Chapter Thirty

The cold hit Sam like a smack across the face. He braced himself in the basket of Stu’s sled as the dogs galloped down the highway. There wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Nothing moved in the still winter landscape except the dogs.

Afghanistan was nothing like this. It’d been hot and dry—dry as a bone, a desert of sand-colored rock, mountains, and tufts of grass. He’d never figured out how the goats the locals herded had found enough to eat. It hadn’t been a place humans should’ve chosen to live, and despite the difference between that barren land and the cold of Minnesota, he couldn’t stop thinking of Afghanistan.

It was where he’d last gambled on the lives of others—gambled and lost.

He wasn’t going to lose any more men if he could help it.

The dogs loped past the Coot Lake Inn as County Road 23 turned into Main, slowing as they got close to the center of town. They passed the old library—boarded up now, the books moved to a smaller, newer building—and Sam leaned out of the sled and tossed his skis and poles to the side of the building. They sank partially into the snow and then they were past. Stu let down the break and Sam gathered himself to jump off.

He glanced back at Stu. “Good luck. Stay safe.”

Stu nodded. “You, too, man.”

And then Sam was leaping and running as Stu gained speed again to dash by the police station.

Sam flattened himself against the doorway of Tracy’s Antiques and drew his Beretta. He was across the street and a little ways down from the police station, and as he glanced that way he saw spots of blood in the snow where he’d shot the two Russian mafiya thugs.

The bloodied snow was right in front of the police station, in plain view of the windows. This wasn’t going to be easy. ’Course, there were windows in back of the station as well. No matter which way he went in it would be hard.

A whoop came from up the road, and then Doug barreled into sight, alone on his sled. He’d already dropped May off. Sam was grateful that she, at least, was out of the line of fire.

He crouched, readying himself.

Just as Karl came around the bank from the opposite direction.

A barrel pointed out the window of the police station and the snow burst in a staggered line just behind Doug’s lead dog. Belatedly, gunfire echoed off the Main Street buildings. Doug’s team was good, though. The dogs didn’t swerve or hesitate, just kept going as Doug made the end of the street and turned to come back.

There was a loud crack! and the window where the gun barrel had been exploded.

Sam grinned grimly. Molly Jasper was the best shot in the county, and while she sat on the rooftop, there was no one to touch her.

A shout came from the back of the police station and the sound of gunfire, so Stu must be doing his part creating a diversion in the parking lot.

Sam ran toward the police station as Molly shot out another window. They were taking a risk, not only in him and the mushers being out in the open, but that Dylan wouldn’t get hit in the crossfire. He was hoping the policeman was smart enough to hit the floor the moment he heard shots.

Sam reached the municipal building’s front and flattened himself against the façade, making himself as small a target as possible as he scrambled for the front door. Beridze’s men had obviously broken it open when they stormed the building yesterday. Sam had expected them to barricade it, but apparently the mafiya were too confident for such measures.

He smiled grimly. Their mistake.

He pushed open the door and went in, Beretta up and ready, but no one was in the lower office. Sweat was gathering at the base of his spine despite the cold. Too bad Coot Lake didn’t have the funds for body armor—it would’ve been nice right about now. Outside he could hear Karl whooping as Molly blew out another window.

Now or never.

He turned quickly into the enclosed staircase, meeting a thug coming down. The man’s eyes widened as he shouted something in Russian.

Sam shot him once in the chest and again in the head as he passed him on the stairs. He ducked as he burst into the upper police station, keeping himself low. And a good thing, too—the first volley of gunfire went over his head. Sam rolled to the side, behind Tick’s desk, and shot a charging mafiya. Only two men remained—where the hell was everyone else? One raised his weapon. Shit.

The air filled with the thunderous rattle of automatic gunfire as the desk burst into splinters.

Sam lay low, breathing, waiting for his moment, as shards of wood pelted his arms and the back of his head. Auto was scary as hell, but it ate bullets.

A pause.

Sam popped out and took out one of the shooters.

The other was frantically fiddling with his gun. He looked up, wide-eyed, and threw the weapon at Sam, turning to dive for the dead man’s gun.

Sam shot him as well.

In the sudden silence, Dylan swore.

Sam got up and checked the men he’d shot—all dead or close to it. Then he took the cell keys down from the wall.

Dylan had taken cover under the cell bunk, but now he got up. “That last guy—his gun jammed.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “How you doing?”

“I’m… I’m good,” Dylan replied. His face was white, but he picked up one of the fallen semiautomatics. “Did Haley Anne get to you?”

“Yup, she’s fine.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Okay,” Sam said as he reloaded the Beretta. “We’ll go out the front and we’re moving as fast as we’re able. Got it?”

“Gotcha,” Dylan said.

“Going down first,” Sam said, turning to the side and descending the steps. “Clear!”

The lower reception room was dark and cold. Had he underestimated Beridze’s men—or were they waiting somewhere?

Dylan made the bottom of the stairs just as the door to the back started to open.

“Out the front!” Sam shouted as he shot through the back door.

A bang and the reception counter exploded.

Sam returned fire and glanced over his shoulder. Dylan right behind him. Damn it! Were they walking into a trap?

He backed toward the front exit, still firing, just as Dylan opened the door.

Nothing.

“Out!”

They tumbled through into the white snow-covered street.

Then Stu was there beside them, the dogs all yapping. “Get in!”

Dylan threw himself into the basket and looked up at him. The younger man’s brows knit. This close Sam could see that he had a nasty bruise on his forehead and a dried spot of blood on his upper lip. “What about you?”

“I’ve got a way out.” Sweat poured off Sam’s forehead. “Go!”

He didn’t wait to see Stu drive off before breaking into a run in the opposite direction, moving awkwardly through thick snow in his stiff ski boots. A gunshot. The snow kicked up next to his boots and he felt something sting his thigh and then he was at the old library. He flung himself around the corner, panting, and found where he’d thrown the skis earlier. Sam stooped to set the skis flat. He toed them on, pocketed his Beretta, picked up the poles, and started skiing.

The snow was unbroken, crusted by wind in places and too fluffy in others, but he’d been skiing since he was a kid. His body fell into the long, loping rhythm, not pushing too hard because he didn’t want to sweat anymore than he already had. Sweat could be dangerous in cold like this.

And then behind him he heard the one thing he hadn’t planned for: a truck engine.