Chapter 3 - COLD HUNT - An Aria Hunt FBI Crime Thriller
- Chase Austin
- Mar 28
- 10 min read
Updated: Mar 29
Disclaimer
This is an unedited version of the book and may contain typographical errors, grammatical mistakes, or inconsistencies. If you spot any such issues, please don’t hesitate to report them to contact@thechaseaustin.com. Your feedback is greatly appreciated!
CHAPTER 3
The rental car's heater fought a losing battle against the Montana cold, cycling between 68 and 71 degrees in a rhythm that Aria Hunt timed at exactly 42-second intervals. She didn't adjust the temperature. The discomfort kept her alert, the predictable pattern of the temperature fluctuation oddly comforting. Eighteen hours since receiving the assignment. Eight hours since landing in Missoula. Four hours and twelve minutes on increasingly remote roads leading to Whitetail.
Her amber eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, cataloging everything without appearing to look: three deer crossing half a mile back, a rusted mailbox marking a hidden driveway, ice patterns on the asphalt that required a 4% reduction in speed. Passing vehicles—mostly trucks with snow chains and rifle racks—registered in her peripheral vision: makes, models, distinguishing features, occupants. Data points to be filed away in her memory with perfect recall.
The GPS announced her arrival in Whitetail with synthesized indifference. Population 2,187. Established 1891.
No other statistics necessary; Aria had memorized the briefing package during the flight, reciting it to herself in precise sequence while other passengers slept. Logging town built on old mining claims.
Two dominant families locked in decades of quiet power struggles.
Blaines ran the timber operation that employed 62% of the town.
Marricks owned most of the land and controlled local law enforcement through three generations of elected sheriffs.
A place where outsiders were noticed, scrutinized, and often unwelcome.
Perfect.
The town materialized through gently falling snow—a single main street with buildings hunched against the cold like weary sentinels. Aria's gloved hands maintained their precise ten-and-two position on the steering wheel as she navigated past the weathered structures. The general store's windows displayed faded hunting gear and emergency supplies. The diner's neon sign buzzed at a frequency that made her inner ear twitch. The municipal building stood slightly taller than its neighbors, an American flag hanging stiff and frozen from its pole. Everything confined by winter and isolation.
She registered seven people on the street—all turning to track her vehicle with the instinctive wariness of small-town residents. Aria categorized each observer: elderly man with newspaper (town gossip, potential information source); middle-aged woman with grocery bags (hurried posture, unlikely to engage); teenage boy clearing snow (curious, might be talkative); An officer exiting the municipal building (immediate threat to cover story, avoid direct contact).
She parked outside the Whitetail Lodge—a two-story building with peeling white paint and a vacancy sign that blinked precisely every 1.7 seconds. Her movements were fluid, economical as she stepped from the car. Five-seven, lithe but strong, she wore dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal parka that disguised her athletic frame. Her golden hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, revealing high cheekbones and a face that drew second glances without inviting conversation.
The cold hit her exposed skin with mathematical precision—minus twelve degrees Fahrenheit, wind chill approximately minus twenty-three. Her mind registered the specific sensations: crystallization of moisture in her nostrils, immediate 23% reduction in fine motor dexterity, corneal drying requiring a blink every 4.6 seconds instead of her normal 7.2.
The lodge's front desk was empty except for a brass bell and a hand-lettered sign: "Ring for Service."
Aria didn't ring.
Instead, she counted—fourteen seconds before footsteps approached from the back room. Heavy on the left foot. Slight drag on hardwood. Male, approximately 190 pounds, potential knee injury.
"Sorry 'bout that." The man who emerged matched her calculations: mid-sixties, whippet-thin with skin weathered into topographic maps of wrinkles. His name tag read "FRANK" in faded black letters. His eyes were bloodshot, with yellowing around the iris. Heavy drinker, though not currently intoxicated. "Wasn't expecting anyone today with the storm coming."
"I have a reservation," Aria said, keeping her voice in the middle register she'd practiced. Inflection up slightly at the end—the way people expected. "Lisa Matthews."
Frank checked his ancient computer, the keyboard's distinctive clicking pattern indicating a Windows system at least eight years old. His fingers tapped a rhythm of someone who'd never properly learned typing. "Right, got you here. City girl, huh?" His eyes performed the standard assessment of outsiders—looking for threat, opportunity, or entertainment value.
"Environmental consultant," Aria replied, sliding her falsified ID across the counter. The lamination was properly worn at the edges—Agency work, expertly aged.
"Environmental?" Frank's expression soured slightly—right corner of mouth lowering 4 millimeters, nostrils flaring 2 millimeters. Pupil dilation indicating mild stress response. "Working with the Blaines, then?"
"Not working with anyone here. Just gathering some forest data." Neutral, non-committal. Her hand remained steady as she signed the register with Lisa Matthews' practiced signature, though she noted his reaction.
The Blaine name triggered something—resentment, suspicion, perhaps fear. File that away.
“How long will you be staying?”
"Four to five days, maybe longer. Depends on the weather."
"Room 8, top of the stairs, end of the hall. Best view in town, if you care about that sort of thing." Frank handed her a brass key attached to a plastic fob worn smooth by countless hands. "Diner across the street does breakfast starting at seven. You'll want to stock up. Storm's coming tonight. They're saying eighteen inches, maybe more."
"Thank you." Aria took the key, careful to avoid direct eye contact while maintaining the illusion of it—a technique she'd perfected over years. Focus on the bridge of the nose, count to three, slight nod, move on. Neurotypicals rarely noticed the difference.
Frank's gaze lingered on her a moment too long. "You picked an interesting time to come to Whitetail."
Aria paused, calculating. "How so?"
"Just some excitement a few days back. Not the usual kind we get." He tapped his fingers on the counter in a pattern of increasing agitation. "You hear about any accidents up by the northern ridge?"
Testing her. Checking her story.
"No," she said simply. "Should I be concerned about my environmental samples?"
"Nah." Frank waved dismissively, but his pulse visibly quickened at his carotid artery. "Just a hunting accident. Local matter."
Aria nodded and turned toward the stairs, feeling his eyes on her back. First contact, first test. Information volunteered without prompting—Frank wanted to gauge her reaction to Lawson's death.
Question: was he merely curious, or wanted to know something else?
Her room was exactly as expected from the file photos. Queen bed with faded blue coverlet, floral wallpaper with a pattern that repeated every 24 inches, bathroom with pipes that audibly shifted with pressure changes. She locked the door, then methodically swept for surveillance devices—unlikely but protocol. First the obvious spots: smoke detector, air vent, clock radio. Then the less obvious: baseboards, window frames, beneath the desk. Clean.
Aria unpacked with mechanical precision. Clothes in drawers, arranged by function and color spectrum. Toiletries in bathroom, angled for efficient access. Environmental testing equipment prominently displayed on the desk—her cover story's props. The false bottom in her suitcase revealed her actual tools: a specialized tablet with encrypted communications, lock picks, a custom Glock 19 with suppressor, and three extra magazines.
She moved to the window, standing three feet back from the glass to avoid casting a silhouette. From here, she could see most of Main Street, including the sheriff's office. A patrol car was parked outside, lights off. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42 PM. She had approximately ninety minutes before darkness fell.
Time to work.
PREORDER "HUNTED" (An Aria hunt FBI Crime Thriller)
The forest welcomed Aria with its stillness. The pine trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches heavy with snow as she moved between them carefully. She'd parked her rental half a mile back on a logging road, leaving only the faintest tire marks that fresh snow was already covering.
Lawson's cabin coordinates were memorized, not written down—standard procedure. She'd studied the satellite images until they were burned into her memory, but pictures couldn't capture the isolation she felt now. This was a place chosen by someone who wanted to be forgotten.
Maybe Vaughn was right. Lawson might have got bored of his loneliness and just wanted to talk to his former supervisor.
The snow had been falling steadily for hours. It worked in her favor, covering her tracks while making it difficult for anyone else to move without being noticed. Her white thermal gear blended with the winter landscape—practical, not dramatic.
Aria stopped often to listen. Wind through the pine needles. Branches creaking under the weight of snow. A distant sound of metal—perhaps a trap being checked by a local hunter, she noted, filing away the detail.
The cabin appeared through the trees: single-story with a pitched roof, weathered wood siding, sitting alone in a small clearing. Yellow police tape still circled the property, though it sagged in places where snow had weighed it down. The scene had the abandoned feeling of a case already closed in everyone's minds.
Aria found a natural vantage point on a small ridge overlooking the clearing. Through her binoculars, she studied the scene methodically. Two doors: front and rear. Three windows, snow built up on the sills. Various footprints around the property, now half-filled with fresh powder. The police tape had been placed inconsistently—hinting at a hurried job.
She studied the cabin not as a crime scene but as a home. North-facing windows smaller than south-facing ones—Lawson understood winter architecture. Woodpile neatly stacked and covered—he was organized, prepared. The roof showed recent patches—he maintained his space meticulously. This wasn't the home of someone careless enough to clean a loaded gun.
The rear door lock showed tool marks—someone had picked it recently and without much care. The evidence seal was intact but carelessly applied at an angle. The window near where Lawson had been found was cleaner than the others, as though it had been wiped down.
Dusk was settling when Aria decided it was safe to approach. She moved in short bursts between trees, pausing to listen after each advancement. No vehicles had come this way since morning, based on the snow accumulation in the tire tracks.
The police seal on the front door remained unbroken. She circled to the back. The seal there showed minor stress marks along one edge. Someone had tested it, seeing if it could be breached without notice.
Sloppy work. A professional would have found another way in.
On the north side, half-buried under snow, Aria found what others had missed—a cellar entrance. No police tape here. Either the investigators hadn't found it or hadn't thought it important. Boot prints led away from it—large, deep, and purposeful. Someone had come and gone this way recently.
Aria knew Lawson had been a surveillance specialist. Looking at the property through his eyes, she searched for what others might have missed. There—a small trail camera disguised against a pine trunk, positioned to monitor the clearing. Law enforcement had overlooked it. She memorized its location to retrieve its data later.
A second camera watched the approach from the main road. Lawson had been careful, methodical. Yet someone had still gotten to him.
The storm was intensifying. Aria decided to risk entering through the cellar. The simple padlock yielded to her pick set in under thirty seconds.
The cellar was orderly—shelves of canned goods, emergency supplies, and water. A former intelligence officer's preparation for isolation. A narrow staircase led upward. She ascended slowly, testing each step for creaks.
The main floor was cold and still. The body was gone, but the scene remained largely as it had been discovered. A desk chair positioned at an odd angle, dark stains on the wooden floor despite attempts to clean them. The adjacent wall showed the splash pattern of blood and tissue, now dried to a rust-brown. The desk itself remained in place, though the computer mentioned in the file was missing.
Aria moved through the cabin silently, building a picture of Thomas Lawson. Bookshelves lined one wall—military history, technical manuals on surveillance systems, and surprisingly, a collection of poetry. Frost, Whitman, Dickinson. A man with unexpected depth.
The kitchen was spotless—every dish washed and put away. No meal had been in preparation when he died. The living area held a worn leather armchair positioned to see both the door and the windows. Beside it, a side table with three books: a well-worn Bible, a book on cryptography, and a local history of Montana mining operations, with several pages marked.
His bedroom revealed more. Bed made with military precision. Closet organized by color and function. On the nightstand, a single framed photograph of a younger Lawson with three other men, all in unmarked tactical gear against a desert backdrop. Brothers in arms. No family photos anywhere.
Aria returned to the desk, carefully examining it without touching anything. The empty space where the computer had been. A legal pad with the top sheet torn away. Using her penlight at an angle, she could see the impression of writing on the next page—someone had written a series of numbers before tearing off the sheet.
The gun cleaning kit was still there, arranged with mechanical precision. The rifle that killed him was gone—police evidence. But Aria noticed something the investigators had missed. The kit was arranged for a right-handed person, but from crime scene photos, Lawson had been found with the rifle across his lap as though held in his left hand.
She moved to the window that had been wiped clean. Looking out, she saw it faced directly toward a specific gap in the trees—a perfect line of sight to the main road approach. This wasn't random. Lawson had positioned himself to monitor who came and went.
A bookshelf near the desk held technical manuals for various surveillance equipment. One was slightly out of alignment with the others. Aria carefully removed it, finding a small notebook hidden behind it. She photographed each page with her phone before returning it exactly as she'd found it.
As she prepared to leave, Aria took a final look around. Thomas Lawson had been methodical, prepared, and vigilant—not a man who would die by accident. The cabin told the story of someone who lived simply but purposefully, a man who valued information and readiness above comfort.
And maybe something he had discovered had gotten him killed.
Aria exited through the cellar, careful to leave everything as she found it. The snow was falling heavier now, erasing her footprints almost as quickly as she made them. Tomorrow she would begin her official cover work in town. Tonight had given her what she needed—confirmation that Lawson's death warranted investigation.
The forest had grown darker, the wind picking up between the trees. As she made her way back to her vehicle, Aria processed what she'd observed: the inconsistencies in the scene, the missed evidence, the glimpses into Lawson's careful, deliberate life.
She had less than four days to uncover what he had found—before whoever killed him realized someone else was looking.
The answer was here, somewhere between the silent trees and the buried secrets of Whitetail.
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PREORDER "HUNTED" (An Aria hunt FBI Crime Thriller)
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