by Nya Rawlyns
Cold hard metal bit into her scalp and slid seductively to prick her ear and vanish down her neck, the exposed skin pulling taut against the intrusion.
"Hands in the air."
The man had an odd accent, faintly familiar, not native born, but in the country for a fair amount of time. But it wasn't anything like the Greyfalcon group or Trey who had sometimes let the guttural pronunciations leak through when he'd caressed her through the interminable night, murmuring her name over and over. The man with the gun at her throat gripped her arm with his left hand and pulled her to her feet. From the angle of the barrel resting on her collarbone, she guessed him to be several inches shorter than her lanky frame.
Caitlin debated lifting her shoulder and dislodging the weapon enough that she could spin and grab it before her assailant figured out her plan. As if he read her mind, he warned her, "Don't try it."
Limbs creaked and moaned as upper level winds shifted and gathered strength. The snow had stopped but the cold raced in on a downhill ski run, picking up speed and wrapping everything in a smooth glaze.
"Is she alone?" This from one of the uphill team.
"Looks that way."
"Where'd he get to?" The question directed to her. She turned and mouthed, "I don't..." but the third, then the fourth of the squad converged and she felt rough hands slam her against the stand of birch. Her head cracked the coarse bark, sending shards spraying out and down. The gun barrel skittered down her arm, coming to rest just below her breast. Memories of Trey crushing her against the rough stone, his body hovering millimeters away, the tease, the inevitable swift rejection and little death as hope spilled tiny droplets of blood rushing to fill the spaces that fear opened. She felt the link, still weak.
The gun trailed over the rough wool, lazing an outline of her breast, until a harsh guttural sound, and a prick in the right side of her neck, sent her spiraling inward. She grasped at the energy pooling in her gut, willing it outward to follow the link. Something, someone, cooed patience and cradled her in his arms, her last thought for the man she would not name.
****
Wolf skidded to a halt as headlights winked intermittently through the line of trees. They were on another sweep uphill, still searching. He could barely hear the whine of the engines for the rush of blood and pounding of his heart. He'd gone full tilt for nearly a half mile on a squirrelly surface, rutted and slick, unforgiving. The stand of trees to his right banked up to the road, tight with heavy brush. Good cover but difficult to maneuver. He opted to scramble up the left bank, hoping to make time over clearer ground. It was risky but he had a reckless need to find the woman at all costs.
He could hear them clearly, engine pitch ramped high on fast approach. Faster than he could negotiate across the open patch he'd foolishly chosen. He'd never make it across the road in time to shelter in the dense brush. Already the high beams illuminated the stretch adjacent to his position. He muttered, "Damnation," and lunged downhill toward a stand of young trees. His toe snagged on something in the deep snow, sending him to his knees. Cursing, he rolled onto his side and slid into a shallow ditch running at ninety degrees to the road.
The shotgun sat at an awkward angle, digging into his right side. He wriggled until he could free it, then flopped on his belly and sighted down the barrel, waiting. The din from the four-stroke engine reverbed on deep bass notes as the ground vibrated and hummed. Wolf pivoted slowly using a flat rock to balance the weapon. He wished for a decent scope but the kick back from the Brenneke slugs would have put out his eye. As it was, the roughly 70 caliber special shotgun shells had a recoil that would beat the hell out of his shoulder with nothing to brace against. He forced his field of view into soft focus, blanking out the glare from the halogens that all but killed his night vision. The Bearcat ground past, its wide track digging into snowpack churned to icy slush.
One man. Wolf risked a shallow breath and swung the shotgun downhill, straining to hear footfalls as an under-note to the crushing blast of noise from the snowmobile. The machine would have overrun his tracks as he'd crossed the road, but not the ones on the edge of the far side where he'd run like a madman, following the intermittent set left by Caitlin.
Slow movement on the opposite side caught his attention. He'd been right. The second rider had dismounted, proceeding on foot and carefully assessing the tracks. He was still downhill and a mere shadow against the backdrop of trees but the motion was steady, nothing catching his interest. Twenty more yards. Soon he would find larger tracks, spaced farther apart. If the man were any kind of tracker at all, he'd know immediately that someone else had recently barreled down the mountain on foot. Ten yards. Slowing. Wolf dug his left shoulder into the edge of the ditch, his finger pressed on the trigger, metallic cold infiltrating his thin wool gloves.
The man scanned left and right, head bent toward the road surface. Against the dark curtain of heavy brush the figure appeared two dimensional and flat. Wolf's eyes watered and blurred his vision, but he dared not move and draw attention. As long as the stalker kept his head down, he'd go unnoticed. Five yards. Wolf tensed, blinked. Two yards. He set the recoil pad lower onto his right shoulder. The stalker stopped and stared up the road, eyes shielded.
Wolf cocked his head. The Bearcat was coming back down the road, not yet close enough to illuminate the figure in his sights. The machine sputtered over the rise, then geared down. The stalker waved and jumped onto the low bank as the Cat eased to a halt next to him. The two men exchanged words but Wolf couldn't hear the voices over the idling engine. The man on foot gesticulated wildly, clearly unhappy about something. The driver shrugged and turned away as the stalker mounted and slung his rifle over his shoulder. The machine kicked over and sped down the road, leaving Wolf in a cold sweat and curious about the exchange. He waited a few minutes to make sure the snowmobile kept a steady pace away from his location, then quickly lunged to his feet, stepped out of the depression and trotted across the road. The driver had allowed the Bearcat to swing close to the edge, near the culvert, effectively wiping away all tracks, his and Caitlin's.
He wasn't going to pat himself on the back and bless Freyja for that stroke of good luck. They had to know he was out there, somewhere. They were professionals, armed to the teeth and disciplined. He would not make the mistake of underestimating his and Caitlin's enemies. On one point he was clear—these men came from neither Eirik's nor Gunnarr's camps. A new player had joined the party. Eirik's paranoia may have been well-grounded. The Althings were too small and tight-knit to afford splinter groups without the gothi becoming aware of dissension and unusual behavior. In truth, most of his men were warriors, not deep thinkers, and not easily swayed by idle philosophy or the lures of competing 'opportunities'. If he had to trust anything, it was in the loyalty and steadfastness of the people under his command.
Gunnarr, however, controlled a much larger, and looser, organization—a hybrid of human and Norse, as he was fond of branding his ethnicity. He had satellite groups scattered about the North American continent and South America, with primary bases in Miami and New York City to handle his drugs and arms trade. Eirik had intercepted significant chatter between and among the far-flung groups that spoke to a growing awareness of the Portals and increasing irritation that the devices were under the absolute hegemony of a minority cabal in Greyfalcon. Gunnarr was under fire from within and without.
Something had happened while he and Eirik engaged in witness protection duties with the woman and her unreliable 'talents'. The Portals were under siege. His people had a moral responsibility to protect and guard the inter-dimensional gates from abuse and misuse. And if that meant shutting them down, once and for all, he wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. Even if it meant never going home again. Even if it meant ending his near immortality. He was weary, lonely. Something he'd never been before. Now everything had changed and he had little patience for looking at his own motivations.
At a subconscious level, Wolf became aware of the sky l
ightening to the southeast. His belly rumbled, demanding food. He hadn't eaten for more than twenty-four hours, not normally a problem for him, but the expenditures of energy to stay warm and to keep pace over difficult terrain, in less than optimal conditions, had finally taken a toll on his body. He shivered as a frisson of anxiety spun up his spine and lodged as a migraine-inducing ache behind his eyes. He knew it for what it was—the link that Eirik had described, that rare pathway between kindred spirits, suddenly blazed with clarity, fueled by fear and pain. They had her. And they hurt her.
They had to know he was coming. He shouldered the shotgun and took off at a sprint. Best not to keep them waiting.
****
"What this?" A blocky figure in a black snowmobile suit and carbon-fiber helmet fingered the syringe. He flipped the shield up and asked again, "What you use?"
"Nothing. She's fine. She'll sleep for a while."
"No sleep. Look dead."
"Shut it, Uri. Arne knows what he's doing. Load 'er on the Cat and get her back to the cabin. They'll do a pickup once the plows go through." The team leader motioned for Arne to load the prone body onto the Bearcat with the extended seat.
"She gonna flop. Better to keep awake, nyet?" Uri persisted with his criticism but backed off when his boss swung a Glock in his direction. He raised his hands, palms up, and backed away.
The team leader barked, "On idet. Voĭti v polozhenie."
"Yeah, boss, he's coming, but from what direction? We couldn't spot any tracks, at least not definite. Asshole here had to make like a fucking Formula One and wiped the tracks."
"Never mind that. He had to be following the woman. That means he'll be coming from," the team leader waved uphill, "that direction, likely keeping close to the road, making time."
The small man called Arne lifted Caitlin effortlessly and half-carried, half-dragged her prone form to the closest snowmobile. He settled her on the ground, propped against the Bearcat and stomped back to the small group. The men conversed quietly, still arguing over tactics.
"Arne, what do you think? You know this terrain. How's he gonna come at us?"
Arne pulled his helmet off and rubbed at short, sandy blonde hair, matted against his head from the pressure of the helmet. "We don' know nothing 'bout this one. I think just muscle. Maybe change mind."
The team leader grimaced and growled, "Da, not like he didn't hear us. But we can't take a chance and let him walk. Uri, you and Serge, get on either side. And watch your backs. If he's not on the road, there's no telling where the hell he is."
Uri nodded assent and motioned to Serge to follow him back up the hill. Despite the low-hanging clouds, weak light filtered through the woods, creating shadows that wavered and danced as the taller trees yielded to upper level winds. Serge split to the right and raced across the road, disappearing into a thick stand of white pine. Uri continued up the road for another hundred yards and melted into the underbrush.
The team leader waved his remaining member over. "We'll take her back to the cabin. If the man gets past Uri and Serge, he'll likely make for home base." He turned and strode toward the Bearcat. Stripping a glove he felt the woman's neck for a pulse, muttering, "Maybe that was too much." He mounted the snowmobile and waited while Arne lifted and settled the woman on the indentation behind the driver, then climbed onto the rear seat and braced her body between them. Arne tapped the leader's shoulder. The Bearcat jerked and settled, moving slowly downhill so as not to dislodge their cargo.
****
Wolf observed the tableau from a short overhang above a dry creek bed. He'd moved deep into the woods, relying on his sense of direction to keep him headed roughly parallel to the road. It snaked and s-turned down the steep grade and gave him the benefit of cutting off the distance between him and the assault teams. He worried he might actually overshoot the targets. His gut had been a churning mass of discontent—the only way he could describe the sensation. It wasn't painful, exactly, though the longer it went on, the more irritated he became. It grated against every nerve ending, bothersome at best and at worst a serious distraction. She was close. He could almost taste her essence.
Memories of her scent and the feel of her thin frame pressed into his chest brought him up short. False memories he assured himself. Their 'interlude' had been so brief as to be ludicrous. Surely it would not have this lingering impact, as if she'd been hard-wired into his nervous system. He needed to do this job, recover the asset, hand her over to Eirik and request reassignment. He could not go on this way, consumed, eaten alive with desires he couldn't name.
He settled on the small outcrop, content to watch and evaluate. The woman lay against one of the snowmobiles but he couldn't see well enough to determine if she were trussed, tranquilized or genuinely injured. Her energy flowed steadily, albeit weak. He no longer felt fear, dismay, pain or any of the dozens of emotions she'd been broadcasting like a damned radio tower, all frequencies all at once. He'd gone into circuit overload until abruptly it shut down. Whatever they'd done to contain her, he was grateful for the respite. It gave him time and energy to think through his next steps.
The men below argued—he could tell that by body language and exaggerated gestures—then two of them split off and proceeded uphill. He lost them in the trees. The other two loaded the woman on the Bearcat and took off downhill, to what destination he couldn't be sure. The only thing down there was their cabin. That was a thought he didn't want to entertain right that minute for it brought up a host of options and concerns that seriously messed with his limited understanding of what was going on. He expected to lose the link with the woman as her captors distanced themselves from his perch but it stayed steady and true, a tiny hum of hope and prayer.
Wolf muttered, "Now would be a good time for some guidance, my goddess."
He wiggled off the ledge and landed in the creek bed, discernible only as an indent in the snow pack. The woods had taken on a translucent quality with weak shadows fogging the backdrop of upright trunks and lacy pine foliage. It made movement impossible to detect as the entire mountain oscillated and waved to some cosmic tune. If nothing else it would mask his approach. Wolf headed south for several hundred yards, then turned sharply left until he came within sight of the road. He was below the last snowmobile, still well within the tree line. Slipping the shotgun off his shoulder, he dodged from one tree trunk to another. There was no way to know exactly where each man had positioned himself, other than it was likely they were on separate sides of the road. Split the target, make it more difficult—it's what he would have done.
He needed to get in relatively close, despite the Brenneke slugs effectively tripling the range on his Mossberg. If he tried using his shielding, he would compromise visibility, not a good thing when trying to sight in a target. The snow pack had a coating of ice from the freezing rain, and though the woods seemed alive with a cacophony of creaking and cracking limbs, he doubted it would be enough to mask his approach. His only advantage was that he was downwind of his quarry. And even after he took the one, he'd be faced with another rapidly moving target, one who might—or might not—turn tail and run for the Bearcat. He'd have to worry about that later. One thing at a time.
A gust of wind rattled the upper limbs, prompting a shower of icy flakes that filtered down the back of his jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied movement as the target carelessly brushed away snow from the back of his neck. Wolf thought, got him, and moved quickly into position to take the shot, but just as quickly reconsidered. He had one chance for two-birds-with-one stone but not if he sounded like an invading army. He'd have to take this one the old-fashioned way.
Silently Wolf set his Mossberg against a tree trunk and withdrew his blade from its sheath at his side. He said a short prayer to Freyja and advanced in a crouch, weaving amongst the downed limbs and irregularly spaced pines and maples, timing his movements to the wind. The man seemed to sense his presence but was reluctant to take his gaze from the road, only yards away. Wolf car
efully measured his trajectory, then employed his shield at full strength and launched at his quarry's back.
****
"Arne? Put her in the walkway. Tie her. I need to see if the electricity's working yet."
"Sir. There's a satnav..."
"Won't do us any good with the weather. Clouds getting thick again. I'm betting we're getting ready for round two."
"Yes sir."
"Take a look around outside. Listen for anything. We can't assume Uri and Serge will bag the man."
The team leader entered the small enclosed porch and slipped off his boots and socks—his feet were frozen despite high tech insulation and advanced design. He unzipped and shed the black snowmobile suit and hung it carefully on the rack. His innards felt like they'd been on puree for far too long. He flicked the switch but no lights came on. The kitchen was cold, as was the rest of the interior. He opened the Vermont stove and poked at the ashes. He would need to restart it. Annoyed that no one was around to tend to the task, he stomped back into the kitchen, reached for the rifle but stopped abruptly. He'd need both hands to carry the pile of wood inside. Their initial reconnoiter had pinpointed the wood shed with the enclosed walkway so he needn't bother with outerwear. He slipped the boots on and laced them quickly, then trotted down the short corridor, through the garage and into the lean-to. He grabbed six split logs and hastened back to the cabin.
As he passed the prone body of the woman, he wondered why she was so important. They were on a need-to-know basis with upper management. Obviously she qualified. It didn't matter, she was just a job. The only specification—and the brass had been very clear on that point—they were to bring her back alive and relatively unharmed. He hoped overdosing her on tranqs didn't qualify as 'abuse' on his part. So he'd misjudged her body mass. Who knew she'd be Twiggy? She was skinny enough for a career as a runway model. He bent down to feel for a pulse and was gratified to find one, slow and steady. He'd have to find her a blanket. It was too cold in the walkway, barely above freezing, but he was disinclined to carry her all the way inside. Maybe when Uri came in, they could do it together.