“You might want to lay low,” Big Dave told me. He pulled me aside this afternoon as I was grabbing some whiskey and food.

When I first arrived in the Canadian Yukon, I knew this was the place. With a backdrop of nature so beautiful, you’d swear it was a postcard come to life, it felt serene. Then, once I met the locals, I knew I’d found my new home.

Almost everyone here who isn’t a native is running from something. We all have something in our past we’d rather not have exposed. We know that about each other and we have a silent agreement to live and let live. When I showed up here, bleary eyed from exhaustion and carrying nothing but my old army rucksack with me, it didn’t take long for people in this town to realize I was one of them. I wasn’t some tourist looking to take a rafting tour up the river to Dawson City. I clearly wasn’t here on any kind of government business.

They say wolves know each other by scent, well they could smell it on me that I was one of them. And, lucky for me, they accepted me into their pack.

“You should hang back for a few days, you can stay with me if you need a place,” Big Dave continued.

I knew this day would come. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the authorities would eventually search for me around here. When I first arrived, I spent months building my place. Even though it was the dead of winter, I fought through the blistering cold days and created the perfect little spot for myself.

With town less than a half-day’s hike, I thought I’d scouted the best of both worlds, a cabin with complete seclusion and privacy, but with civilization only a few hours away. It made supplies easy to manage and if I ever got too squirrelly from spending so much time alone, company wasn’t far. I knew the bag full of old army rations I brought with me wasn’t going to last forever. Tinfoil pouches of beans and wieners and toothpaste tubes of peanut butter would only stretch for so long before I’d need to top up.

“Nah, I’m good. I’ve got a plan,” I answered Dave and grabbed a pair of binoculars to add to my cart.

It was nice of him to make the offer to stay at his place. The truth is, I’m not afraid of many men on this earth, but Big Dave is one of those few. He’s a great guy to know and his store is an essential part of the community, but he’s not someone I’d want to share quarters with.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged.

Instead of making myself comfortable on Dave’s couch, I’ve been following the dynamic duo who have come to the great white north to track me down. I’m hunting the hunters.

Not that there’s any challenge in it. These two make their way through the woods like a couple of drunk moose. It’s been easy to stay on the periphery and keep tabs on them, except for when they got turned around and spent forty minutes walking back toward town. I already knew from the looks of them that they weren’t law enforcement, but their shitty navigation skills sealed it. There’s no way any self-respecting officer of the law would be trudging around in the forest in figure eights all day.

Once they decided to set up camp for the night, I scouted a suitable tree and climbed up under the shelter of the branches and leaves to hide out for the night.

I’m not sure if these two jokers have the skills to find my place, but if they do, I’ll be watching them from a safe distance. Then, once they clear out, I’ll grab the supplies I need and move on out. Now that the weather is warm, it’s not a problem to explore the woods deeper until I find another place to call home. Not that I think I’ll ever find anything more perfect.

I watch the middle-aged man and young lady through my binoculars as they sit by a Coleman stove. Neither of them could make a fire to save their lives, so they finally decided to use their propane camping stove for heat. Brainiacs. Next, they’ll cut open their backpacks to use them as blankets.

They’re drinking. From the looks of it, they’re swigging back vodka. Well, he is. She’s been politely declining and holding onto the same glass he poured her hours ago. I know because I’ve been watching her.

Closely.

It’s been months since I’ve spent a night with a woman. Not since before I shot him. Sure, I could’ve hit up some random chick in Whitehorse, but I don’t think the best way to stay in a community’s good graces is by burning through their women. Of course, I always have the option of hiring out by the hour for my needs, but even on my longest, loneliest deployments I never scratched the itch with hookers. Plenty of guys did, and that was fine for them, I’m not judging, it just wasn’t for me. What’s the fun in fishing when they just jump in your net?

Anyway, this girl is much prettier than any woman I’ve encountered in town. Any girl I think I’ve ever seen, to be honest. She’s striking in her natural beauty. Her long brown hair hangs loosely over her slight shoulders. Right now, she has her back to me, which is a damned shame, because when I did see her face it was a sight for sore eyes.

Her creamy skin has a light smattering of freckles, and she’s been too far away to see the color of her almond shaped eyes, but it’s been easy to see how expressive they are. She looks like she’s a lot more in her element out here, easily jumping over fallen logs and bounding up hills with her toned body. Unlike her partner, who has been thumping and bumping into everything, signalling his presence to every living creature within a fifty-mile radius.

I stuff my binos in my pack that’s hanging from the branch beside me and lean back against the trunk of the tree.

Calm washes over me as I let my heavy eyelids droop down and settle in for the night. I love the familiarity of sleeping like this. When I was a sniper, I hated being bugged out like this. Clinging to tree limbs, or laying on sizzling hot roofs for hours or even days at a time. My muscles would be exhausted from lying in prone position, tensed up, ready to fire. Birds would shit on me, the heat would bake my skin and I had to endure it all as I waited for the perfect moment. For the perfect shot.

Then, when I came back to America, I would always struggle to sleep in my own bed. It felt so much larger than the cots in the barracks. It felt so much more exposed than the blinds I would shoot from. As if a queen-sized mattress was a vast, open field I was standing in, with a target on my back.

It took some time to learn that if I piled pillows around my body at night and imagined seeing the world through the scope of my rifle, watching targets pass over the crosshairs, I could drift to sleep peacefully. Old habits are hard to break, I guess.

“No! Don’t. Please stop!”

My eyelids snap open as I hear the girl screaming below. I don’t need to retrieve my binoculars, the terror in her voice is enough to make me grab my bag and scramble down the tree.

I reach inside my pack and pull out my hatchet, then silently maneuver through the woods toward her cries.

“Please, don’t do this,” she cries. “Stop! Mr. White! Cecil! Don’t,” her voice hitches and she begins to bawl.

My fingers tighten around the handle of my hatchet until my skin is pressed so tight it feels like it could burst open. As I close in on them, I can see the girl is frantically trying to push that old fucker off of her. He’s got her shoved up against a tree and his pudgy hand is stuffed up her torn shirt. Fucking piece of shit. There’s no fucking chance in hell this is happening. I’m not going to let some human shit stain rape this girl.

I circle in from the shadows, narrowing my eyes as I focus on him, taking a huge breath, I lunge inside the boundary of their camp.