For the second time in two days, Peter was running toward an avalanche.
He’d lived in Alaska for most of his life and managed to never get caught up in one before this past week. Like most people who lived this far north, he had a healthy respect for the power of nature but he’d always taken precautions, so he’d never feared it. The way his heart was thundering in his chest now, that had changed.
This time, he wasn’t in any real danger of being buried in it. The snow had already stopped falling from above and the rush through the woods was slowing. That was both good and bad. The trees acting as a natural blockade for some of the snow meant it wouldn’t spill over to the cabin, where he assumed those kids were being held. But it also meant more of it was piled higher in the exact location he’d last spotted his fellow officers. Including his partner.
“Tate!” he yelled. Now that the thundering of snow was quieting, his voice echoed along the mountain base, taunting him with the lack of response.
He slowed to a stop before he reached the snow, realizing he should have run to his truck instead to grab the collapsible snow shovel most people who lived in these parts always carried. He spun back even as Chance raced past him, right into the snow.
His call for Alanna to grab his shovel died on his lips. He scanned the area around the cabin. But there were only woods and an empty driveway. She must have followed Darcy inside.
Pain clamped in his chest as he glanced back to the snow, where Chance was frantically digging, then over to the silent cabin. He ran back the way he’d come, heading for his truck and shovel.
He had to pray that Alanna was right and Darcy wouldn’t hurt her. He had to pray that Alanna would be able to talk Darcy into handing over the kids without hurting anyone.
There was no mistaking that the woman still loved Alanna like a daughter. It was equally obvious that she felt deeply betrayed and probably blamed Alanna for the years she’d spent in jail, maybe even for her husband’s death. Peter could imagine things going shockingly well, that he might turn back and see Alanna ushering out two relieved kids and a sobbing Darcy. Or he might hear a series of shotgun blasts and then Darcy fleeing for safety alone.
Right now he had to trust that Alanna was right. That the love Darcy still felt for her was stronger than the hate. That the education in psychology Alanna had earned and her experience working with vulnerable people would have taught her how to navigate such a volatile situation. One thing he did know: Darcy hadn’t fired that shotgun at him before because Alanna had called him her friend. If he burst through that cabin door as an officer, Darcy would shoot.
Alanna had a chance. But his teammates didn’t. No way could Chance dig all of them out alone before someone suffocated.
Peter holstered his gun, grabbing his shovel and dialing his phone as he ran. “Chief,” he huffed when Chief Hernandez answered, “I need help out here fast. Avalanche.” He didn’t wait for her response, just tucked his phone back in his pocket and started digging beside Chance.
The big dog had already uncovered the legs of an officer who was facedown. “Good boy, Chance,” said Peter. The dog gave a quick bark, then left Peter to finish digging the man out. He bounded a few feet over and started digging again, his big paws sending snow flying, his strong nose right on target as another pair of boots appeared.
“Come on,” Peter muttered, trading the shovel for his thinly gloved hands as he got close to the man’s face. The fact that he hadn’t moved the whole time Peter and Chance had been digging him out was a bad sign, but as Peter swept snow off the back of his head, he suddenly groaned and rolled partway over.
Charlie Quinn was a longtime member of the force, someone Peter had overheard more than once complaining about working with “the pity-hire who can’t hear.” But when Peter had asked for backup, he’d shown up without complaint.
“You okay?” Peter asked, helping him to a sitting position.
Charlie put a shaky hand to his head, nodding.
“More help is coming,” Peter told him, leaving him there so he could go dig out the next officer Chance had found.
As soon as Peter got there, Chance gave him an encouraging woof and was off again, sniffing his way to a new spot.
“You’re amazing,” Peter breathed as he paused a second to watch the St. Bernard. Then he looked back at the partly uncovered officer in front of him and went to work. His hands, arms, and even his face stung as he shoveled snow aside and the cold seeped into him. Finally, he shoved enough snow away to identify the officer.
This wasn’t Tate either, but Nate Dreymond. He was the second-newest officer on the force, a twenty-year-old who’d been hired six months before Peter. He was already moving around, flailing and trying to get free of the snow.
“I’ve got you,” Peter said, dropping the shovel and pushing a heavy pile of snow off the young officer, who broke free of the rest covering him so fast and hard that he knocked Peter over.
Nate was gasping, tears and snot mixed with the snow he was raking off his face with bare fingers so pale Peter knew he couldn’t feel them.
“Be careful,” Peter said, pulling Nate’s hands free to reveal he’d scraped up his own face. “Go over there.” He pointed toward Charlie. “Help get him into my truck. The heat is on.”
As Nate stumbled that way, unsteady on his feet, Peter warned, “There might still be an armed fugitive in the cabin.”
Nate didn’t show any sign of hearing him, but Charlie looked up sharply, his hand already on the butt of his pistol. He nodded confidently at Peter, pushing to his feet with a grunt. Then the two of them were leaning on each other and moving toward the truck.
Peter spun away from them again, trudging after Chance, the snow up way past the top of his boots now. He was soaked almost to his hips, the cold making him shiver violently. Ignoring it, he took over from Chance’s latest dig and the dog was off again, toward an area of snow that was moving, someone clearly fighting to get free.
Yet again, the man Peter finished digging out wasn’t Tate. It was Lorenzo Riera, another veteran. As soon as he was freed enough from the snow to speak, he demanded, “Rook?” It was his nickname for Nate, who was his partner.
“He’s okay,” Peter assured him, glancing over at where Chance was digging away, praying his own partner was under there. How many officers had come to back him up today? How many were hurt right now because of a decision he’d made?
“Peter!”
Peter glanced back as a police SUV screeched to a halt at the edge of the woods, windows down and Chief Hernandez steering one-handed as she leaned partway out the window. The fact that she’d gotten here so fast meant she must have already been out somewhere on the edges of Desparre on a call.
“Status!” she demanded.
“We’ve got three dug out,” Peter called back. “Not sure how many more officers were out here. Presumably Darcy Altier is still in the cabin, armed, with the kids and now Alanna.”
The chief was scowling as she slammed the SUV door shut. She had her weapon out of the holster before the door was closed and she nodded at the two officers who stepped out of the back of the vehicle, both in bulletproof vests and helmets.
“Luna police are sending backup. The state police sniper and hostage negotiator are both on another call. We’re going to have to breach.”
“No!” Peter took two steps toward her, then glanced back at Chance, still digging.
The big dog looked over at him once, let out a long howl, then went back to work.
“Just wait,” Peter begged Chief Hernandez. “Give Alanna a chance.”
As he pivoted toward Chance and whoever was still buried in the snow, Lorenzo stumbled over next to him to help.
“It’s just Tate left. That must be him.”
Peter fell to his knees next to Chance, not even bothering to run back for the shovel he’d dropped. He started digging with his hands, shoving snow away from Tate, who’d been moving before but wasn’t any longer.
When an arm fell free, Peter tugged on it, trying to pull Tate out of the snow. His head appeared and while Lorenzo and Chance continued to dig around the rest of him, Peter cleared snow off his face.
Tate looked abnormally pale and his lips had a bluish tinge, but when Peter leaned close to listen for his breathing, Tate gasped in a large breath. Lorenzo cleared a big chunk of snow off his back and Peter helped pull Tate to his feet.
“We should have stayed on the road instead of hiding in the woods,” Tate choked out, which made Lorenzo let out a relieved laugh.
Peter threw his arms around his friend, hugging him tight. Then he dropped to his knees and hugged Chance. “Good boy,” he whispered, and got a big, slobbery kiss on the cheek in return.
Standing, he told Tate, “Now we need to get Alanna out of that cabin safely.”
The look on his partner’s face—one of dread and sorrow—made him spin to face the cabin.
Sam Jennings and Max Becker—the two officers who’d arrived in vests with the chief—were breaching the front door of the cabin, sending it right off the hinges with a powerful blow from a battering ram.
Peter’s “wait!” was lost beneath the boom of the flash-bang tossed through the threshold. As white light exploded behind the curtained windows, the two officers rushed inside.
Even though he knew it was too late, Peter started running. His heart pounded harder than it had for his first raid. Every freezing-cold intake of breath seemed to seize his lungs.
A flash-bang was disorienting—basically a stun grenade that rendered your eyes and ears useless. When used on civilians, they dropped their weapons to cover their eyes or ears. By the time they figured out what was happening, they were being shoved to the ground by tactical officers.
But the Desparre police force rarely used them, and they didn’t have a tactical unit. All they had were regular officers who received special tactical and weapons training each month in case an emergency unraveled too quickly to wait for state police or the FBI. Five years in war zones had taught Peter that sometimes it didn’t matter what weapons or tactics were used. With a determined-enough opponent, impossible odds suddenly became possible.
He didn’t know a lot about Darcy Altier beyond what he’d read and what Alanna had told him. But he’d witnessed her state of mind. She was volatile, desperate, prone to big swings of emotion. And right now she had three hostages who might be between her and the officers who’d rushed inside blind.
Chief Hernandez was moving, arms spread wide, to block him from rushing into the house. Peter paused, unsure whether to race around her or run right through her.
Then Sam and Max emerged from the cabin, looking grim and shaking their heads.
Peter choked on the sudden emotion that rushed up his throat, then he was pushing the chief aside and running into the cabin.
He waved his hands around to clear the smoke, expecting to see all of them—Alanna, Darcy and the two kids—dead on the floor. But there was nothing but an abandoned shotgun on the floor.
He glanced around, wondering if he’d missed another room, but there were no doors except the open one leading out the back. Darcy and the kids were gone.
So was Alanna.