Chapter Thirty-Three
“He’s been shot.”
Stu’s words were matter of fact, but Sam could see the worry in his eyes for his cousin. They were gathered by the meeting place that Sam had decided on: an old, abandoned barn just outside town. It was far enough away to’ve lost any followers, close enough that it wasn’t too hard to ski to.
Or at least Sam had thought that this morning.
Doug was sitting on his sled, white-faced, his mouth set in a grimace. His left arm was red from the shoulder down, wet with blood. It wasn’t a bad injury—the bullet had gone through and the bone wasn’t broken—but in the cold and with the blood loss, Doug might go into shock.
Sam turned to glance again over the snowy fields. The wind had picked up, blowing icy little snow crystals into his face.
May was nowhere in sight.
“She’ll make it,” Stu said.
“Should’ve waited for her,” Sam muttered. “Made sure she was out of town.”
“That wasn’t the plan.” Stu turned to look at his cousin. “Runner’s broke on Doug’s sled and besides, shape he’s in he can’t mush. I can let the dogs loose and put him in my basket with Dylan. It’ll be tight, but we should be able to make it.”
Sam nodded. “You’d best go ahead and take Doug and Dylan to my cabin.”
Stu frowned, glancing back at him. “You and Maisa were supposed to ride the rest of the way back.”
“You and Dylan need to get Doug out of this cold as soon as you can.” Sam shook his head. “You don’t have time to wait.”
“Okay.” Stu sounded relieved. He’d been sneaking anxious glances at his cousin. “You sure you both can ski all the way back to your cabin? Looks like we’re going to get more snow.”
Sam shrugged. “We’ll stop if we have to.”
He was more worried that May still hadn’t made the meeting place.
Sam and Dylan unhitched Doug’s team and helped him into the basket of Stu’s sled. By the time they were done, Doug was moaning quietly under his breath.
“Get going,” he said to Stu.
Stu nodded and yelled, “Hike!” to his dogs.
The dogs took off running.
Sam toed his skis back on and began heading back into town. Dark gray clouds were crowding the horizon, threatening more snow.
He needed to find May before the storm hit.
Ten minutes later, he slowed as he saw the old library up ahead.
A crackle of gunfire came from somewhere close, making adrenaline leap into his veins. Everyone should be out of town by now. There was no reason for shooting.
He bent and unlatched his skis, stowing them by the library, then began moving into town.
Black smoke still trailed from behind the police station. Sam had heard the explosion as he’d skied out of town and a corner of his mouth twitched grimly now. Beridze and his men would be getting very cold very soon with the backup generator out of commission.
Up ahead by Mack’s Speedy, another pop sounded. Not an automatic weapon. Was it May? His blood ran cold at the thought of May having to defend herself.
Sam drew his gun and started lunging through the snow, trying to get closer as fast as he could.
Someone came around the corner of the gas station.
Sam brought up his gun, but it was May and he hastily lowered it.
She looked at him, wide-eyed, and silently pointed behind her.
He nodded and waved her farther away.
She hunkered down by the far end of Mack’s Speedy. There wasn’t much cover there—only a concrete trash can—but it was better than nothing.
Sam began making his way along the side of the service station. He could hear panting close by. A muttered word, maybe in Russian.
Sam brought his gun up, ready, and paused at the back corner of the station. The wind was whistling, blowing the snow up into his face.
He couldn’t hear anything.
If the mafiya thug went the other way around the gas station he’d run into May.
Sam took a breath and rounded the corner.
The guy was right in front of him, but thankfully facing the other way.
He started turning as Sam pulled the trigger.
The first shot went wide, into the space the mafiya’s shoulder had been a second before, but the second shot nailed him squarely in the chest.
And then the thug’s rush hit Sam, making his gun swing up. Shots three and four went into the air as Sam was flung backward into the snow. The man’s breath was sour—from fear, from adrenaline, from exertion. It was a familiar smell, a smell that spun Sam back to Afghanistan and other sour-breathed men who didn’t speak English.
Death’s exhalation was international.
The mafiya thug shoved his forearm into Sam’s throat and Sam choked. Sam fought to bring his gun back around. The guy knocked back his hands once, twice, scrabbling for the gun, trying to make Sam drop it. But he was fighting with only one hand. If he raised the arm holding Sam down, Sam would wriggle free.
He couldn’t breathe. He was being slowly choked. It was animal instinct to fight the arm strangling him, but Sam brought his gun around one more time, hard and fast, pulling the trigger as he swung.
The shot deafened him.
The mafiya’s face disappeared in a haze of blood.
Sam pushed the dead meat off him and stood. His ears were ringing, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
The other man’s blood.
Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he glanced around. No one else was coming at him from the back of Mack’s Speedy.
May stood there in a shooter’s stance, her face milk-white. Her lips moved and he could see that she said, Sam, but either the wind took the word away or his ears still weren’t working.
He strode toward her and took her arm, gently lowering the gun she held. “Let’s get out of here.”