Chapter Forty-Three

DAY FOUR

Sam woke to the sound of dozens of dogs barking and a shout from downstairs. He cursed himself, rolling off the bed and fumbling in the dark for his gun. Beridze’s men had been searching for his cabin yesterday. There was nothing to stop them from coming back with reinforcements and maybe finding it this time. He’d been so concerned with May that he’d let his guard down, failed to defend the perimeter.

Put everyone at risk.

He pulled on his jeans and, gun in hand, clattered down the stairs.

“Sam!” Dylan had a shotgun aimed out the front door.

“What’s going on, Dylan?” Sam shouted. The dogs were nearly deafening.

Dylan answered without looking away from the door. “We’ve got someone walking up. He’s holding a white flag.”

“What the hell?” Karl was barefoot and wearing the same clothes from yesterday. “He’s never gonna make it through that sled dog minefield.”

“Shit, he’s throwing something!” Dylan ducked inside just as the dog barks reached a peak.

Something thumped against the door.

“Well, what was it?” Karl hustled to the door. “He better not’ve hurt one of my dogs.”

But Sam held out his arm, pushing Karl back. “Let me look first.”

He opened the door cautiously, watching for an ambush. The only thing he saw was the figure retreating in the distance. Even the dogs’ barking had died down. On his front step was a rock wrapped in plastic.

“What is it?” Karl reached past him and picked it up. “Hey! It’s a note.”

Sam sighed and shut the door. “Might as well bring it in.”

Karl was already untaping the rock when he turned. Karl fished out a piece of paper. “It’s from the crazy Russian. He wants to make a trade: George for the diamonds. Middle of Coot Lake, high noon.”

Sam frowned, thinking logistics. “Middle of the lake? He must be worried we’d set Molly and her rifle on him again. What—?”

“Oh, shit!” Karl cried dropping the rock.

“What?”

Karl bent to pick up the rock again, looking suddenly green. “There’s something else.” He opened the plastic bag fully.

“Sam?” May stood on the stairs, wrapped in one of his old shirts, her feet bare. He started for her when her eyes widened. “Oh, my God, what’s that?”

He turned back to see that Karl held something fleshy on a blood-soaked scrap of cloth in the middle of the opened plastic bag.

“It’s the tip of a finger,” Karl croaked. “George’s finger.” He looked up, his usually cheerful face stricken. “Beridze is going to send him back in pieces if you’re not at the lake at noon, Sam.”