70

There was nowhere to hide.

Mila felt her strength flagging as she pushed through the deep snow. The mountainside was steep, the forest floor uneven, and the snow came up past her knees. She scrambled forward, clutching at trees to pull herself up the incline, away from the cabin, deeper into the wilderness. She was sweating through her clothing, panting for breath. Her legs screamed for rest, but she couldn’t rest here. Not while every step left a trail for Hurley to follow.

She would have to press on.

Mila tried not to think about the killer behind her. Couldn’t help it. He had a big gun. He knew the mountain better than she did. He could follow her footprints until she collapsed from exhaustion, and then he could do what he wanted to her. Or he could wait and let nature do the job for him. There was nothing back here, beyond Hurley’s cabin. Nothing but forest and high, desolate mountains.

She would have to surprise him. She would have to lure him into a trap and shoot him before he shot her. Kill him. Then she could follow her footprints back to the cabin. She could find her way back down the mountain.

Mila stopped moving. Leaned against a tree as she surveyed the forest, looking for somewhere she could mount an ambush. She could hear something behind her—an engine. Was Hurley driving to meet her?

No time to think about that now. There was light through the branches, about thirty yards ahead and ten yards or so down the mountain. A clearing. She could lead Hurley there, watch from the trees until he was out in the open. Then she would empty the pistol at him and pray her shots hit.

Mila pushed off the tree. Forced her legs to keep slogging through the snow, checked back to make sure she was still leaving a trail. She was.

—

She’d fired a gun before, once, at Ronda Sixkill’s birthday on Lake Superior. Ash had disappeared in the dark, come back with some rider’s old .38 Special.

“Traded a fifth of Old Crow for an hour with this bad boy,” she told Mila. “So let’s make it count.”

They’d disappeared down to the lakeshore, walked along the water until they found an overturned log, a patch of empty space. Ash set up a couple beer cans on the log, paced back to the edge of the woods, took aim, and knocked down both cans, just like that. The sound was deafening, left Mila’s ears ringing. Seemed to echo out over the dark lake forever.

Ash brought a couple more cans of beer from her backpack. Cracked one and handed the other to Mila. Downed her own and waited until Mila had done the same. Then she took the can back and set it up on the log.

“Okay, cowboy,” she said, handing the revolver to Mila. “Your turn.”

Mila had hesitated. Guns made her nervous, even more than her knife did. But Ash was giving her that look, that We both know you’re going to do what I say look, and Mila couldn’t think of a way out that didn’t make her sound like a wimp. She took the gun, and the grip was warm where Ash had been holding it. She stepped out of the trees, leveled the revolver at the cans the way Ash had done. Took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

The trigger was heavier than she’d expected. She had to pull twice to get the gun to fire, and when it did, it fired wide and wild, high above the beer cans. Mila took aim, pulled the trigger again. More assertive this time. Missed again.

“Focus on the front sight,” Ash told her. “Inhale deep and then let out half your breath and squeeze the trigger back, one continuous motion. But forget about the target. Focus on the sight.”

Mila focused on the front sight. Let out half her breath. Tried to squeeze the trigger. Missed her shot again.

And again.

Missed every shot until they’d run through all the bullets, and Mila’s cheeks were red from failing so hard.

“Well, whatever,” Ash said, taking the revolver back. “Probably just a shitty gun, you know?”

—

Now, as Mila struggled through the snow toward the clearing, she gripped the pistol in her hand and knew Ash had been lying. Ash had knocked off both cans with her first try, after all. It wasn’t the weapon. It was the shooter.

Still, Leland Hurley was bigger than a beer can. And the pistol had plenty of bullets.

The clearing was close, just a few yards down the mountain from where she was standing. Mila couldn’t see beyond the trees at the edge, just the gray daylight shining through the branches, but it was bright enough that she could tell the trees stopped there. She scrambled down the incline, made it almost to the light. Then she caught her foot on a root hidden in the snow.

She stumbled. Felt her balance slipping, nearly fell. Stayed upright, but careened forward, her boots sliding, toppling her toward the tree line. She reached for branches, grabbed them, and felt them give way. She was too heavy. She was moving too fast. She fell through the tree line and saw nothing but thin air beyond.

It wasn’t a clearing through the branches. It was a cliff.

She was moving too fast to avoid the edge. Couldn’t find a handhold to stop the fall. Burst out of the trees and onto the rocky ledge, had a brief, split-second view of a carpet of forest spread out for miles, distant snow-covered mountains, and then she was tumbling over the edge, arms pinwheeling in front of her, grabbing at air and then bracing for protection as the ground rushed up to meet her—snow and black, angry rock—and she was closing her eyes and praying she survived.