‘‘That was a gunshot.’’
‘‘Right.’’ He’d packed two Glocks and a hundred rounds of ammunition. When he’d loaded the bag, he’d thought that if he didn’t kill the Varinskis with a hundred rounds, he never would. But with Karen with him, one hundred rounds seemed pitifully few. With Karen here he wished he had an M16 machine gun. Or a tank. Anything to keep her safe.
‘‘You think it was the Varinskis.’’ She helped him load the weapons. ‘‘But couldn’t it be a hunter?’’
He strapped one pistol around his chest under his coat, and all the while he worked the possible scenarios for attack and defense. ‘‘Anything’s possible.’’
‘‘You’re right.’’ She acknowledged the words he hadn’t spoken. ‘‘But not probable.’’
‘‘You’re a marksman, right?’’
‘‘My father made sure of that.’’
As Warlord strapped a pistol around her, under her coat, he smiled into her face. ‘‘Your father had his good points.’’
‘‘He prepared me for survival, that’s for sure. The old son of a bitch.’’ She sounded wistful.
He understood why. He’d seen the conflicting emotions that roiled in her. She hated Jackson Sonnet for raising her without sentiment or softness. Yet at the same time he’d been her only parent, the constant in her life, and although she didn’t want to admit it, she understood what a blow to his pride her mother’s infidelity had been . . . and his best friend’s betrayal. ‘‘You miss him.’’
She nodded. ‘‘I guess I do.’’
‘‘When this is over we’ll go see him.’’ He put his knife up his sleeve. He hung the ropes on his belt by the snap links. Opening her bag, he said, ‘‘Get the icon.’’ He wouldn’t touch it. He still had the burns from the first time.
‘‘We’re not taking the rest of our stuff?’’ She sorted through her clothes.
‘‘We’ve got to move fast.’’ He laid out their snowshoes.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t complain. She didn’t lecture him on the environmental impact of leaving their equipment. She brought out the icon, then the picture frame. With swift motions she stripped out her mother’s picture. She tucked them both in an inner pocket with a Velcro catch. Her skinning knife went in a pocket; her camping ax hung on her belt.
He strapped on his snowshoes.
She followed suit. ‘‘I’m ready.’’
‘‘You’re a woman in a million.’’ He glanced at his portable GPS, and they moved out.
The going was downhill, but rugged. He kept them under cover where he could, avoiding deep snowbanks, watching the skies, and listening for pursuit.
‘‘Where are we headed?’’ she asked.
‘‘The rendezvous with Jasha.’’
‘‘If he’s not there?’’
‘‘That spot is the best defensive high ground I could find. That’s why I chose it.’’
‘‘How did you foresee all this?’’
‘‘I prepared for every scenario.’’ He glanced back at her. ‘‘When you meet my father, you’ll understand.’’
‘‘Am I meeting your father?’’
‘‘He’ll want to meet my bride.’’
‘‘I haven’t said yes.’’
‘‘I’m hopeful.’’ He grinned at her mulish expression, and faced front.
‘‘How far do we have to go?’’
‘‘Are you tired?’’ The exercise was burning off the last effects of the venom. He felt good, yet the high altitude made his lungs fight for enough air. For all Karen’s stoicism, she was completely human, and a girl.
‘‘I’m fine.’’
‘‘I can carry you.’’
She caught up with him. ‘‘Look. I grew up hiking around the Rockies, and they make the Sierra Nevadas look like an overpass.’’ She fell back. ‘‘So don’t patronize me, mister.’’
‘‘Touchy.’’ He grinned as he felt the blast of her fury warm his back. ‘‘We’re probably twenty miles from the wreckage. The bird hasn’t found us yet.’’
‘‘The bird? You mean the falcon? I thought you killed it?’’
‘‘There are more. When they’re tracking they’ll always bring at least one bird. Once it locates us we’re prey, and it’s just a matter of time before the pack arrives to finish the job. If we can get to the rendezvous first, and Jasha is there, we’ll have a chance. If he’s brought reinforcements, that would be better.’’
‘‘How many reinforcements?’’ She began to sound hopeful.
‘‘My brother Rurik.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ She was deflated.
‘‘Don’t discount my brothers. My father coached them. Coached us all. They’re smart and vicious fighters.’’
‘‘So we’ve got a chance?’’
‘‘Sure. There’s always a chance.’’ Not much of one, but the prospect of the fight cheered Warlord. He wanted that icon safely with his family. He wanted Karen where he could protect her. Most of all, he wanted to finish Innokenti. It was time to free himself of the fear that haunted his every footstep. ‘‘Depends on how many men Innokenti brought. More than eight and we’re in trouble.’’
‘‘Great,’’ she muttered.
‘‘Remember—you can’t kill a Varinski. They’re part of the pact, essentially demons from hell.’’
‘‘Then what am I doing with a gun?’’
‘‘You can hurt them. You can protect yourself. ’’ They were making good time, but the next stretch was an old rock slide, clear of cover, with barely a tree to protect them from watching eyes, and a great, sheer pack of snow.
Warlord stopped at the top. ‘‘No way around.’’
‘‘But a great way to make speed.’’ She pointed at a great old downed cedar. The bark was loose, and with a few swipes of her ax she held a piece as tall as she was and half as wide. She put it on the snow, pointing downhill, and took off her snowshoes.
‘‘A sled.’’ He couldn’t believe his clever girl.
‘‘Get on,’’ she said.
He almost took the front, then realized it was her idea. He took the back. ‘‘How did you think to do this?’’ He tucked his snowshoes under his arm.
‘‘You’ve never built one?’’
‘‘No. We always bought them at Wally-world. ’’
She got on the front. ‘‘My dad didn’t see the sense in play, so my toys always had a practical purpose.’’
The old son of a bitch, indeed.
She continued, ‘‘That meant I had to get innovative. I got pretty good at picking out the appropriate tree and—’’
They pushed off. The bark was rough on the bottom, and at first it was slow, but as the snow packed on underneath they moved faster and faster. And, Warlord quickly realized, they couldn’t steer. By the time they reached the bottom they were flying—flying toward the pile of boulders and downed trees left by a rockfall. He was horrified, terrified, wondering what maggot had suggested he do the gentlemanly thing and let Karen sit in front . . . when a splinter flew past his cheek. Another, and then half the sled. The whole thing disintegrated beneath them and they came to a skidding stop.
While he sat there in shock in the snow, Karen stood and dusted off her seat. ‘‘I was starting to wonder if that would break apart in time.’’ She offered her hand. ‘‘We should get out of here.’’
He jerked his gaze toward the sky.
A single brown hawk circled high above them. Another joined him.
‘‘They’ve nailed us. Let’s go.’’
The next two miles were a hell of haste and worry. The wind blew in their faces, freezing their exposed skin and making the going hard. Their trip on the sled had cracked one of Karen’s snowshoes. They abandoned them. Every fifteen minutes he made her drink water and eat a few bites, but they never slowed. Every moment he strained to hear the sound of paws racing across the snow. ‘‘We’re getting close,’’ he said.
Before she could answer, a wolf howled half a mile behind them
.
The color drained from her face.
He pointed. ‘‘Run straight ahead.’’
She watched him shed his coat, his hat, every bulky bit of clothing, stripping down until he should be shivering. Yet he burned with the heat of battle. ‘‘What are you going to do?’’
‘‘Fight the back guard. When you get to the top of the cliff—’’
‘‘A cliff?’’ Her eyes accused him. ‘‘That’s your defensible ground?’’
He handed her her rappelling equipment. ‘‘There’s a cave two-thirds of the way down. Get in it.’’ Grabbing her, he kissed her with all the love and desperation in his heart. ‘‘Whatever you do, stay safe. I can’t bear the thought of a world without you.’’
Chapter Thirty-one
Karen recognized a good-bye kiss when she received one.
Warlord pushed her away.
She grabbed him by the front of his thin T-shirt and pulled him back. She kissed him hard, branding him with her taste. ‘‘Be safe yourself. Fight well.’’ Turning, she sprinted down the hill . . . leaving her love behind.
Hell of a time to decide that.
‘‘A cliff,’’ she muttered. ‘‘Good thinking, Warlord.’’ Of course, from a purely strategic point of view, it was good thinking.
She could see the long stretch of ground ahead, dotted with giant incense cedars, then the break in the earth where the cliff fell away. If she and Warlord reached the bottom first, as Innokenti and his men came over the cliff they could pick them off. But Warlord wasn’t with her, the bottom was a long way down, and how did he think she was going to rappel when the only time she’d ever rappelled was when her father had forced her into a harness and flung her bodily off a training wall. She walked faster, her gaze on the edge of that cliff. If she concentrated very hard on the memory of Jackson Sonnet yelling at her, ‘‘Get your ass over, Karen!’’ that might get her in position—
A man stepped out from behind a tree and in front of her.
A Varinski.
She recognized him by his height, his strength . . . the red glow deep in his eyes.
In one smooth motion she brought her pistol out of her holster.
He put his hands up. ‘‘I’m Rurik!’’
She didn’t lower the pistol.
‘‘Rurik Wilder.’’
‘‘You might be.’’ Because he looked a little like Warlord, but with brown hair.
‘‘Did he tell you about me?’’ The red glow faded a little, and the guy who called himself Rurik tried to look meek.
It didn’t work.
‘‘He told me about you.’’ This guy was dressed for combat, too, in a minimum of clothing.
‘‘Jasha’s going to help Adrik.’’
Up the hill she heard a shot, then the shriek of a bird as it spiraled downward.
The supposed brother tensed, and the red glow intensified.
‘‘Why aren’t you helping Adrik?’’ she asked coldly.
‘‘Because Jasha put me here to help you.’’
‘‘You are Adrik’s brother.’’ She put her pistol away.
‘‘Yeah.’’ He frowned. ‘‘What convinced you?’’
‘‘You think I’m a girl, and you want to protect me. Instead, why don’t you give me some credit? Go help your brothers.’’
‘‘You sound like my wife,’’ he said in shock.
‘‘She must be a remarkable woman.’’
‘‘That’s one way to describe her,’’ he mumbled.
She started downhill.
When she looked back he was gone.
She ran the last steps to the top of the cliff, ran so quickly she almost skidded off—which would have solved the problem of protecting her, for the cliff was seventy-five feet high, with great boulders at the base. Solved the problem, yes, but would have ruined her day.
Behind her, she heard another shot, a human scream, and the deep-throated howl of a wolf.
Stupid to know that battle was joined, that her man and his brothers were fighting for their lives, and hers, and yet her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she hooked herself into the harness and fastened the rope to a tree.
Shouldn’t the bright, new, shiny fears trump the old, silly, worthless fears?
In the logical part of her mind, she noted that the cliff was sheer granite, with almost no handholds and no way to save herself if she fell. Which was ridiculous, because she had tested the rope. She hoped she managed to keep her eyes open long enough to find the cave. As she inched her way over the edge of the cliff—
‘‘Go! Go! Go!’’ She heard Warlord yelling, and looked up to see him racing toward her. ‘‘Jasha and Rurik are holding them, but Innokenti split the group. They’ve found a way down. We’re surrounded!’’ He climbed into the harness and fastened his rope to a rock. ‘‘I’m your defense in the cave.’’
She found she was over the edge, in the L shape, her feet firmly planted on the cliff face. She launched herself with a jump, let the rope play out, launched herself again. Her heart thrummed frantically. Her hands sweated. But she could do this. She could definitely do this. ‘‘I’m fine,’’ she yelled. ‘‘Hurry!’’
Below them someone gave a deep, ululating war cry. The hair rose on the back of her head.
Her hand slipped. She froze. She looked down. Five Varinskis swarmed out of the woods.
One had a face like a Neanderthal, a body like a tank, and wore machine bolts for earrings. He looked up at her—and grinned.
Innokenti.
Midair, Warlord passed her, speeding down the rope face-first, shooting with cool marksmanship.
No way would she let him be braver than she was; perhaps Jackson Sonnet wasn’t really her father, but he’d imbued her with his competitive spirit. She leaped as hard as she could.
At the top of the cliff she heard shots, doglike growls, and the sounds of battle.
Below, Innokenti gestured to his men. They spread out.
One took wing as an eagle.
Innokenti staggered back as one of Warlord’s bullets hit him in the chest, then straightened again.
Kevlar vest, she thought, and hoped it was true.
He took up a position, legs braced. He lifted his pistol, took aim, and shot.
Warlord collapsed. Began to fall. Brought himself up. Collapsed again. Blood covered his forearm, and he struggled to control his descent.
Infuriated, Karen screamed like a banshee. ‘‘Asshole. Innokenti, you asshole!’’
Warlord struggled to stay in place.
She leaped toward him. Realized the futility. Vaulted toward the cave.
She was rappelling like a pro.
Below her Innokenti laughed, great, booming roars of amusement.
Hail struck her face. No, not hail—bullets riddled the cliff around her, and rock chips blasted her.
‘‘Hang on,’’ she screamed at Warlord.
She jumped hard enough to land in the cave. Stripped off her coat. Freed her pistol. Stepped out on the ledge.
Warlord struggled with the ropes. If he lost tension, he would fall right into Innokenti’s arms.
Innokenti aimed at Warlord.
The eagle dive-bombed toward her, cruel eyes fixed, talons out.
She looked down the sights at Innokenti. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
And a blast blew the bird out of the air.
Feathers flew. The eagle screamed in pain and rage.
Jackson Sonnet stepped out of the forest below, a .30-06 rifle against his shoulder. ‘‘Take that!’’ he shouted. ‘‘No one’s going to hurt my goddamn daughter.’’
Chapter Thirty-two
Karen shot as Innokenti turned to wave his men at Jackson. The bullet blasted a divot in the side of Varinski’s neck.
Innokenti fell, blood pumping from the wound.
The wolf pack charged Jackson.
‘‘Daddy!’’ Karen screamed.
Jackson shot one, smacked another in the head with the butt of his gun
, and as he fell beneath the onslaught, she saw his hunting knife flash.
The animals squealed, not dead—impossible, for Jackson might be an old son of a bitch, but he wasn’t a demon. But he’d hurt them.
She was so proud of him.
Flinging herself flat on the floor of the cave, she crawled to the edge and positioned herself for the best angle. She shot a cougar as it turned toward Jackson, then shot another that pranced beneath Warlord’s ropes, shaking them like a boy shook an apple tree. She shot one bullet after another, and did as Warlord had instructed—she made each one count. She emptied the pistol, and as she thrust more bullets into the clip she looked for Warlord.
He hung there like a target.
Blood covered his arm. Using one hand he descended a few feet, shot at the beasts below, descended again.
She had to give him the time to get to the ground. She had to keep the Varinskis at bay. Nothing she had ever done in her life was as important as that.
Her fingers shook, and she counted each bullet as she pressed it in place. Five, six, seven . . . She heard a roar from below, and glanced up.
Innokenti was on his feet, weaving back and forth. He looked around his battlefield.
His victory was slipping from his grasp.
Angry color flooded his face. He fixed his gaze on Warlord, grinned evilly, and strode toward the cliff to wait.
Karen didn’t have time to load her weapon.
She refused to watch helplessly.
Grabbing the dangling rope, she kicked off, and from a height of twenty-five feet—more than a two-story building—she flung herself at Innokenti.
Maybe the Varinski blood in her made her stronger than ever in her life.
Maybe she was secretly a ninja warrior.
Maybe it was the strength of her love for Warlord.
She didn’t know. She knew only that when she slammed onto Innokenti’s shoulders, every bone in her body crunched, but the impact knocked him flat on his face. And she was still alive and fighting.
As he lifted his head, she smashed her gold-clad wrists against his ears. The bracelets clanged against his bolt earrings.
His head dropped again. He shook it like a dog shaking off water.
With a haste born of desperation, she wrapped the length of the rope around his neck and twisted.