Snow Angel: Rebirth

Chapter Six

Michael Haldron sat at his desk, having polished off a good portion of a decanter of Johnnie Walker Blue. Hours had passed since he’d last spoken to Whitley. Still no word. He picked up the phone again, fingers stiff as he dialed.

From outside his office door, a voice called, “We’re here, boss.”

Victor Sykes, head of security, entered first. Forest Whitley followed, both men tense as they approached the mahogany desk.

“Where is it?” Haldron slurred, fury threading through every syllable. “Hand it over.”

“Boss… we didn’t find it,” Sykes said quietly. “

“We found the car, but when we got down into the ravine, she wasn’t there.”

Haldron slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling the crystal glass. “What the hell do you mean she wasn’t there? She was bleeding out. You pushed her car off a thirty‑foot cliff. How the hell did she survive that? You think she just got up and walked away?”

Sykes didn’t flinch. “It looks that way, Mr. Haldron.”

For a moment, Haldron didn’t move.

He just stared at Sykes — not blinking, not breathing — as if the words hadn’t fully registered. Then his jaw twitched. A slow, creeping flush climbed his neck. His fingers curled against the edge of the desk, whitening at the knuckles.

“She walked away?” he said, each syllable squeezed through clenched teeth.

Whitley swallowed hard. “It looks that way, boss.”

“When we got down there, the tracks and blood weren’t buried yet,” Sykes said. “We tracked her for half a mile, but the blizzard buried everything. We lost her.”

Haldron’s breath hitched in a sharp, animal fury. His eyes flicked toward the window, toward the storm, toward the world outside his control. The realization landed with a sickening thud:

She was out there. Bleeding. Alive. And no longer contained.

A tremor ran through him, rage coloring his face a bright red.

He stood slowly, deliberately, as if every movement were an effort to keep himself from exploding. He walked to the wall safe, spun the dial with a practiced flick, and pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. He checked the cylinder, snapped it shut, and c****d the weapon with a smooth, deadly click.

He turned to the desk and laid it down with a controlled precision. “Well then,” Haldron said, his voice dangerously calm. “I suggest you get back out there and find her.”

Whitley swallowed hard. “Yes, boss. We came back to gear up, grab thermal optics, pull more guys. We’ll have her back by nightfall.”

***

The day passed without incident. Doc and Jake took turns monitoring the tree line and checking the woman’s condition. No movement. No sign of danger. Not yet.

They sat over coffee, both quiet, both thinking.

“We okay?” Doc asked.

Jake looked up, realizing Doc meant them. He shrugged. “We’re fine. Water under the bridge.”

Doc shook his head. “It’s not that easy, Sullivan. You scared the hell out of me. I thought we were losing you. After Lindsay and Fletcher… something broke.”

Jake’s glare was sharp, defensive. Doc had seen him at his lowest, but Jake hated talking about it. Hated admitting weakness.

“You can’t keep burying it,” Doc said. “Every time someone mentions family, you stop breathing.”

“Drop it, Doc. You had your say. I took the time. Now, here we are.”

Doc leaned forward. “No. I’ve watched you since the day you buried them. You kept it together, but you buried yourself right along with them.”

Jake’s jaw tightened; a tremor shuddered through him. His hand clenched the mug until his knuckles blanched.

“They were my world,” Jake said, voice low, cracking. “Lindsay. Fletcher. Gone in one night. And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. I lost them. I lost myself.”

The words hung heavy in the cabin.

Doc didn’t flinch. “You didn’t lose them, Jake. You carried them. For five long years. Their ghosts were your riptide. If you’d kept going the way you were, you’d have been pulled under right along with them.”

Jake’s jaw worked, the tremor fading into a long, ragged breath. He stared into his coffee, then finally looked up.

“When they were gone… I didn’t know how to keep living,” he admitted. “I buried it. Buried myself. But you’re right. If I hadn’t had the team… if I hadn’t had you… I wouldn’t be here.”

Doc’s eyes softened. “That’s what brothers do. We carry each other when the weight gets too heavy. You carried me more times than I can count. Let me carry you when you need it.”

Jake didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he gave a single, sharp nod — the kind that meant more than words.

Doc leaned back, satisfied. “Good. That’s all I needed. Not excuses. Not silence. Just the truth.”

Jake’s voice was steady now. “Then you’ve got it. And I’ll keep carrying them. But I won’t let them bury me anymore.”

Outside, somewhere deep in the trees, a faint c***k echoed — a branch snapping under weight.

Jake’s head lifted, his eyes narrowed. The quiet was over, the hunt was on.

***

“Whoever is out there… they’ve had several hours to track her down,” Jake murmured, his voice low as he sat in the wooden chair beside the bed an hour later. The rifle lay across his lap, his hand resting lightly on the stock. The cabin was quiet except for the woman’s restless moans — soft, broken sounds that cut through the stillness like a blade.

She twisted weakly under the blankets, crying out in pain and fear. Jake’s jaw tightened. He wanted to reach out, to steady her, to tell her she was safe. But he knew better. Right now, even kindness might feel like danger to her.

Doc had given her a massive dose of antibiotics to fight the infection raging through her system. Heat flushed across her skin, sweat beading at her temples, her breaths shallow and uneven as her body fought to keep up.

Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with a soldier’s vigilance and a man’s helplessness.

Outside, the wind howled against the cabin walls. Snow hammered the roof in steady sheets. The storm was still dumping hard — a blessing and a curse. It hid their tracks. It hid hers. But it also hid them — whoever was out there searching for her.

Jake’s eyes flicked to the frosted window. Nothing but white.

For now.

When her eyes fluttered open again, dusk had settled over the mountain. The cabin was washed in dim gray light, the last remnants of day slipping through the frost‑rimmed window. Her gaze drifted across the room, unfocused, disoriented. The brief clarity she’d had earlier was gone, swallowed by trauma and fever.

“Hello?” Her voice was raspy, barely more than a breath. “Is anyone there?”

“I’m here,” Jake answered, leaning toward her with slow, deliberate movements — the kind you use with a wounded animal.

“Wh… where am I?” Panic sharpened her voice. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jake,” he said gently. “Jake Sullivan. You’re in my cabin.” He kept his posture relaxed, hands visible, voice steady. “You woke up a few hours ago, but the fever’s got you turned around. Don’t try to move.”

She stared at him, her expression blank, as if she were trying to piece together a memory that kept slipping through her fingers.

“How did I get here?” she whispered.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Jake said. His voice stayed calm, but inside, tension coiled tight. She looked like a wild animal caught in a trap — terrified, wounded, ready to bolt even though she couldn’t move. “I found you collapsed in the snow yesterday morning. You told me your husband did this, but you passed out before you could give me a name.”

She winced, sucking in a sharp breath as she tried to shift her weight. The movement pulled at the raw lacerations on her back, and her face twisted in agony.

Jake held up both hands, staying where he was. “Don’t move. You’re safe, but you’re badly hurt.” He softened his voice. “What’s your name?”

“Gemma,” she breathed. “Gemma Haldron.”

The name didn’t hit him at first. Not until the second it clicked — not the name, but the man behind it. And when it did, the realization punched straight through his exhaustion.

Six miles north, tucked into the jagged peaks, was a massive, high‑security compound owned by Michael Haldron. The head of Haldron Industries. A billionaire philanthropist with political connections deep enough to drown in. The media painted him as a saint — a man who built children’s hospitals, funded disaster relief, donated millions to veterans’ charities.

Jake’s breath caught.

Michael Haldron?

No. That couldn’t be right.

Jake had met the man once at a charity gala years ago. Haldron had shaken his hand, looked him in the eye, thanked him for his service. He’d seemed genuine. Warm. The kind of man who made people feel seen.

Jake had watched him give a speech that night — polished, heartfelt, full of promises about protecting the vulnerable and uplifting communities. The crowd had adored him. Jake had believed him.

But the whip marks on Gemma’s back… The brutality… The precision… The intent…

Saints didn’t do that.

Monsters did.

And Michael Haldron wasn’t just a man. He was an institution — the kind you couldn’t hide from.

“You’re Michael Haldron’s wife?” Jake asked quietly, disbelief threading through his voice.

Gemma didn’t answer. Or didn’t hear him. Her eyes darted toward the timber door, panic rising like a tide.

“He’s going to find me,” she whispered. There was no doubt in her voice — only a terrified certainty. “He has men. He’s going to find me. My tracks… I left tracks in the snow.”

Jake placed the back of his hand against her forehead. She was burning up, her speech slipping toward delirium.

“The storm is dumping two inches an hour,” Jake said, trying to ground her. He pointed toward the window. “By now, your tracks are gone. So are mine. The snow’s covered everything. They’re blind.”

“You don’t understand,” Gemma said, panic flaring as she tried to sit up. Pain ripped through her ribs and she gasped, collapsing back onto the pillows. “He has men. Lots of them. He has technology. The snow won’t stop them.”

Jake placed a firm, steady hand on her uninjured shoulder, ensuring she stayed down. “Lie still. Let the medicine work.”

His voice stayed calm, but inside, his own anxiety spiked hard.

He thought back to two former employees he’d fired from his private security firm — men he’d let go for severe misconduct. Men who’d beaten a witness half to death. Men who’d shown no remorse.

Haldron had hired both.

Jake had been stunned at the time. Now he understood.

Haldron didn’t hire men for their résumés. He hired them for their brutality.

Jake’s hand drifted toward his right side, where his sidearm had rested for years. His instincts were awake now — sharp, cold, precise.

If Haldron’s men were patrolling the mountain ridge looking for her, then Jake’s isolated cabin wasn’t a refuge.

It was a target.