Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

His eyes narrowed. If so, they were in for a rude surprise. It was wrong to underestimate one of Russia’s elite commandos. He swung around – then noticed a second heat signature approaching from the left. He spun, frowning, as a third and fourth bloomed into existence.

What the hell?

He crouched amid the reeking stench. It seemed to hang in the air. The shapes grew huge in his sights. The red signatures were massive, larger than any horse. A fifth and sixth shape shimmered into existence. They converged from all sides.

He now knew what they were.

Bears…grizzlies from their size.

He switched off the infrared and went to night vision again. The snow was falling thicker. The woods were cloaked in green fog. There was no sign of the approaching monsters. He switched back to infrared. They were closer still, almost upon him.

Lured here…the stench…A groan escaped him.

He toggled back and forth between infrared and night vision. Finally, he lifted his rifle and targeted one of the red blobs as it pounded toward him. The snap of twigs and crunch of snow echoed all around. He fired at the shape.

The blast paused the others, but the one he had fired upon let loose a tremendous roar – a bloodcurdling, primeval sound – and thundered toward him, faster, unfazed. The bellow of rage was answered by others. The group hammered down upon him.

He fired and fired again. But nothing slowed the monsters. His lungs burned, his heart pounded in his throat. He ripped away the goggles, crouching, rifle up.

The roaring filled his head, chasing away any thought and sense. He swung around and around, surrounded by the dark and the snow.

Where…where…where…

Then from the snow, dark shapes flowed, massive, creatures of nightmare, moving with impossible grace and speed. They set upon him, not in fury, but with the unstoppable momentum of predator and prey.

11:54 P.M.

Matt stood beside Mariah, lead in hand, and listened as the hunter’s screams echoed up to him. They did not last long, cutting off abruptly. He turned away, walked his horse over the last rise, and set off toward the lower valleys. By morning, he wanted to be as far gone from the area as possible, vanished deep into the thicker, taller woods of the lower slopes of the Brooks Range. They still had at least two days of hiking to reach the single homestead he knew in the area, the only place with a satellite radio for a hundred miles.

Craig sat atop the mare, pale, shaking slightly. He finally spoke after they had crossed the rise. “Grizzlies…how did you know they’d be around here?”

Matt spoke dully, watching the dogs nose ahead. “I trashed a bottle of blood lure down in that hollow earlier. By now a good number of bears should be attracted to the area.”

“And…and you walked us right through there?”

He shrugged. “The snowfall, the dark…they’d most likely leave us alone as long as we didn’t bother them.”

“And that bottle you set up in the tree?”

With his military background, he knew how to quickly rig a simple trap. “More blood lure,” he explained. “I figured the fresh explosion of scent would draw those nearby and keep our grenade-toting friend occupied.” Matt shook his head in regret – not for the hunter, only for the wounded bears.

They continued on. Matt trudged along, wondering for the thousandth time who the men were that had hunted them and why. If given the time or the opportunity, he would have liked the chance to interrogate one or the other. They were clearly professionals with a military background. But were they active service or hired mercenaries?

Matt slipped out the dagger he had confiscated from the first hunter. He flipped it around, examining it with a penlight. No insignia, no manufacturer’s mark, no unique design. Purposefully void of any indication of origin. He wagered if he had examined the men’s rifles and pistols, the same would have been true. This alone suggested the pair were more than just mercenaries. Such men didn’t concern themselves with wiping all traces from their weapons.

But Matt knew who did.

A black ops team.

Matt remembered Craig’s story of the Navy’s gag order on the drift station. Could it be their own government? After spending eight years in an elite Green Beret team, he knew that sometimes hard choices, sacrifices, had to be made in the name of national security.

Still, Matt refused to believe it. But if not us, then who?

“Where are we going now?” Craig asked, interrupting his ponderings.

Matt sighed, expelling these worrisome thoughts for now, and stared out at the snowy woods. “We’re heading to someplace even more dangerous.”

“Where’s that?”

His voice tightened with regret. “My ex-wife’s cabin.”

3. Trap Lines

APRIL 8, 10:02 A.M.

GATES OF THE ARCTIC NATIONAL PARK

Jennifer Aratuk stood, club in hand, over the trap. The wolverine glared at her, hissing a warning. Its rear end bunched up as it guarded its own catch. The dead marten, a cat-sized weasel, lay snared in her father’s trap, its black pelt stark against the snow. It had been dead and buried in the fresh fallen snow, its neck broken, but the wolverine had reached the trap first and dug it up. The wolverine, a male, was not about to relinquish its frozen prize.

“Get outta here!” she yelled, and waved her cudgel of alder.

The white-masked beast snarled and jarred toward her a foot, then back. A display that basically meant “fuck you” in wolverine. Fearless, wolverines were known to stand against wolves when food was involved. They were also equipped with talonlike claws and sharp teeth set in bone-crushing jaws.

Frowning but cautious, Jenny considered clubbing the creature. A stout knock on its skull would either drive it off or addle it long enough for her to collect the marten. Her father collected the pelts and traded them for seal oil and other native wares. She had spent the last two days running his trapline. This consisted of hunting down his snares, collecting any catches, and resetting and baiting the traps. She did not relish the chore, but her father’s arthritis had gotten worse the past year, and she feared for him alone in the woods.

“All right, junior,” Jenny said, conceding. “I guess you did get here first.” She used her club to reach and unhook the snare line from the branch of the cottonwood. With the line free, the marten was released. She nudged its body.

The wolverine growled and snatched at the marten, sinking its teeth into a frozen thigh. It backpedaled with its prize, hissing all the way as it retreated through the snow to some hidden burrow.

Jenny watched it waddle with its catch, then shook her head. She wouldn’t tell her father about this, passing on a chance to get a marten anda wolverine pelt. He wouldn’t be pleased. Then again, she was a county sheriff, not a trapper. He should be happy enough that she spent a week of her two-week vacation each year helping him with his damn traps.

She headed back to her sled, tromping in her Sherpa snowshoes. The overnight trip to run the traps was not wholly a chore. During the last three days, a storm had covered the national parklands with two feet of thick snow, perfect for her to run her team one last time before the true spring melt. She enjoyed these outings, just her and her dogs. It was still too early in the year to expect any tourists, hikers, or campers to be about. She had this section of the national park all to herself. Her family cabin was just at the outskirts of the parklands, in the lowland valleys. Her father, as a pure-blooded Inuit native, was still allowed to subsistence-hunt and – trap within certain areas of the park as a result of the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act of 1980. Hence her current overnight trip with her dogs.

The usual barks and yips from her crew greeted her as she returned. She unsnapped her snowshoes’ bindings and kicked them off. Collecting them up, she secured them atop the sled. Underneath were her sleeping bag, a change of dry clothes, a hatchet, a lantern, mosquito repellent, a plastic container of dry dog food, a soggy carton of Power Bars, a twist-tied bag of ranch-flavored Doritos, and a small cooler of Tab soda. She undid her shoulder holster, swung the service revolver over one of the sled’s handles, and cinched it in place next to a leather-sheathed ax.

Next she shook free of her thick woolen overmitts. She wore a thinner, more manageable pair of Gore-Tex gloves underneath. “Okay, boys and girls, off we go.”

At her command, those dogs still lounging in the snow climbed to their feet, tails wagging. The team was still harnessed to the gang line. She only had to go down and tighten their traces. As she did, she patted each dog in turn: Mutley and Jeff, George and Gracie, Holmes and Watson, Cagney and Lacey. They were all strays or rescue animals, a motley bunch of Lab mixes, malamutes, and shepherd crosses. She had more back at home, composing a full team of sixteen, with which she had run the Iditarod from Anchorage to Nome last year. She had not even placed in the top half of the sled teams, but the challenge and the time with her crew was victory enough for her.

With everyone ready, she grabbed the snub line and gave it a jostle. “Mush!”

The dogs dug into the snow. With a furious row of barking, they set off at an easy pace. Jenny walked behind them, steering. The wolverine-burgled trap was the last of the line. She had run a complete circuit, out and back. From here, it was an easy three miles to the cabin. She hoped her father remembered to leave a pot of coffee simmering this morning.

She guided the dogs along a slow sweeping set of switchbacks over a sparsely wooded rise. She stopped them at the top. Ahead, the world opened up. Ridge after ridge climbed to the horizon. Spruces, flocked with snow, shone emerald in the sunlight, while stands of hardwoods – alder and cottonwood – painted the landscape in subtler shades of greens and yellows. In the distance, a silver river ran over cataracts, dancing brightly.

She drew a deep breath of the cedar-scented air. There was a cold, barren beauty to the lands here. It was too much for some, not enough for others. The sun, rare in the past few days, shone sharply but warmly on her face. Across the clouded skies, a single hawk circled. She followed its path a moment.

These were the lands of her people, but no matter how much time she spent out here, she could not touch that past…not any longer. It was like losing a sense you never knew you had. But it was the least of her losses.

Turning attention back to her team, she lowered her snow goggles against the fresh glare, then climbed onto the sled’s runners and called to the dogs, “Eyah!” She snapped the line.

The dogs leaped in their harnesses, racing down the far slope. Jenny rode the runners, steering and braking as needed. They flew across the snow. A sharp gust of wind tossed back the hood of her fur parka. She reached to yank it up, but it felt good for the moment to feel the rush of cold wind against her cheeks and through her hair. She shook her head, loosening and flagging a long trail of ebony hair.

She lifted her foot off the brake and let her rig fly down a long straight run. The wind whistled and the passing trees became a blur. She guided the team around a gentle curve along a wide stream. For an endless moment, she felt in perfect harmony with her dogs, with the steel and ash of her sled, with the world around her.

The crack of rifle fire startled her back into her own body.

She jumped with both feet onto her brake, casting up a rooster tail of snow behind the sled. The rig and team slowed. She stood straighter atop the runners.

Again an echoing blast of a rifle split the quiet of the morning.

Her experienced ears told her the direction from which the gunfire had come – her cabin!

Fear for her father flamed through her. “Eyah!”she yelled, and snapped the line.

Horrible scenarios played out in her head. Bears were out and about already, though they rarely ventured so low. But moose were often just as dangerous, and the cabin was near the river, where the thick willow browses attracted the yearling bulls. And then there were the predators that walked on two legs: poachers and thieves that raided outlying cabins. As a sheriff, she had seen enough tragedy in the wilds of the Alaskan backcountry.

Panic made her desperate, reckless.

She dug around a sharp bend in the river. Ahead, a narrow pinch squeezed between a cliff of granite and the rocky stream. She realized she was speeding too fast. She tried the brake, but a patch of ice betrayed her. The sled fishtailed toward the cliff.

There was no avoiding it.

She hopped to the runner farthest from the cliff and used all her weight and the momentum of the too-sharp turn to tilt the sled up on one runner. The underside of her rig struck the icy cliff face. Steel screeched across rock.

Clutching and praying the sled didn’t tumble on top of her, she clung tight to her handles, giving up the dogs’ snub line. With the line loosened, the dogs took off at a full sprint. The sled dragged behind the furious team.

Jenny held in a scream – then it was over.

The cliff fell away and the sled landed hard on both runners, almost throwing her off. She scrambled to maintain her perch. The dogs continued their relentless charge for home. They knew the cabin was only a couple hundred yards off.

She made no attempt to slow them.

Gasping, Jenny listened for gunfire, but all she heard was the blood pounding in her ears. She feared what she would find at her cabin. One hand unsnapped her pistol holster. She left the gun in the holster, not trusting herself to run the rig and hold a weapon.

The sled raced alongside the river. She was now following the same track upon which she had left yesterday. A final wide bend and her cabin suddenly appeared ahead. It was built in a meadow where the stream swung around and emptied into a swollen river. Beyond the cabin, her sheriff’s plane floated at the end of a stout dock.

She quickly spotted her father standing before the cabin’s doorway. He was dressed in traditional Inuit clothes: fur parka, fur pants, and mukluk boots. He clutched an old Winchester hunting rifle across his chest. Even from here she could see the angry spark in his eyes.

“Dad!”

He turned toward her, startled. She urged her dogs on, now kicking with one leg to keep the sled careening toward the cabin.

Once clear of the forest and sailing into the open, sunlit meadow, she yanked out her pistol and hopped off the rig, running to keep her momentum and her legs under her. She raced toward her father. Behind her, the unguided sled glanced over a boulder and toppled. She ignored the splintering crash and searched for danger, her eyes darting all around.

Then it lunged at her. A large black shape leaped toward her from the shadows of the porch.

Wolf,her mind screamed. She swung her pistol.

“No!” The shout was a bark of command from behind her.

Her eyes adjusted, changing focus. The large dark shape dissolved into the familiar.

“Bane,” she cried with relief.

She lowered her weapon and dropped to one knee, accepting the exuberant attention and hot tongue of the huge dog. After being thoroughly slicked with saliva, she twisted around. Two men stood ten yards away in the fringe of the forest. Nearby, a horse chewed leaves from a low-slung branch of an alder.

Her father spoke from the doorway, harsh and angry. “I warned the bastard to get away from here. He’s not welcome around these parts.” He lifted his rifle for emphasis.

Jenny stared over at her former husband. Matthew Pike smiled back at her, but a trace of nervousness shone behind his white teeth. She glanced over to her ruined rig, then back to her father.

She stood up. “Go ahead and shoot him.”

11:54 A.M.

Matt knew his ex-wife was only venting, but he still kept his post at the forest’s edge. The two stared at each other for a long breath. Then she shook her head in disgust and crossed to her father. She took the rifle from him and spoke softly but sternly in Inuktitut. “Papa, you know better than to shoot a gun into the air. Even out here.”

Matt studied her, unable to look away. Because of her mother’s French-Canadian blood, Jenny was tall for an Inuit, almost six feet. But like her father, she was as lean as a willow switch. Her skin was the color of creamed coffee, soft, inviting to the touch, and she had the most expressive eyes of any woman. They could dance, spark, or smolder. He had fallen in love with those eyes.

Now, three years after their divorce, those same eyes stared at him with bald anger…and something deeper, something more painful. “What are you doing here, Matt?”

He couldn’t find his tongue fast enough, so Craig spoke. “We’re sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But there was a plane crash.” He fingered the fresh wrap that Matt had applied to his scalp wound. “We’ve spent the past two days hiking out from it. Matt here rescued me.”

Jenny glanced back to him.

“It was Brent Cumming’s plane,” Matt added, finally finding his tongue. He paused as understanding slowly hardened Jenny’s face. Brent was not standing with them. He answered the question that now shone in her eyes. “He’s dead.”

“Oh my God…” She raised a hand to her forehead, sagging as she stood. “Cheryl…what am I going to tell her?”

Matt tentatively walked forward, leading Mariah. “You’ll tell her it wasn’t an accident.”

The lost look in her eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story.” Matt glanced to the smoke rising from the chimney of the cabin. He had helped build the homestead ten years ago. It was constructed of unpeeled, green-cut logs and a sod roof. He had followed a traditional design. There was even a small lagyaq,or meat storehouse, out back. But to aid in heating the main dwelling, he had modernized the cabin’s design with a propane tank and triple-paned windows.

As he stood, old memories superimposed over the present. He had spent many a happy time here…and one awful winter.

“Maybe we could discuss this inside,” he said. “There are two other bodies out in the woods.”

Concern crinkled her forehead, but she nodded.

His words, though, did little to soften her father’s expression. “I’ll see to the horse and dogs,” John Aratuk said, stalking forward and taking Mariah’s lead. He had calmed enough to rub a palm down the mare’s nose, but the old man refused to make eye contact with Matt. He did, however, nod perfunctorily to Craig as they passed each other. He plainly bore the stranger no ill will, only begrudged him the company he kept.

Jenny shoved the cabin door open and set the bolt-action Winchester rifle just inside the doorway. “Come in.”

Matt waved Craig ahead of him. The reporter passed inside, but Matt paused on the threshold. It’s been three years since I last stepped inside here. He girded himself, licked his dry lips, and ducked through. A part of him expected to see Tyler’s tiny body still sprawled on the pine table, bony arms crossed over his chest. At that time, Matt had stumbled inside on limbs leaden with grief, half frozen, frost bitten, his heart an icy stone in his chest.

But the cabin was not cold now. It was warm, scented with old smoke and a deep woody musk. Across the room, Jenny bent over a small cast-iron stove. She opened the door and used a poker to stoke the firebox and stir up the coals. A pot of coffee rested atop a griddle, steaming gently.

“There are mugs in the cupboard,” Jenny said. “You know where they are.”

Matt crossed to the sideboard and removed three earthenware cups. He straightened and stared around the great room, raftered with logs overhead. Nothing much had changed. The main room of the cabin was lit with three traditional qulliqoil lamps, half-moons of hollow soapstone. The cabin had electricity, but that required running the generator. A river-stone fireplace stood in one corner. The chairs and sofa were made by a native craftsman from caribou hide and fire-aged spruce. Pictures hung on the wall, taken by Jenny herself. She was a superb photographer. Around the room, bits of native artwork and artifacts finished the decorations: small totems, a carved figure of the Inuit sea god, Sedna, and a painted shaman mask used in healing ceremonies.

Each item had history. It was hard standing here. Tragedy seemed to follow him. During his first year at the University of Tennessee, his parents had both been killed in a home-invasion robbery. Left without resources, he was forced to join the Army. There, he channeled his anger and pain into his career, eventually joining Special Forces and becoming a Green Beret. But after Somalia, he could no longer stomach bloodshed and death. So he quit the service and returned to school, earning his degree in environmental sciences. After graduation, he came to Alaska because of its wide-open spaces and vast tracts of parklands.

He came here to be alone.

But that changed when he met Jenny…

With mugs in hand, Matt stood transfixed between the past and the present. Off the main room were two bedchambers. He turned away, not ready to brush against those more intimate memories. Still, some reached out and touched him.

In one room…readingWinnie-the-Pooh to Tyler by lamplight, the entire family nestled in thick woolen pajamas…

In the other…curled under heavy goose-down quilts with Jenny, her naked body an ember against his own skin…

“Coffee’s ready,” Jenny said, drawing him back. With a worn oven mitt, she lifted the hot pot and waved the two men to the sofa.

Matt set the mugs on the knotty-pine table.

She filled them. “Tell me what happened.” Her voice was emotionless, professional, a sheriff’s voice.

Craig began, telling his side of the story. He related all that had transpired since he left his Seattle newspaper office. He finished with the harrowing plunge in the plane.

“Sabotage?” Jenny asked. She knew Brent as well as Matt did. If there was a problem with the plane, there had to be another reason besides neglect or simple equipment failure…not in Brent Cumming’s plane.

Matt nodded. “I suspected as much. Then this second plane appeared.” He gave her the call signs painted on the plane, but he wagered either the aircraft would be discovered stolen or the call signs were bogus. He told her as much. “As it circled, two commandos dove from the plane with ice choppers and rifles. They clearly didn’t want to leave anyone behind to tell tales.”

Jenny’s brows knit together. Her eyes flicked to Craig, but the reporter was carefully inspecting his coffee as he swirled in some sugar. “What happened then?”

Matt detailed the fate of the two assassins as plainly as possible. She unfolded a topographic map of the area, and he marked down the plane crash site and roughly where the bodies of the two men could be found.

“I’ll need to call into Fairbanks for this,” she said as he finished.

“And I need to contact my newspaper,” Craig added, perking up with a jolt of Jenny’s strong coffee. “They must be wondering what happened. I was supposed to update them when I reached Prudhoe Bay.”

Jenny stood up, flipping closed her notepad. “The satellite phone is over there.” She pointed her pad to a desk. “Make it quick, then I’ll need to reach my office.”

Craig took his mug of coffee with him. “How do I use it?”

“Just dial like you would any other phone. You might get a bit more static due to the recent solar storms. They’ve been fritzing everything lately.”

Craig nodded and sat at the desk. He picked up the receiver.

Jenny stepped to the fireplace. “What do you make of all this?” she asked Matt.

He joined her, leaning a hand on the hearth’s mantel. “Clearly someone wants to keep the newspapers away from the drift station.”

“A cover-up?”

“I don’t know.”

In the background, Craig spoke into the phone. “Sandra, this is Teague. Connect me to the big guy.” A pause. “I don’t care if he’s in a meeting. I’ve got news that can’t wait.”

Matt imagined the reporter already had more story than he’d expected when he left Seattle.

Jenny turned her back a bit on Craig and lowered her voice. “Does this guy know more than he’s telling us?”

Matt eyed Craig. “I doubt it. I think he just ended up here because he pulled the short straw.”

“And these commandos…you’re sure they were military?”

“Military background, at least.” Matt recognized the tension building in Jenny as she stood by the fireplace. She kept her eyes averted from him, her words terse. She had a job to do here, but his presence kept her on guard.

He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve any better. Still, he wanted to find some way past this unnaturally forced discourse. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t touched a drink in over two years, but would she even care? Did it even matter any longer? The damage had been done.

He studied a single framed picture of Tyler on the mantel: smiling, towheaded, a pup in his arms, Bane, then eight weeks old. Matt’s heart clenched with joy and grief. He allowed himself to feel the emotion. He had long given up trying to drown it away. It still hurt…and in many ways, that was a good thing.

Jenny spoke. “Any other impressions?”

He took a deep breath to keep the pain out of his voice and stepped away from the fireplace. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his brow with a knuckle. “They might have been foreign nationals.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They never spoke a word within earshot. In retrospect, it was like they were purposefully keeping silent, hiding their origin. Like they had done with their weapons.”

“Could they be hired mercenaries?”

He shrugged. He had no idea.

“So far we don’t have much to go on.” Her gaze grew long as she began to plan. “We’ll get forensics up there and see what they can dig up. But something tells me the real answers are going to be found over at the polar base. And if so, the FBI will need to be called in…and military intelligence if the Navy is somehow tied in with all this. What a mess…”

He nodded. “A mess someonewanted to clear up at the end of a rifle barrel.”

She glanced to him. It looked like she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

Matt took a deep breath. “Jenny…look…”

Craig had been conversing in low tones, but his voice grew suddenly louder. “Prudhoe Bay, why?”

Jenny and Matt both turned toward him.

“I don’t see why I have to—” A long pause. “Fine, but I’m with a sheriff now. I can’t promise I’ll be able to get there.” Craig rolled his eyes and shook his head. Finally, he sighed and spoke. “I expect a big-ass raise after this, goddamn it.” He shoved the phone down.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.

Craig blustered for a moment, then collected himself. “They want me to stay here. Can you believe that? I’m supposed to meet with the paper’s contact at Prudhoe and follow up on events. See if they’re somehow connected to the research station.”

Jenny crossed to the desk as Craig vacated it in disgust. “Either way, you’ll have to stay here for now until Fairbanks clears you. We’re still in the middle of an investigation.”

“That’s fine by me,” he groused.

Jenny picked up the phone.

Before she could dial, the door to the cabin swung open. Her father stomped in, knocking snow off his boots. “Seems like we’re going to get more unexpected visitors.” He glared over at Matt. “Looks like a plane might be trying to land here.”

With the door open, the rumbling of an engine echoed into them. Dogs barked in the background.

Matt met Jenny’s gaze, and both hurried to the door.

From the shelter of the doorjamb, they studied the skies. A white Cessna slowly circled into view, drawing parallel with the wide river.

“Matt?”

He stared up at the plane. Blood drained into his legs. “It’s the same one.”

“Are you sure?” She shielded a hand over her eyes, clearly attempting to spot the call sign on the underside of the wings.

“Yes.” He didn’t need to read the stenciled letters and numbers.

“Do they know you’re here?”

Matt spotted motion by one of the plane’s windows. Someone leaned out, waving an arm at them. Then his eyes widened. Not an arm…a grenade launcher, a rocket-propelledgrenade launcher.

He shoved Jenny back inside as a spat of flame spouted from the weapon.

“What—” she cried out.

The explosion cut off her words. A window on the south side of the cabin shattered inward. Glass sprayed the room.

As the blast echoed away, Matt dove to the ruined window. Just outside, the remains of the tiny lagyaqstorehouse smoldered around a cratered ruin. The roof still sailed high in the air.

In the sky, the Cessna sped past, low over the trees, tilting on a wing for another pass.

Matt swung around and met Jenny’s gaze. “I’d say they know we’re here.”

Jenny’s expression remained hard. She already had the Winchester rifle in hand again. She stalked toward the open door, followed by everyone else.

Matt hurried after her. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

Outside, Jenny had to yell to be heard above the racket of barking dogs and the whine of the Cessna. “We’re getting out of here.” She raised the rifle and tracked the plane as it arced around. “Everyone get to the Twin Otter.”

“What about running back into the woods?” Craig asked, staring doubtfully at the small sheriff’s plane resting on its floats in the river.

“We escaped once that way,” Matt said, shoving the reporter toward the dock. “We can’t count on that kind of luck again. Not on such a clear day. And there’s no telling if they dropped other commandos out there somewhere.”

Together, the group fled across the yard toward the dock. Jenny helped her father, one hand on his elbow. Dogs ran all around, leaping, barking.

Suddenly Bane appeared at Matt’s side and raced with his master as they hit the docks. Matt had no time to warn the wolf away.

Instead Matt held out a hand for Jenny’s rifle. “Get the engine started. I’ll try to keep them busy.”

Jenny nodded to him. Matt was surprised by the lack of fear in her eyes. She passed the rifle into his palms.

Matt backed down the dock. Bane followed him.

The Cessna banked into another glide toward the homestead. Matt raised the rifle and followed its course. He squeezed off a shot to no effect. He yanked on the rifle’s bolt to crank another round in place.