The sudden blare of the alarm jolted her from the tranquility of her isolated cabin, triggering a surge of instincts honed by years of solitary living. Nestled in the heart of a remote forest, her cabin was a fortress of seclusion, and the alarms she had meticulously crafted were designed to detect the presence of humans, not wildlife. Her disdain for unexpected human visitors ran deep.
Swiftly, she assessed the situation. The security cameras, a high-tech extension of her vigilant eyes, confirmed her suspicions—a breach had occurred. An intrusion was no random event in a cabin where the nearest human was miles away. Every occurrence had a purpose; right now, an uninvited person was within her secured perimeter.
She reached for her Heckler & Koch 416, a companion she trusted implicitly, and emerged from the cabin into the impenetrable darkness. The inky blackness enveloped the forest, but her AN/PVS-14 night vision monocular, perched on her helmet, transformed the night into a canvas as clear as day. With cautious steps, she advanced towards the intruder, her senses heightened, ready to confront the unexpected visitor on her property.
In the careful dance of shadows, Sam's mind retraced the labyrinthine journey that led her to this solitary cabin in the heart of the forest. Her stellar years at the US Air Force Academy, the triumph of earning a Ph.D. in Astrophysics, and the promising trajectory of her military career—were all obliterated by the wreckage of a broken engagement and a fatal encounter.
The pivotal moment unfolded in the aftermath of a beating turned deadly, the life of Captain Jonas Hanson extinguished by two bullets from Sam's gun as she tried to prevent being raped by her fiance. Even her father, General Jacob Carter, with all his influence in the Pentagon, couldn't shield her from the fallout. Despite the act being one of self-defense, she found herself wrongly charged with murder, her fate sealed by an impending trial. All because she fled the crime scene in shock. Sam made a decision that would alter the course of her life—she vanished before the military trial could trap her.
In the realm of anonymity, she became a deserter, a fugitive from a military she could no longer trust. Despite the wrenching absence of goodbyes, Sam disappeared into the vast unknown, armed with considerable money left by her mother in a safety deposit box and her jewelry. She hastily packed essential belongings, altered her car's license plates, and sped away from the clutches of Washington, D.C., before the looming threat of arrest could materialize. There was no farewell to her father; her vanishing act was swift, secretly thanking her father for all the time he had managed to buy her.
After trading her car for a nondescript truck, Sam changed license plates again, weaving a tapestry of deception. Her journey led her to the quiet solitude of Minnesota, where, after a lengthy investigation, she discovered an abandoned cabin concealed in the remoteness of the wilderness. Leveraging the dark web, she obtained forged identification and driver's licenses, adopting the alias Samantha Anderson, a retired math teacher after a car accident. She gathered her deceased mother wouldn't mind if she took this little part of her story for herself, ironies aside. With stealth, she purchased the land and the cabin through obscure channels, leaving a negligible trace of her transaction, a mere echo in the bureaucratic abyss.
In the mundane routines of her new existence, she navigated the digital realm through a PO BOX in Norton, close to Silver Creek Lake—her covert connection to the outside world. Groceries were procured through clandestine excursions to the city, revealing nothing of her true identity. For over a decade, she remained a specter, eluding detection with a practiced finesse.
Jack O'Neill had sought solace in his cabin for over a week now. Following the intense missions with SG-1 and his forceful reinstatement in the Stargate program, the granting of leave provided the perfect opportunity for him to escape to his secluded refuge. In the quiet expanse of his cabin, he could finally exhale, free from the facade of Colonel Jack O'Neill, the leader of SG-1 who supposedly had moved past the death of his son and the subsequent divorce. In truth, Jack hadn't recovered from either; he merely pretended he had.
In the cabin, he could drown his sorrows in drink, allow tears to fall, unleash shouts of frustration, and fire rounds without restraint. With miles of wilderness as his only companion and a lake devoid of witness, Jack found a sanctuary for his turmoil. Though the galaxy continued to grapple with the presence of the Goa'uld, Jack's moments of peace came when he was alone with nature, staring at the still waters or casting an imaginary line into the lake, knowing no fish would bite.
He cherished these tranquil moments, starkly contrasting the chaos that often defined his life. Despite his penchant for hunting down the Goa'uld, the quiet times on his cabin's deck, beer in hand and sunglasses shielding his eyes, allowed him a rare sense of relaxation. His routine was disrupted when a flock of birds erupted from the trees on the opposite side of the lake—an odd occurrence. Jack remained seated, scrutinizing the surroundings, but the forest resumed its stillness, and nothing unusual happened.
With a beer in hand, Jack continued to bask in the serenity, watching the water and waiting for a nonexistent fish to bite. Eventually, lulled by the peaceful atmosphere, he fell asleep on the deck. The sun was already sinking on the horizon as he awoke, casting a chilly ambiance. Jack gathered his fishing rod, entered the cabin, and started a fireplace. Yet, a persistent feeling lingered—an unsettling sense that something was amiss. His gut sense rarely failed him.
Silent as a shadow, Sam approached her target, her figure merging seamlessly with the darkness and the dense cover of trees—a testament to years of mastering the art of living off the grid in the forest's heart. Initially hopeful for a chance encounter with a mere traveler, her night vision revealed a more ominous reality. A man, clad in camouflage and armed, stood quietly beside a large tree, a weapon pointed to her cabin. Sam's breath caught as she recognized the gun in his hands—a SIG SG 550, a firearm typically wielded by elite and special forces units, not by typical poachers.
Exhaling in frustration, she pondered her options. She hesitated while a clean shot to the man's head seemed tempting. The circumstances demanded a more calculated approach. If her sanctuary in the forest had been compromised, she needed information. With a begrudging sigh, she lowered her weapon and swiftly devised a strategy to reach and neutralize the intruder, contemplating whether to take him as a prisoner for interrogation.
Within ten minutes, her tactics unfolded seamlessly. The man lay subdued, his wrists secured with plastic handcuffs, and his consciousness temporarily eclipsed. Sam now faced the daunting task of dragging him back to her cabin—an uphill journey through the forest. As she sighed heavily, the weight of the unconscious man in tow, she prepared for the arduous trek ahead. The night had just begun, and Sam had a considerable distance to cover before reaching the refuge of her cabin.
Tightly secured to a chair with a black hood over his head, the man immediately awoke as Sam emptied a bucket of cold water over him. There was no time for politeness.
Coughing and yelling simultaneously, he protested, "What the hell?" in a shivering voice.
Sam, with crossed arms, had already frisked him and found no identifying papers—none that she expected.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her gaze unwavering as she looked at the military-issued boots and the rest of his gear.
"I'm out here hunting, lady. Are you crazy?" he retorted.
Sighing, Sam picked up his assault rifle, commenting, "You have an interesting choice of weapon for hunting," as she started removing the magazines.
"I like hunting big game," he replied curtly.
"Sure you do," Sam quipped with a smile he couldn't see but sensed.
"Are you going to untie me now?" he asked irritably.
Setting the weapon aside, Sam replied coldly, "No, I'm going to punch you so hard until you answer my questions. Then, if you don't answer, I'll kill you."
A tense silence enveloped the cabin.
"Okay, I'll talk," he finally relented.
Sam shook her head disappointedly. "I'm waiting," she prompted.
"Your father sent me," he confessed.
Sam paled but remained silent.
"He's been searching for you all over the country, hell, all over the world," he continued.
"How did you find me?" Sam inquired, her hand already on the trigger of her Glock 34.
"Not easy; you've covered your bases pretty well. Your father's money greatly helped, but I've been after you for three years until I got his lead. The dark web gave you away for a generous amount," he revealed.
Sam cursed silently.
"What does he want?" she asked.
"Can you take the hood off my head? It's real cold," he requested.
Sam hesitated but didn't move. The hood stayed on.
"Right. I guess you take a lot from your father. He was my CO, by the way. He just wants to know if you were safe and let you know that he's trying to override your murder accusation. It isn't easy, but he's trying. That's the message," he conveyed.
Sam swallowed dry.
"And you're supposed to tell him where I am?" she asked, her finger nervously playing with the trigger.
"Only if you want to," he assured.
Sam laughed.
"Let me guess? I have to take your word on that?" she questioned.
He shook his head.
"No. I knew this was a one-way mission once I found you. I don't expect to return alive," he admitted sincerely.
Sam looked at the man tied up, surprised.
"And even so, you accepted? Why?" she asked.
"Your father saved my life once in a very dire circumstance. I owe him that," he said.
Sam gritted her teeth.
"So, I just kill you, and that's it?" she asked.
"Yep," he affirmed.
Sam began pacing in the small storage room where she had confined him, grappling with the decision before her. The safest course was to end his life, yet she wasn't a cold-blooded killer. However, letting him live could compromise her location. She reluctantly removed the hood from his head.
"I won't kill you, but you can't tell him where I am," she declared.
He looked at her, surprised.
"Oh... Okay," he agreed, blinking.
"Don't make me regret this," she warned as she began untying him.
He rose slowly.
"Can I tell him you're alive and well?" he asked.
Sam slowly nodded.
"Thank you. I guess I now owe you one for saving my life, too," he said, extending his hand.
Sam scrutinized the hand before finally shaking it.
"Major Paul Davis," he introduced himself.
"Take care, and pray that we never meet again, Major," Sam said, opening the storage room door.
Davis nodded and left without another word. Sam closed the door and her eyes. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?
After Major Paul Davis departed from her cabin, Sam took a moment to compose herself. Initially, she meticulously reviewed all her security protocols, ensuring that her digital defenses were intact. Subsequently, she delved into the dark web to establish new contacts; it was imperative to obtain a fresh identity, as her current one was compromised. She proceeded to her living room with the logistical aspects in progress, contemplating her next move.
The dilemma weighed heavily on her mind—should she abandon her secluded abode and embark on a new beginning elsewhere? While the prospect of safety loomed, Sam found herself emotionally attached to the serene, desolate forest that had been her sanctuary for the past decade. She rebuilt the cabin with her hands and was pleased with the result.
This off-grid retreat exuded a rustic charm that harmonized with the natural surroundings. As the only inhabitant for miles, Sam had transformed the one-bedroom cabin into a haven of solitude and security. Her survival depended on it.
The exterior of the cabin, weathered by years of exposure to the elements, blended seamlessly with the forest landscape. The scent of pine and earth enveloped the surroundings, enhancing the sense of seclusion. A well-worn path, known only to Sam, led to the entrance, hinting at the cabin's discreet location.
Inside, the spacious living room welcomed with warmth, its walls adorned with handcrafted wooden shelves displaying books and magazines from the years Sam spent in solitude. The centerpiece was a stone fireplace, its crackling flames providing heat and ambiance during the colder months. Large, strategically placed windows let the forest's natural light filter in, creating a serene atmosphere.
The single bedroom, cozy and intimate, featured a simple bed with online-ordered quilts and blankets, offering comfort against the chill of the forest nights. A small desk in the corner bore the marks of Sam's self-taught carpentry skills—learning through trial and error, a testament to her resourcefulness and perseverance.
A compact bathroom with the essentials reflected Sam's commitment to maintaining a semblance of modernity even in the heart of the wilderness. The cabin's interior boasted a mix of carefully selected second-hand furniture, each piece telling its story.
Sam's dedication extended beyond the physical construction of her sanctuary. In the realm of technology, she had sourced the finest equipment from the internet and her dark web connections. A carefully orchestrated system of surveillance cameras, encrypted communication devices, and other high-tech security measures ensured her seclusion remained undisturbed.
Over the years, Sam's cabin evolved from a simple structure into a well-fortified retreat. The walls echoed with the satisfaction of overcoming challenges, the creaking of aged floorboards telling a silent tale of her self-sufficiency. In this haven, surrounded by the symphony of nature, Sam found solace, security, and the independence she had sought in the quiet expanse of the forest.
During her initial security patrols, she ventured deeper into the woods, discovering a hidden lake. On the opposite shore, she spotted a seemingly vacant yet well-maintained cabin—a rare sign of human presence. Though she never investigated further, it was sufficient to acknowledge its utilization, prompting her to keep a cautious distance.
After much contemplation, Sam resolved to remain in her familiar haven. She decided to bolster her security measures by procuring additional safeguards online, planning to collect them discreetly from her PO BOX while stocking up on groceries. With a resigned sigh, she removed her boots and headed for a much-needed shower, thoroughly exhausted.
Upon opening his refrigerator, Jack let out a sigh of disappointment. Its contents were reduced to a solitary beer, a stark reminder of his recent overindulgence. Realizing he needed to restock, he closed the door and grabbed his truck keys and jacket after running a hand over his tired face. Intent on replenishing his supplies, he refused to resort to a diet of mere grass during his remaining days in the cabin.
Driving to the nearest town, he parked next to a battered black truck in the grocery store lot. Exiting his truck, Jack scanned for a shopping cart. As he strolled through the aisles, attempting to recall his required essentials, his mind drew a blank, probably an effect of his drinking from the previous night. Regretting the lack of a list, he mumbled a frustrated expletive. However, coffee was always a non-negotiable item, and he headed in that direction.
Inadvertently colliding his cart with another, Jack prepared to apologize but was captivated by the most stunning pair of blue eyes he'd ever encountered. However, they radiated fury.
"Hi, sorry about that," he managed to say, but the woman with the intense gaze moved away without acknowledging his words. Tall, around six feet, she sported black cargo pants, military-style boots, a leather jacket, and a grey hoodie that concealed most of her blonde hair. Jack couldn't help but wonder if she had a military background or embraced the look.
Jack scrutinized her shopping cart, taking note of its contents: meat, canned vegetables, fish, fruits, ready-to-eat cereal, crackers, pretzels, peanut butter, beans, potatoes, and a pack of sodas. Additionally, there were several gallons of water. He wasn't aware of the context, so he guessed she was either gearing up for a hurricane he did not know of or aligned with the dedicated enthusiasts of survivalism. Intrigued, he decided to follow her discreetly. As she queued up at the cashier, maintaining a low profile with her head down, Jack noticed something that raised his concerns—a firearm holstered on her back. Open carrying was allowed in Minnesota with a valid permit, but his instincts kicked in.
She sensed his presence as he cautiously approached her and straightened her hands on the cart. Trying to remain calm, Jack was about to inquire about her permit when she swiftly retrieved the Glock 34.
"Whoa, take it easy," Jack urged, his palms open as she aimed the gun at him.
Her eyes, both alert and focused, suggested training beyond a casual gun owner.
"Get back," she ordered, and Jack complied, taking two steps away, noticing the oblivious security guard engrossed in his cell phone.
"Got a permit for that?" Jack inquired, studying the handgun. Arching an eyebrow, he recognized the Glock 34, not the typical handgun around there.
"Are you a cop?" she asked, her grip unyielding.
"No, Colonel in the Air Force," Jack replied casually.
Sam swallowed and holstered her weapon.
"Yes, I have a permit," she admitted.
Without taking his eyes off her, Jack slowly retrieved his cell phone.
"Mind if I call the police to verify?" he asked, dialing the number.
Unexpectedly, Sam hurled her shopping cart at him and bolted from the supermarket at a speed that left him rooted on the floor. Jack yelled, finally drawing the security guard's attention, but she had already vanished.
Putting his phone in his back pocket, Jack examined her abandoned cart, devoid of identification. Glancing at the parking lot, he spotted the black truck speeding away. Intrigued, he pondered the enigmatic woman with piercing blue eyes and a quick trigger finger. She was undeniably beautiful. With a sigh, Jack resumed shopping, intrigued by the puzzle of the mysterious woman he encountered in the grocery store.
As Sam parked her truck at the cabin, her hands trembled with a mix of frustration and anxiety. "Fuck, fuck," she muttered aloud, grappling with the sudden turn of events. A chance encounter with one of her father's men was followed by an unintentional meeting with a Colonel of the Air Force at the supermarket—two unexpected and potentially dangerous interactions within two days and ten years of solitude shattered instantly.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she repeated, venting her frustration by banging on the wheel of her truck. Slamming the door shut, she hurriedly made her way to her supercomputer. The Colonel had disclosed his Air Force affiliation; it was a clue she could use. Determined to assess the threat, she initiated a search, narrowing it down to Colonels from the USAF in the local vicinity.
As the computer worked its magic, Sam contemplated her next move. Shopping in another town seemed imperative now; she hoped the Colonel hadn't alerted the authorities. While she was legally permitted to carry a gun, drawing attention was the last thing she needed. The computer beeped suddenly, prompting Sam to type swiftly. A name emerged: Jonathan J. O'Neill, Colonel of the USAF, currently stationed at Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs.
Digging deeper into his background, Sam uncovered a suspicious trail. O'Neill claimed to have joined the Air Force during the Vietnam War, endured captivity in the Gulf War, and then transitioned to Deep Space Telemetry. She scoffed at the fabricated story; her instincts told her this was a cover-up. His entire background reeked of black ops, and she chuckled at the irony of the supposed Deep Space Telemetry assignment—something she could recognize as a bogus tale.
A revelation sent a shiver down her spine: O'Neill was the cabin owner near the lake she had cautiously observed years ago. Realization struck— they were practically neighbors.
"Shit," Sam muttered, covering her face with both hands. The walls were closing in, and the circle of danger was tightening. Perhaps it was time to consider a hasty retreat, as her once-isolated existence seemed increasingly precarious.
Jack returned to his cabin, his thoughts consumed by the woman with the striking blue eyes and a swift hand on the trigger—a captivating combination in his view. Regret lingered for not checking her license plates, a detail that might have unraveled more about her. Yet, he surmised they were likely fake, just like everything else about her. Her every move seemed shrouded in cunning disguise as if she were deliberately hiding from something or someone. The hooded hoody concealing her head, the professional ease with which she handled the gun, and her evident avoidance of authorities painted a picture of someone adept at covering her tracks.
In his inquiry at the supermarket, Jack had hit a dead end. She frequented the store sporadically, spoke to no one, always paid in cash—no paper trail, a master at eluding detection. As he stowed away his groceries, a plan began to form in his mind. If she were a local, she likely resided in a secluded place, away from prying eyes—a location akin to his cabin. Jack's hand paused mid-action. Perhaps she lived in one of the cabins scattered through the forest. Some were abandoned, and those like his were known to him, their owners' familiar faces. With three days remaining, the prospect of a spontaneous hunting trip stirred excitement in him.
A smile graced Jack's lips as he returned to his room, contemplating the supplies he would need for this unexpected adventure. A sense of urgency permeated the air; something about her demeanor signaled that she wasn't one to be trifled with. Jack sensed the need to be on high alert for the impending pursuit, realizing that this encounter would take an intriguing turn.