She worked search and rescue for Ravalli County when they needed her, guided elk hunters when she had to pay bills, and spent the rest of the year doing the kind of practical work mountain towns always had too much of: mending fence, clearing winter roads, finding what didn’t want to be found. Lost stock. Missing hikers. Poachers. Once, two brothers who thought a snowmobile and a bottle of whiskey were equal to February.
Commander Mason Vance, the officer in charge of the SEAL detachment, stood at the front beside a terrain map. He was younger than Willa had expected the first time she met him that morning. Mid-thirties maybe. Hard face. Smart eyes. No wasted motion. The sort of man who looked like he slept four hours a night and trusted exactly three people on earth.
He glanced toward her when Kincaid made the comment.
Willa didn’t move.
Kincaid went on, tapping the map with a gloved finger. “In darkness, a trained shooter owns the terrain. You wait till gray light, then you work sign. That’s doctrine for a reason.”
