The service road was more rumor than real—two red-clay ruts twisting through blackberry tangles and scrappy alder. Moonlight sliced down in thin silver shards, just enough to catch the glint off Drew's compass while he angled it north. Anna's soggy sneakers slapped the mud behind him. Every step sounded like it was ratting them out.
They'd bolted the cabin with nothing but away on the itinerary. Drew had the pack; Anna clutched the paper airplane like it was stamped for another country. Air smelled of wet dirt and rain that hadn't decided yet. Somewhere way off, a coyote yipped once and changed its mind.
Twenty minutes in, the ruts dumped them at a gravel pullout. Drew's truck crouched under a pile of cedar boughs he'd tossed there weeks back for a survey gig. Paint matched his pants—river-silt gray. Bumper sticker: I BRAKE FOR CONTOUR LINES.
He popped the passenger door first, gave Anna a hand up into a cab that smelled like old coffee and sawdust.
"Seatbelt," he muttered. "Ghost mode till further notice."
She clicked in. Engine coughed, caught, settled into a low growl. Drew killed the headlights, drove by moonlight and muscle memory. Truck lurched over potholes, suspension bitching like an old man dragged to a club.
Anna cracked the window. Night air rushed in, sharp with pine. "How far to ditch?"
"Two miles. Ranger Mike's Jeep's at the old logging spur. He's night-fishing till sunup—owes me for fixing his trout maps." Drew's knuckles went white on the wheel. "After that, forty to Grandpa's cabin. No bars, no mailman. Last place they'll sniff."
"They'll sniff everywhere."
"Not if we're slick." He flicked a look. "You good?"
"No." The truth slipped out easy. "Scared shitless. And… buzzing. Like I just knocked over a bank I didn't know I hated."
Drew's laugh was soft. "Welcome to off-the-clock cartography."
They hit the ditch spot: a squeeze between two granite hunks. Drew nosed the truck into a salal thicket, killed the engine. Silence slammed in—thick, sudden, total.
He slung the pack. "Quarter mile on foot. Stay on my heels."
Anna trailed him into the brush. Thorns snagged the flannel; she didn't flinch. Path was invisible unless you'd memorized it. Drew moved like the woods owed him rent—smooth, no wasted motion. At the spur, a beat-to-hell green Jeep waited under a tarp. Keys taped under the wheel well, right where Mike swore.
Drew yanked the tarp, folded it crisp. "In."
Jeep smelled of wet dog and menthol smokes. Anna slid across cracked vinyl. Key turned clean. Engine louder than the truck—good, cover noise. He reversed, tires spitting gravel, then pointed downhill on a track that lived only in memory and middle fingers.
Rain started as mist, turned to needles. Wipers slapped. Windshield blurred black-green.
Anna watched the side mirror. No headlights. Yet.
"Tell me about the cabin," she said, needing his voice like a lifeline.
"Built '47. Grandpa was a smokejumper—dropped into wildfires with a chute and a bad attitude. Wanted a spot the IRS couldn't find. One room, loft, hand-pump well. Roof leaks northwest corner, but the porch catches sunrise over the valley like warm honey. Coffee's the best in the Cascades if you don't mind chewing the grounds."
"Sounds like heaven."
"Smells like mouse shit and freedom."
She laughed—sharp, real. Felt illegal.
They drove. Road shrank to one lane, then tire tracks, then nothing. Drew downshifted, four-wheel growled. Pine branches clawed the roof like they wanted in. Jeep fishtailed on slick clay once; Anna grabbed the dash, heart in her throat. Drew corrected smooth, no words, compass now tucked in his shirt pocket like a second heartbeat.
An hour bled off. Rain eased to drizzle. Dawn hinted pink behind the ridge.
Drew slowed. "Almost."
Track quit at a cedar-slab gate, chained but not locked—polite nod to ghosts. Beyond it, the cabin squatted in a clearing no satellite had bothered naming. Shake roof moss-silver, chimney crooked, porch swing rocking like it'd been waiting.
Drew cut the engine. Silence rushed in softer this time. Birds started their morning arguments.
He turned. "Last exit ramp. I can still get you to the city before—"
Anna leaned over the console, kissed him. Not the shy waterfall peck—this one hard, sure. Pulled back, eyes bright.
"Drive, cartographer."
He grinned, hopped out, unchained the gate. Jeep rolled into the clearing like it belonged. Parked under a madrona peeling red curls.
Engine died for good.
They sat, listening to metal tick.
Anna broke it. "Sun comes up, then what?"
"Breakfast. Then a plan." He opened his door. "C'mon. I'll show you the leak."
Inside: one room, loft ladder, pot-bellied stove cold and cranky. Braided rug threadbare. Table had a note in spidery scrawl: ANDREW—LEFT YOU BEANS. MICE GOT THE BACON. LOVE, CLARA.
Tin of coffee beside it like a dare.
Drew lit the stove while Anna poked around. Loft: mattress, two quilts, stack of dog-eared Westerns. Window showed the valley spilling east—mist burning off in gold sheets. No roads, no towers, no Harrington empire.
She climbed down to Drew cracking eggs into cast-iron. Where he got eggs, who knew.
"Grandpa's chickens," he said, reading her face. "Three hens. Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner. They free-range. Mostly ignore me."
Anna leaned on the counter. "You crash here much?"
"When the city tries to redraw my borders." He flipped an egg; it hissed. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
They ate standing—toast from stale bread, eggs runny, coffee thick enough to stand a spoon. Quiet between bites was easy. Outside, sun cleared the ridge, poured syrup light through the window.
Anna set her plate down. "They're at the trailhead by now."
"Yep." Drew rinsed dishes in a bucket. "Mike'll play dumb. Aunt Clara's at bingo till noon. We've got six hours tops before the net widens."
"Six hours to do what?"
He dried his hands on a dish towel older than both of them. "Decide if we hide… or fight."
Anna's pulse kicked. "Fight how?"
Drew crossed to a trunk under the loft ladder, popped it. Maps rolled tight, laptop in a padded case, satellite phone brick-sized. He lifted the phone. "Pings a tower in Seattle. One call, buddy leaks a story—Harrington Heiress Spotted in Vancouver—buys us a day. Or…"
"Or?"
He locked eyes. "We don't run. We go loud on our terms. Your words, not theirs. But that's war, Anna. Wars eat people."
She swallowed. Weight settled like wet wool. "Quiet, Patrick wins. Loud, everyone I love burns."
"Not everyone." He stepped close. "You'd have me."
Simple. Huge. She nodded—small, fierce.
Drew powered the sat phone. Screen glowed. "First call's Milo. Best friend, worst influence. Freelance coder—spoofs IPs, plants trails. Second call's yours. Whoever you trust that isn't blood."
Anna thought of Serena—stylist, once smuggled her out of a gala in a laundry cart. "Serena."
"Good." He handed it over. "Ten minutes of juice. Make it count."
Thumb hovered. Outside, a hen squawked—Breakfast staking the porch.
Anna dialed.
Serena picked up on two, voice gravel. "Who the hell—? "It's me," Anna whispered. "No names. Listen."
Pause. Then: "Laundry cart girl?"
"Yeah." Eyes stung. "I'm safe. Need a favor. Big."
"Name it."
"Tell Mom I'm with Patrick. Sell it. Buy me forty-eight."
Serena whistled. "You're torching bridges, babe."
"I know. Trust me."
"Always." Rustle—sheets, sitting up. "Forty-eight. Then I'm coming myself."
Line crackled, died. Battery toast.
Drew took the phone. "Milo next."
Dialed from memory. Speaker on.
"Drew? Five a.m., dude. Better be life or death."
"Both," Drew said. "Ghost trail. Vancouver Island ferry. Two pax. Anna Smith, Andrew Jones. CCTV stills, ticket stubs, full monty."
Milo quiet three beats. "You kidnapped a heiress?"
"Rescued. Long story."
"On it. Four hours. Owe you a kidney."
"Make it two lungs." Click.
Anna exhaled shaky. "Now?"
"Wait." He yanked a yellow legal pad from the trunk. "Map the war."
They sat. Drew scribbled headers: ASSETS, LIABILITIES, LEVERAGE. Anna added: MEDIA, MONEY, PEOPLE. Coffee cooled. Sun climbed, didn't care.
By the time the pad was full, the plan had fangs.
48-hour misdirection (Milo/Serena)
Public drop—Anna's words to a friendly blogger Counterpunch—Patrick's offshore dirt (Serena's photos)
Safe house #2—Aunt Clara's coast cottage, maiden name
Drew tapped the page. "Dusk move. One shot."
Anna stared at the ink, then him. "You sure?"
He took her hand, turned it palm-up, traced the lifeline with his thumb. "Sure I'm not letting them erase you."
Something fierce bloomed. She leaned across, kissed him—slow, deliberate, oath.
When they broke, the cabin felt smaller, the world huge.
Outside, hens clucked approval. Inside, two fugitives started drawing borders no empire could buy.