolt said, "They went into the next ridge, then stopped. Looks like they found something. I came back to report."

Bolt handed me a paper. "This is the best route—I've walked it myself. Used it to get back here."

I handed it to Anchor, who started copying it onto our map.

We moved out quickly, met up with one European and Nox, then headed up toward the ridge.

When we got there, Reaper was with the other two Europeans, working on something at the edge. I stepped closer—a massive, irregular pit, two or three thousand yards across.

I shot a look at the European team.

He took a swig from his canteen. "This is it. We go down from here. There's an underground river below." He held up a flashlight and a black-and-white photo.

I took the photo. "You ever been down there?"

"Never."

"Then how do you know there's a river?"

He showed me a handful of drone images. "See these black spots? That's vegetation. And this one—infrared scan. The whole pit's mapped."

I studied the picture. A white streak ran through the base of the crater.

"How the hell do we get down? That's at least sixteen hundred feet," I muttered.

"Don't go down," Snow said, appearing again in the group.

I ignored her, like these few days.

"We'll wait for daylight—then try to climb down," the European said.

I went to the pit's edge. A cold wind rose from below.

I turned and said, "There must be other pits that reach the river."

He nodded. "Yeah, but those are even deeper. There's one ten miles from here—drops more than twenty-six hundred feet."

"So this is the shallowest?" I asked.

"For now, yeah."

I didn't say anything else. I told the team to rest, eat, and get ready. Tomorrow, we go down. No telling what we'd find in the dark.