1
LENA
The kettle whistles, and I pour hot water over the tea bag, watching the amber color bloom through the clear liquid like blood diffusing in water. I shake off the thought. Three years in isolation, and my brain still reaches for the darkest analogies.
I wrap my hands around the mug and stare out the kitchen window at the wall of white. The blizzard rolled in fast tonight, faster than the weather service predicted. Not that I trust their predictions anymore. I trust my own observations, my own instincts, and right now, those instincts are screaming that this storm is going to be a bad one.
The cabin is warm, almost too warm. I keep the wood stove burning hot because the cold seeps through these walls like they're made of paper. My evening routine is the same as always, tea, check the weather radio, review the security camera feeds on my laptop, clean my rifle, and check the perimeter. Every single night for three years. One thousand and ninety-five nights, give or take.
I'm twenty-six years old, and I live like a paranoid hermit preparing for the apocalypse.
"Living the dream, Maya," I mutter to myself, using the fake name that still feels wrong in my mouth. Maya. Not Lena Orlova. Never Lena Orlova again.
The security feeds show nothing but snow. Camera one: the driveway, buried under two feet of powder. Camera two: the shed and generator, barely visible through the white curtain. Camera three: the tree line to the north, just dark shapes and swirling snow. Camera four: the south approach, same story.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel the familiar twist of anxiety in my gut. The cameras have blind spots. The sensors can malfunction. Someone could be out there right now, and I wouldn't know until they were at my door.
I set down my tea and pick up my rifle from where it leans against the kitchen counter. The Remington 700 is my constant companion, cleaned and oiled every three days like clockwork. I check the magazine even though I know it's loaded. Five rounds. Safety on. I sling it over my shoulder and start pulling on my gear.
Thermal underwear under my jeans. Wool socks, two pairs. Insulated boots that cost me three hundred dollars and are worth every penny. My parka, heavy and lined with down, smelling faintly of wood smoke and gun oil. Gloves. Hat. Scarf wrapped around my face until only my eyes are visible.
I look like I'm preparing to summit Everest just to walk around my own property. But that's survival in Montana. That's survival when you're hiding from the Bratva.
The memory hits me as I'm zipping up my parka. Uncle Orleg's face across the dinner table, sweating despite the air conditioning, his hands shaking as he reached for his vodka. My father, Stepan, looking older than his fifty-four years, his voice tight as he explained what they'd done.
"We borrowed from the wrong people, Lena. We thought we could pay it back before anyone noticed."
They'd skimmed money. Not much, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe fifty thousand over six months. Pocket change for an organization like some of the Bratva. But they'd stolen from Aleksandr Romanov's operations, and men like him don't have a sense of proportion. They have a sense of power, and power demands absolute loyalty. Betrayal, even small betrayal, requires blood.
I remember my mother Mary's face when she told me to run. The way her hands trembled as she packed my bag, shoving cash and my passport into the bottom. The tears streaming down her cheeks as she kissed my forehead and whispered, "Don't call. Don't write. Just survive."
That was three years ago. I was twenty-three and thought the most dangerous thing in the world was a bad credit score. I'd grown up on the periphery of the Bratva world, close enough to understand its dangers but sheltered from its worst aspects. My father had tried so hard to keep me separate from that life. He'd wanted me to go to college, get a normal job, marry a normal man, live a normal life.
And then Uncle Orleg's gambling addiction and my father's misplaced loyalty destroyed everything.
I learned about the hit from my father's friend, a man who owed Stepan a favor and risked his own life to warn me. "Aleksandr Romanov ordered the hit on you himself. You have maybe twenty-four hours before they come. Run, Lena. Run and don't look back."
I'd run. God help me, I'd run and haven't looked back. But guilt crushes down on me. Are my parents going to pay the price? Will Romanov switch the hit on them when he gets tired of looking for me?
I grab my flashlight from the charging station and test it. Bright beam, no flicker. Good. I clip it to my belt and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the cold.
"Just another perimeter check," I tell the empty cabin. "Same as every other night. Nothing out there but snow and trees and your overactive imagination."
The cabin doesn't answer. It never does. That's the thing about isolation. You start talking to yourself because the silence gets too heavy, and then you start answering yourself because at least it's a voice, even if it's your own.
I open the door, and the wind hits me like a physical force. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since sunset.
I step out onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me, making sure it latches. The wind screams through the pines like something dying, and snow stings my face, tiny needles of ice that make my eyes water even through my scarf. Visibility is maybe ten feet if I'm lucky.
Perfect conditions for someone to approach unseen. Perfect conditions for an ambush.
I unsling my rifle and flick off the safety. My finger rests along the trigger guard, not on the trigger itself. Safety rule number one—don't put your finger on the trigger until you're ready to shoot. But I'm ready to be ready, which is how I've lived for three years.
The porch boards creak under my boots as I descend the steps. Fresh snow has already covered the path I shoveled this morning. By tomorrow, I'll have to shovel again. It's like Sisyphus and his boulder, except my boulder is frozen water and my hill is a driveway in the middle of nowhere, Montana.
I sweep my flashlight across the tree line, the beam barely penetrating the white curtain of snow. Nothing. My boots crunch through the fresh powder as I circle the cabin, checking the motion sensors I installed last spring. All green lights. The generator hums its steady rhythm from the shed, and I make a mental note to check the fuel level before the storm gets worse.
"You're being paranoid again, Maya," I mutter to myself, using the fake name I gave myself when I went into hiding. But paranoia has kept me alive.