My old Ford F-150 roared, struggling to stay afloat on the icy surface of Highway 93. The snow was falling heavily, turning the world outside the car window into an endless expanse of white. It had been five years since I last set foot home.

I am Sergeant Jack Reacher (not a character in a story, just a name coincidence), of the Rangers. The past five years have been a long series in Afghanistan and Syria. I left after my mother’s death, leaving my father – Frank, an aging and stoic former Marine – alone in a log cabin in the woods.

We didn’t speak. Until last week.

I received a package at base. No letters, no Christmas greetings. Inside were only two things:

An old, rusty brass key.

A topographical map of the woods behind my house, with a bright red “X” circled over the “Watchtower”—the old deer-hunting hut my father and I used to build.

And a scrawled line on the packaging: “Back door jammed.”

That was it.

That line sent a chill down my spine, colder than the minus 20 degrees Celsius of Montana. “Back door jammed” wasn’t a complaint about the house. It was a code.

When I was 10, my father taught me: “If the enemy attacks from the front, run out the back door. If the back door is jammed, it means you’re surrounded. Then, switch to Predator mode.”

My father was in danger. And he knew I was coming home.

Chapter 2: The House with Lights

I turned off my headlights when I was about a mile from home. I drove onto a snow-covered trail, hiding the pickup truck behind a grove of pine trees.

I donned my snow camouflage suit and carried my military backpack. Inside were my Sig Sauer P320 pistol and my Ka-Bar dagger. I didn’t carry a rifle; I didn’t want to attract attention.

I walked through the woods. The wind howled.

A log cabin appeared before me. The lights were on. Smoke rose from the chimney. It looked like a perfect Christmas card. A strange black SUV was parked in the front yard.

I squinted through my binoculars.

In the living room, my father sat in his familiar armchair. He had lost a lot of weight, his hair was white. Opposite him were two unfamiliar men. They were laughing, talking, and drinking. They looked like old friends visiting.

But I saw my father’s hand.

His right hand rested on the armrest of the chair, his index finger tapping rhythmically.

Short three. Long three. Short three.

S.O.S.

And Dad’s old Golden Retriever, Buster, was nowhere to be seen. Normally, he’d bark like a madman at the sight of strangers.

I retreated into the shadows. I couldn’t force my way through the front door. “The back door’s jammed.” I needed to get to the “Watchtower.”

I climbed the hill behind the house, to the dilapidated old hunting hut. I inserted the rusty key into the lock of the old ammunition box Dad had left inside.

Click.

There was no ammunition inside.

Inside was a disassembled Remington 700 sniper rifle, preserved in grease, and a thick stack of files.

I opened the files under the red light of my flashlight (to avoid detection).

It was the evidence. Photographs, bank statements, transaction logs.

My father, during his time as Sheriff (before retiring), secretly investigated the largest methamphetamine trafficking ring in the Northwest, run by… the mayor himself, Harrison.

He had gathered enough evidence to send the entire corrupt gang to jail. But he was discovered.

They didn’t kill him immediately. They wanted the files. They were interrogating him. And they were waiting… for me.

I turned to the last page. A bloodstained note:

“Jack, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I used you as bait. They knew you were coming home on leave. They were waiting for you to come so they could use your life to force me to hand over the files. Don’t come inside. Shoot the hell out of them.”

Tears welled up and froze on my cheeks. The old man was stubborn. He wasn’t asking for help. He was setting up an ambush, and I was the sharpshooter.

I assembled the rifle at record speed. My hands didn’t tremble. Emotions had been pushed aside, giving way to killer instinct.

I lay prone in the snow, peering through the scope. Range: 200 meters. Wind: Northeast, 15 miles per hour.

Through the living room window, I saw a man stand up. He pulled out a knife and held it to my father’s neck.

“It’s 8 o’clock, Frank,” the man said (I could read his lips). “Your son must be held back by the blizzard. I’ve lost my patience. Where are the files?”

My father spat in his face.

The man raised his hand to slash my father’s face.

Bang!

The bullet pierced the double-glazed window, striking the man in the forehead. He fell backward, knocking over the coffee table.

The other man, panicked, pulled out his pistol and hid behind the sofa.

“Sniper! There’s a sniper!” he yelled.

My father, taking advantage of the chaos, rolled onto the floor. He pulled a sawed-off shotgun he’d hidden under the sofa (I knew he always kept guns hidden all over the house.

Bang!

He shot the second man in the leg.

I didn’t wait any longer. I threw down my rifle, dashed down the hill, and pulled out my Sig Sauer. I broke down the back door  the door my father said was “stuck” was actually already bolted.

My father had planted a homemade Claymore mine facing outwards, but I knew how to deactivate it with a red wire.

I burst into the house.

A third man leaped down from under the stairs. He was the guard.

I slid across the wooden floor, firing two shots into his chest. He collapsed.

The room reeked of gunpowder and blood, overpowering even the scent of Christmas.

My father was sitting back in his chair, gasping for breath, his hand clutching his chest. His shotgun rested on his lap.

“Dad!” I rushed to him. “Are you alright?”

He looked up at me, his aged eyes gleaming with pride and… remorse.

“You were two minutes late for the old record, Jack,” he whispered, trying to smile.

“I had to take a detour,” I checked him. No bullet wounds. He was just exhausted.

“The files…” he pointed out the window. “Did you get it?”

“Yes, Dad. It’s safe.”

“Good,” he sighed. “Call the FBI. Don’t call the local police. They’ve bought it all.”

I made the call. Then I gave him first aid.

“Dad,” I said as I bandaged the cut on his hand. “Why didn’t you mail the file to me? Why did you risk your life staying here?”

Dad looked at me, his eyes deep and intense.

“Because I missed you, you little rascal,” his voice trembled. “I knew if I just sent the evidence, you’d hand it over to the authorities and disappear again. I needed an excuse… an excuse big enough to make you come home. Even if that excuse was my death.”

I was speechless. He had gambled his life just to see me again on Christmas Eve.

Chapter 4: The Final Twist

The FBI sirens blared in the distance (I’d called my military contact the moment I saw the first body).

I helped Dad to his feet.

“It’s over, Dad,” I said. “They’re dead.”

“Not yet,” Dad suddenly pushed my hand away. His eyes were fixed on the fireplace. “There’s one more.”

“Who?”

“The ringleader. Harrison. He said he’d come in person to collect the files.”

Just then, applause erupted from the wide-open front door.

Mayor Harrison entered. He was wearing a luxurious fur coat and carrying a silenced pistol. He was followed by two burly bodyguards.

“A touching performance,” Harrison sneered. “A reunion of Rambo and his son. Too bad I have to interrupt.”

He pointed his gun at me.

“Give me the file, Jack. I know you got it from the watchtower. Give it to me, and I’ll give you and your father a quick death.”

I looked at my father. He looked at me. We didn’t need to speak. We had the telepathic connection of soldiers.

“The file is here,” I held up the document. “If you want it, get it yourself.”

Harrison gestured to the bodyguard. The bodyguard approached me.

As he touched the file…

“LIE DOWN!” my father yelled.

I threw the file at the bodyguard’s face and lunged to shield my father.

At the same time, my father pressed a tiny button hidden in his jacket pocket.

BOOM!

Not a bomb exploding the house.

But the Christmas tree itself.

My father had turned the Christmas tree into a giant Claymore mine, but instead of steel balls, he stuffed it with magnesium flares and pungent chili powder.

A blinding white light exploded in the middle of the living room, followed by intense heat and thick smoke.

Harrison and his bodyguards screamed, clutching their eyes. They were temporarily blinded and choking on smoke.

In the thick white smoke, I moved like a ghost. I knew every corner of this house like the back of my hand.

Bang. Bang.

I shot two of the bodyguards.

I lunged at Harrison, kicked his gun out of his hand, and punched him hard in the face. He collapsed to the floor.

When the smoke cleared, FBI agents burst in.

I stood in the wrecked living room, my foot on the chest of the corrupt mayor. My father sat in his chair, his face blackened with smoke, but raising a glass of whiskey.

“Merry Christmas, son,” he said.

Chapter Conclusion

Three days later.

Harrison and his gang were arrested. The evidence in the file, along with my father’s testimony, had brought down the entire criminal network.

My father and I sat on the porch, which had been repaired. The snow was still falling.

“Dad,” I asked. “Where did you get those military flares?”

“I kept some war mementos,” he winked. “And I knew you’d come back. You never abandon your comrades.”

I looked at him. This man had taught me how to handle a gun, how to survive, and most importantly, how to protect my family.

“I’m not leaving again,” I said.

My father turned away, hiding a tear in the corner of his wrinkled eye.

“Good,” he cleared his throat. “The shed roof is leaking. And Buster… he’s hiding under the bed, get him out.”

I smiled.

I’ve traveled the world, fought other people’s wars. But the most important war, the war to protect my home and my elderly father, I won.

This is my best Christmas ever. The smell of gunpowder has faded, leaving only the scent of pine and the warmth of reunion.