Clouds hung heavy and low. Snow had started falling again. He had no way of knowing if the call had gone through—if anyone was coming. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to think. Then, a distant sound.
It was faint, almost lost in the wind, but there—low engines. Snowmobiles. Multiple. The poachers froze. One raised his head like a startled dog. “Did you hear that?” Another second passed before bright lights swept across the far ridge.
“Move!” one of the men shouted. “Get the stuff! Get the—” Too late. From the slope came a line of officers on snowmobiles, fanning out in practiced formation. Their engines roared as they closed in fast. One of the poachers bolted.
Another grabbed a duffel bag and tried to run but slipped in the snow. Caleb shielded his eyes as a flare lit the sky, bathing the camp in harsh, red light. The flare hissed above them, casting shadows that danced across the wrecked tents and broken crates.