Chapter 43 - THE CABIN BY MIRROR LAKE
The cabin emerged from the pines like a ghost: weathered cedar logs, black slate roof, completely smothered under a thick blanket of pristine snow. It looked abandoned for decades, but when Marco swept away the ice covering the copper doorknob, he pressed his thumb against a disguised biometric plate hidden beneath the vintage brass plate.
A tiny chime sounded, and the heavy oak door unlocked with a heavy hydraulic hiss.
"Inside," Marco commanded.
The air within was dry, smelling of cedarwood and ozone. The cabin was fully fortified—steel reinforcement beams lining the rustic interior, ballistic shutters sealing the windows from behind blackout curtains. On the wooden table in the center of the room sat a military-grade satellite comms unit, already blinking amber.
Marco closed the reinforced door, bolted the triple locks, and collapsed onto a pine bench, breathing heavily. Blood had soaked his entire left flank now, dripping steadily from his fingers.
"Sit," I ordered him, my voice leaving no room for argument. "You're going to bleed to death before Salvatore's men even find us."
I placed Hope gently onto a down-filled daybed nestled in the corner, wrapping her securely. Then I rushed to the emergency medical locker mounted on the wall. Inside were surgical clamps, field dressings, morphine, and suture kits.
"Don't touch the morphine," Marco warned, wincing as I carefully cut his shredded shirt away from the wound. "I need my head clear."
"You're going to need to bite down on something, then," I said, my hands steady despite the terror rattling my chest. Months of surviving in Vincent's house, running from assassins, watching Daniel die—it had burned away the frightened maid I used to be. "The metal fragment is barbed."
Marco shoved a leather strap between his molars and gave a curt nod.
I gripped the protruding shrapnel with surgical pliers. "One... two... three."
I pulled. Marco’s neck muscles corded like steel cables, his body arching with silent agony as a jagged triangle of steel tore free, accompanied by a spurt of dark arterial blood. I slammed the clotting gauze against the wound, holding pressure until the bleeding slowed, then rapidly stitched the gaping flesh closed with tight, precise knots.
When I finally tied off the last suture, Marco was drenched in sweat, his breathing harsh, but his eyes were sharp.
"You missed your calling, Sarah," he muttered, spitting out the strap.
Before I could answer, the satellite comm on the table let out a piercing chime. The amber light turned green.
A voice cut through the speaker—not Vincent’s.
"Well played, Sarah," a smooth, cultured woman's voice echoed into the room. "You survived the highway. But you shouldn't have gone to Daniel's cabin. He gave me the master overrides three years before you ever set foot in his house."
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My heart dropped into my stomach.
It was Francesca.
