Snowbound

  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?”

  “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.


  She fell. The flashlight rolled across the floor. Just darkness in the corridor and the patter of the wolves coming. She got to her feet, pumped the shotgun, pulled the trigger. Pumped again, fired. Pumped, fired. Something whimpering. Pumped, fired. Pumped.

  The corridor reeked of gun smoke, and it was silent now. She walked to the flashlight, picked it up, blood trailing down her face from where the shotgun had struck her forehead.

  The beam of light passed through the smoke. Now there were three dead wolves less than ten feet away, but the white wolf and the gray one weren’t among them.

  She moved carefully toward the body in the corridor—a large man slumped over on the floor, faceless and eviscerated. Two down. Thank God. Wolves did my work for me.

  She continued on toward the stairwell that would take her back down into the lobby.

  Will and Rachael crept through the candlelit passage. Where it began to curve toward the veranda exit, Will stopped, whispered, “Wait here. If they’re dead, I don’t want you to see it. You’ve seen enough already.”

  Will pushed on.

  To his surprise, there was only one body—Sean’s—encompassed by more blood than it seemed possible for a human body to hold. Snow pants, a mask, and a white parka had been discarded by the door.

  Four shotgun blasts thundered out from one of the upper floors.

  Will ran back to Rachael.

  “What the hell was that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Sean is. Ken’s gone.”

  Will’s radio squeaked.

  Kalyn’s voice: “Bad guy number two is dead.”

  “How?”

  “Wolves. They got into the lodge through a broken window in the south-wing alcove. I killed one of them and two were already dead, so that leaves a pair running around here somewhere. Watch yourself. They’re mean as hell.”

  Will pressed TALK: “Sean’s gone. Don’t know where his dad is, so another one of them got in.”

  “Just get back to your post in the north corridor.”

  Devlin’s voice: “Guys?”

  “What, baby girl?”

  “Are any of you up here? I hear footsteps outside the door.”

  “Get the shotgun ready,” Will said. “That isn’t us, but we’re on our way.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Kalyn moved across the stone floor of the lobby and sat down on the hearth in front of the giant fireplace. She kept looking up and down the north- and south-wing corridors, watching the exposed stairwells that climbed fifty feet toward the rafters on each side of the lobby, the passage behind her, the adjacent library door, closed and locked. She set the shotgun on the stone, fished four shells of buckshot out of the pocket of her fleece jacket. As she reached for the Mossberg to load the shells, a pair of black boots emerged from the flue into the enormous hearth behind her and lowered silently toward the grate.

  Devlin illuminated her face with the flashlight beam and held her finger to her lips so the women could see.

  She mouthed, “Shhh. Someone’s out there.”

  She traded the flashlight for the shotgun but couldn’t remember if she’d pumped it, opted to wait, as the slightest noise would give them away. She crept up to the door, strained to listen. Thought she heard something like a soft exhalation on the other side, perhaps the scrape of fabric against fabric.

  She dropped quietly to her knees, lowered herself onto the floor, the right side of her face flush against the carpet. Their room was dark, but a lantern flickered outside in the hallway.

  Through the crack under the door, the strand of lantern light was broken in two places. She saw the tips of a pair of boots, could have poked a finger under the door and touched them.

  Ten feet away, invisible in the darkness, the infant began to cry.

  . . .

  Will and Rachael slipped out of the passage and into the stairwell. No lanterns or candles here, the darkness absolute.

  Rachael whispered, “Should I turn on the flashlight?”

  “No. Just go slow and keep one hand on the wall like we did before.”

  Even as he said it, Will knew they might be walking blindly to their death, couldn’t stop himself from picturing a man crouched on the next flight of stairs, outfitted with night-vision goggles, just waiting for them to stumble past.

  They proceeded carefully, one step at a time, Will’s heart knocking so hard he feared he’d faint. This was far worse than the wolves. At least you could see your attacker coming outside.

  They reached the landing. Will traced his hand along the wall, letting it guide them to the next flight of stairs. Three steps up, he stopped.

  “What is it?” Rachael asked.

  “I see a light up ahead. Wait here.”

  Will ascended the remaining nine steps. At the top, he reached an archway, and from there he could glimpse the corridor, where a lantern mounted to the wall threw shadows and light on a man dressed in black, standing at the door that opened into Devlin’s room.

  Will glanced back down the steps, waved Rachael up. She came, stood beside him as the corridor filled with a baby’s wailing. They raised their shotguns.

  The man leaned against Devlin’s door, his ear pressed to the wood. Will felt an eerie chill radiate down from the base of his neck into his spine.

  Will and Rachael eyed each other, and she could barely see his lips moving in the low light.

  Will mouthed, “That’s Javier.”

  The man spun, bullets striking the walls of the stairwell, the iron railing sparking.

  The Innises returned fire, then dived back into the archway, ears ringing. Will pressed Rachael up against the wall, whispered, “You hit?”

  “No, you?”

  “No. Don’t move.” Will peeked around the corner, gun smoke drifting through the corridor. The door was splintered with buckshot but still intact. No one there, just sprinkles of blood. Will motioned for Rachael to join him, and he spoke into her ear, “I think he’s pinned down at the end of the corridor, maybe fifteen feet away. All the doors are locked, so I don’t think there’s anyplace—”

  Will heard a door squeak open.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Kalyn pushed the last shell of buckshot into the twelve-gauge and pumped it. She set it beside her, took out the Browning. The shotgun was good if you didn’t know how to shoot, but you could easily get yourself killed in the time it took to absorb the shoulder-bruising recoil, pump it, and take aim. Her head was bleeding again, and she was dizzy from the blow.

  As she wiped away the rivulet of blood trailing down her nose, the Browning flew out of her hand and slid across the stone, hitting the library door. She went for the shotgun, and as she realized it wasn’t there, she felt its barrel, still blazing hot, push into the back of her neck.

  “You will tell me your name.”

  She stared at the floor, said nothing.

  “Are you the ex-FBI agent?”

  “No, I’ve been imprisoned in this lodge for five years. But I can take you to her right now. She’s just through that passage over—”

  “Stand up.” Kalyn stood. “Take three steps forward and slowly turn around, leaving your hands up, fingers open.” Kalyn moved toward the doors, her arms raised. She stopped and turned.

  A man garbed all in black stood in the hearth, covering her with her shotgun. Where his face wasn’t streaked with soot, she saw that his skin was reddish brown, wondered if perhaps he was half Mayan.

  He looked at Kalyn, said, “I’m afraid you resemble the photograph I have of Kalyn Sharp. Are there any other weapons on your person?” She shook her head. “Remove your jacket and your pants.” Kalyn didn’t move. “Take them off now, or what’s going to happen to you will only last longer and involve more pain.”

  A pair of shotgun blasts tore out of the passage.

  . . .

  Will yelled into the corridor, “You wanna walk out of here, Javier? Two of your friends are already de
ad.”

  . . .

  A small explosion around the corner shook the floor beneath Will’s feet.

  After a moment, another noise filled the passage—a zipper in motion, followed by the sound of something dragging across the floor. Will didn’t risk taking a peek.

  “Hello, Will. Were you able to locate your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope the very short amount of time you’ve had together was worth the pain that is coming your way.”

  “Look, you have nowhere to go, and there’re two of us here with shotguns.”

  Something went whisk in the corridor.

  “What was that?” Will asked. The sweeter smell of tobacco smoke mixed in with the cordite. Will was thinking, Maybe I should just go for it, poke out mid-sentence, hope to catch him off guard.

  “Do you remember, Will, the substance of our last conversation?”

  “Yes, you—”

  “I extended you and Kalyn the opportunity to improve the outcome of our inevitable future meeting.”

  “Javier—”

  “And you did not accept my offer.”

  “Jav—”

  “What? What, Will? What are you about to propose? That we call things a day? Do you believe I have traveled all these miles, at great expense, suffered cold and snow, the myriad wrongs to me and my family, only to turn right around and go home now that I have found you? Please answer me.”

  “No.”

  “Well said.”

  Will looked at Rachael, whispered, “We’re gonna have to kill him.”

  “Will, I know your daughter is behind that door. Would you care to know my plans involving her?”

  SEVENTY

  Fidel finished patting down Kalyn. She was already sweating, her hands restless with nervous tremors.

  The man began to shift back and forth on the balls of his feet like a prize-fighter. He grinned. “We go a few rounds? Hand-to-hand combat?”