The snow was deep, coming up to her knees, muffling the sound of her boots as she crept through the tree line. The cold bit through her jeans, nipping at her skin, but she didn't feel it. She was running on pure, distilled adrenaline.
She moved like a shadow, keeping the black sedan in her sights. Two men were standing outside the SUV. They wore heavy winter coats, but the way they stood—feet shoulder-width apart, hands near their waists—screamed military.
One was kneeling by the cabin door, picking the lock. The other was standing lookout, scanning the tree line.
Elena dropped to her stomach behind a fallen log. Her hands were trembling, not from the cold, but from the sheer weight of the weapon in her hands. She had fired guns at ranges before. She had even shot a man in the Archives
