Snowbound

“Know what?”

“That we don’t have a quarrel.”

“Because I don’t know you.”

“I think it’s safe to say I have laxer prerequisites for having a quarrel.” The man raised the suppressed pistol to shoot Ken in the head.

“Oh God, please. I’m rich. That’s what I came out here to tell you.”

“You came out here to tell me that you’re rich?”

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

“No, not just that. Also that I would give you any amount of money if you would let my son and me sit out whatever’s getting ready to go down in there.”

“You have this money with you?”

“No, but I could—”

The man squinted his eyes, grimaced. “What? I leave you my address? You send me a check?”

“Or a bank account number. It would be seven figures.”

The man seemed to consider this. “And we would operate on what? The honor system?”

“Please.”

“All right, let’s go.”

“Back to the door?”

“Yes.”

Ken turned away and started back across the veranda, his feet growing cold, snow having slid down into his boots. He felt a swell of pride at having walked out here and saved himself and Sean.

He said, “I’ll even tell you where everyone is in—”

At first, he thought the man had pushed him, that he wasn’t moving fast enough, and he tried to improve his pace, but something bloomed inside his right lung—a rod of molten pain—and he went down, kneeling in snow up to his neck, watching the man in white clean his blood off a piece of metal by running the blade between his gloved thumb and forefinger.

“I already know exactly where they are, Ken,” he said, proceeding on toward the door. “But many thanks.”

Ken stood up, accomplished three staggering steps in the snow.

The man in white had almost reached the door, but he stopped and glanced back, saw Ken standing there.

Ken heard the man sigh, watched him shake his head in annoyance.

He was coming back now, and two steps from Ken, he pulled the knife out of a hidden sheath stitched into his snow pants.

Ken reached out, put his hand on the man’s right shoulder to stop himself from falling, and, as if in accommodation, the man grasped Ken’s right shoulder and shoved the KA-BAR Marine Hunter eight times into his stomach.

Kalyn came to Suzanne and knelt in her blood, felt the guilt knocking, knew better than to let it take root. Any distraction could be fatal. She pulled out her radio.

“Suzanne’s gone,” she said. “So we know at least one of them has made it into the lodge.” As she slipped the radio back into her pocket, a pack of shadows leaped through the open window into the south-wing alcove and disappeared up the stairwell.

A scream emanated from the lobby.

Kalyn grabbed her radio again, said, “Sean? Ken?”

Will’s voice crackled: “You hear that?”

“Just sit tight. Stay where you—”

“No, I’m gonna check it out.”

Rachael said, “You aren’t leaving me here alone.”

“I didn’t say I was. Let’s try to go without the flashlight, though. Might as well not advertise our position.” He helped his wife to her feet and they progressed toward the specks of light in the lobby, dragging their hands along the wall, using it for a guide.

Jonas emerged from the stairwell onto the fourth floor. The corridor was empty, so he spent a moment unloading the shotgun, then dropping it on the floor. At the far end, lantern light shone from the lobby. He figured he’d claim a secure position and snipe from above.

He started down the corridor. The Beretta felt good in his gloved hands, but he didn’t like passing all these doors, kept expecting one of them to swing open.

As far as he was concerned, the Alphas could fuck themselves. He wasn’t putting his life in danger just to make sure he didn’t kill the FBI agent or William Innis. They were storming this lodge in total darkness, no idea what they were walking into. Shit happened in this type of situation, and if someone jumped out of a corner, buenos fucking noches.

He heard screams somewhere in the lodge—definitely a man’s.

The corridor suddenly filled with the noise of incoming footsteps. Jonas spun around, glanced back at the alcove, which was washed out in green light, the details obliterated by the flood of moonbeams. He knelt down, pulled off his goggles. The darkness was streaked with red, exploding with phantom light. His eyes struggled to adjust. He got the goggles back on just in time to see five wolves running toward him.

He squeezed off a burst. The one in front yelped and fell. The others leaped over their compatriot, still coming, unfazed, undeterred.

Two bursts. Another went down. Fuck. The slide locked back, three still coming.

He wasn’t accustomed to automatic weapons—pull the trigger too hard, your magazine’s spent in the blink of an eye. The Alphas had warned them about this. He ejected the clip, was going for another when the wolves reached him.

Jonas was a big man, 250 pounds, six three. He reminded himself of that and stood, bracing for impact, thinking, I’ll just snap some necks. Not like I haven’t done that shit before.

The two in front rammed into him at the same time, the force far beyond anything he’d expected, his head smashing hard into the floor.

He saw pricks of painful light. He was on his back, the Beretta gone, one wolf tearing into his right arm, the other two going for his face.

One of the wolves tore the goggles away. Teeth ripped through the parka around his neck, the down airborne like a shredded pillow. And it occurred to him, They’re going for your throat.

Their slobber was warm, their breath foul. He tried to sit up, but they had both of his arms now, and a giant white wolf that seemed to glow in the dark was straddling him, teeth bared, inches above his face yet hesitating, as if to savor this moment. At some level, outside the fear and the pain, Jonas recognized its sadistic patience, the pleasure-delay, and he thought, This fucker’s a real killer. Doing this shit for fun.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Kalyn followed the south-end stairwell up past the second and third floors. She held the shotgun, her finger in the trigger guard. As she neared the fourth-floor alcove, she heard something—slurping, snarling, ripping.

She stepped into the alcove. It was pitch-black. She held the shotgun in one hand, a flashlight in the other. Its beam shot through the dark and illuminated a shotgun, shells all over the floor, two dead wolves, and three feasting wolves. They looked up, their mouths slicked with blood, their teeth bared, protecting their kill.

Kalyn’s right arm ached with the weight of the shotgun. The wolves glanced at one another, as if consulting; then the big white one started toward her. Gonna have to fire it with one arm.

She kept the light beam on the white wolf, leveled the shotgun, fired, the twelve-gauge recoiling, whipping back, the scalding barrel popping her in the face.