He came to his feet, gloves on the windowsill, such an adrenaline charge running through him that he swung both feet over at once, clearing the sill by several inches, with enough energy to jump a mountain.
Screaming, something gone terribly wrong, like he’d landed in the mouth of a shark, then realizing what it was with a crushing desperation, saw in that gray-green light the rusty metal teeth of a grizzly snare sunk into his shinbones, clamped halfway up his throbbing tibias.
He tore his gloves trying to pull the jaws apart, grunting, teeth gritted, veins rising from his forehead.
But the jaws didn’t budge. He could hear his legs splintering as he stared at the man he’d shot, the teeth burrowing deeper, closing slowly, and through the bone-fracturing pain, he realized there was something wrong with the guard—longhaired, pajamaed—and it was this: He had rigor mortis. He was stiff, rigid, dead for hours, maybe a day.
And the grainy green turned to blinding white as a shotgun boomed. His vest caught most of the pellets, but the force knocked him back onto the floor. He ripped off his goggles, reached for the Beretta, footsteps coming toward him and the unmistakable horror of a twelve-gauge pumping, thinking,
SIXTY-SIX
Jonas could tell right away that the man was already dead, his face polka-dotted with buckshot. Besides, he wasn’t sitting right. His head tilted unnaturally to one side and the shotgun looked as if it had been propped up against him.
If the Alphas hadn’t vetoed the use of radios, he’d have warned Roddy’s dumb ass, since they probably had the same setup at the end of the north wing.
He slipped off his goggles. Didn’t really need them yet, the moon bright as all get-out and lighting up the alcove like Christmas. He heard something in the distance behind him, glanced back across that long, narrow lake lathered in moonlight. At first, he thought they were men running toward him, then realized it was the wolves he’d been hearing, their heads rising and falling as they bounded through snow.
Why the fuck were they moving
Suzanne was looking over her shoulder for Lucy when the glass of the west-facing window fell out. She hadn’t heard a gunshot, and from where she sat, she couldn’t see either window. Suzanne slowly rose to her feet, reaching for her radio, and as she pressed TALK, someone screamed at the other end of the lodge.
She backpedaled, heard the crunch of broken glass—someone in the alcove now—realized they’d put the bear trap on the wrong side.
A shotgun boomed somewhere on the north wing.
There was a bright, quiet muzzle flash at the end of her corridor.
Will pressed TALK, breathing so hard, he could barely speak. “Guy just came in through the east window. He’s dead.”
Kalyn said, “Copy that. We’ve had a visual. Everyone check in.”
“Devi, here. We’re fine.”
“Ken and Sean. We’re fine.”
After a moment, Kalyn said, “Suzanne? Lucy? Copy?”
No answer.
Will: “Kalyn, did you see or hear anything on the south wing?”
“No, just the glass breaking and the guy screaming at your end, so that had my attention. Look, everyone maintain your positions. I’ll check it out.”
Ken rose suddenly to his feet, as if he’d been resolved to stand for some time, his loops coiling, and just now worked up the nerve to spring.
“Dad,” Sean whispered, “what are you doing?”
“You know, we don’t deal in this currency.” He shook the Mossberg. “We’re gonna get ourselves killed sitting here.” He threw the shotgun down.
“Where are you going?”
“Out there.”
Ken strode twenty feet to the thick door and slid back the iron bolts.
“Dad!” Sean whispered. “You sure about this?”
“I love you, Sean. I’m sorry I brought you here.” He pulled open the door, and Sean could see a meter of snow just beyond the overhanging eave, the railing of the veranda nearly buried. The cold that swept into the passage made his eyes water.
Ken stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed after him.
Jonas put on his goggles, stood at the edge of the alcove, surveying the corridor. He saw the woman he’d shot a short ways down—motionless, sprawled, her shotgun unattended on the floor. He went and picked it up.
Looking down toward the end of the corridor, where it opened into the lobby, he saw bright green flares of light—lanterns perhaps. He could just make out the shape of someone sitting on the hearth.
He removed his white parka and snow pants, but instead of continuing down this corridor, he turned around and started for the stairwell.
Ken stood under the eave, feeling the cold infiltrate his down jacket. In the absence of lantern light from the passage, it took a full minute before his eyes picked out what detail the moon allowed—the veranda, buried under feet of drifted snow, the railing covered in places, poking through in others, the forest fifty yards to the east, out of which meandered a black stream, the snow dipping toward its banks in folds, something voluptuous about the curve, like white hips in the moonlight.
When he saw them, he wondered why the tracks paralleling the railing hadn’t been the first thing to catch his attention, and, likewise, the figure who stood where they ended, perhaps thirty feet away in the farthest corner, pointing a gun at him.
Ken felt his heart trip over itself, but he managed to raise his arms.
The figure waved him over. Ken nodded, moving forward onto the snow, sinking to his waist, doing his best to negotiate the snowpack while keeping his hands above his head.
Ten feet from the masked figure, Ken saw a gloved palm extend in his direction.
He stopped, trying not to stare at the wicked-looking pistol aimed at his chest.
The figure wore a white mask to match his winter apparel, with a bar cut out that exposed his placid blue eyes, and the divoted bridge of his nose.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the man asked.
Ken smiled nervously, ducked his head in greeting. “I just want you to know that my son and I are—”
“Where is your son?”
“Just inside that door. We’re guests of this lodge. Or were, and we don’t have any quarrel with you.”
“How do you know?”
