PART 6: Breach of the Timber Cabin
PART 6: Breach of the Timber Cabin
Flashbangs shatter quiet mountain ambushes.
The raid lasted less than forty seconds.
A sharp, deafening pop echoed through the pine trees as a flashbang detonated through the front window of the main cabin, flooding the interior with blinding white light and a thunderous concussion wave.
Shouts of panic erupted from inside.
Before the two armed guards standing outside could raise their shotguns, Vance and two operatives materialized from the darkness, tackling them cleanly into the mud and slapping industrial zip-ties around their wrists before they could even draw a breath.
Harrison didn't wait for the secondary sweep.
He vaulted up the rotting wooden steps of the cabin porch, kicked the warped oak door open with his boot, and stepped into the smoke-filled room with his weapon raised.
Two men were groaning on the floor, disoriented and blinded by the flashbang.
“Clear!” an operative shouted from the kitchen alcove.
Harrison lowered his weapon slightly, his eyes scanning the chaotic room until he spotted a heavy iron padlock securing a reinforced wooden hatch set into the floorboards near the woodstove.
The root-cellar.
“Vance! Cut that lock!” Harrison ordered, rushing across the room and dropping to his knees beside the hatch.
Vance was there instantly with a pair of heavy hydraulic bolt cutters.
With a sharp snip, the iron shackle gave way.
Harrison threw the heavy wooden doors open, plunging his flashlight down into the dark, damp space below.
“Scott?” Harrison called out, his voice echoing in the confined subterranean room.
From the darkness came a slow, painful cough.
Then, a weak, raspy voice floated upward.
“Who... who’s down there...?”
Harrison didn't hesitate. He scrambled down the wooden ladder into the cellar, his boots hitting the dirt floor with a heavy thud.
The beam of his flashlight cut through the dust and damp air, illuminating a terrifying sight.
A man was tied to a wooden support post with heavy nylon rope.
He was emaciated, his beard long and graying, his clothes torn and stained with dirt, his face pale and marked with deep, untreated bruises.
Yet, as the man squinted against the bright flashlight beam, Harrison recognized the sharp, unmistakable structure of his jawline.
It was him.
May you like
Scott.
The guide who had pulled him out of the snow ten years ago, living like a prisoner in his own country.
