Had come running without a moment’s pause to help in any way she could.
When she arrived, she had accepted a position below her worth, was attempting to make the best of it, was even working an exceptionally long shift when she was nabbed.
Put simply, she was better than Sam Cuddyer or Jasper Maxx or anybody like them who might be out there. If there was any way I could help make sure that they were not the last people she ever encountered in this life, then it was my responsibility to try.
Ferris was absolutely wrong, though, when he claimed that I had no earthly reason to offer assistance.
I couldn’t fault him for being wrong, his experiences with me being secondhand stories he had heard about the incident at my cabin six weeks earlier. And while they did illustrate the lengths I would be willing to go to, they said nothing about the reasons why.
Not a soul in Montana had any idea why I called the state home. They could not fathom that the place was chosen not as a refuge, but as a hideout, a spot I sought more than five years before to evade the world.
There was no reason for him to be aware that I had come here just weeks after offering my resignation from the DEA, that event coming just months after returning home early from a case to find my wife and daughter burned alive in the front yard, our home reduced to rubble behind them.
There was no way he would ever grasp the guilt I still carried with me, the fire burning in me to help every person I could, to honor every promise I had made, to atone for the fact that I had not been able to protect those who meant the most to me.
At just 35-years-old, I knew my soul was charred beyond repair, my body just an empty husk of who I once was. No amount of doing what was right, of putting myself in harm’s way for others, would ever make up for that.
It didn’t matter that Rake Ferris, or really anybody else, didn’t know any of that.
I knew it.
And it was the reason I answered when he knocked on my door, the very reason I would do the same the next time somebody came seeking my help.
The thoughts played through my mind as I pulled Ferris’s truck to a stop outside his brother’s house. Under the heavy blanket of white I couldn’t be sure where the driveway ended and the front yard began, not particularly caring as I hopped out. In two quick steps I was through the heavy drift, immune to the wet snow clinging to my clothes, and made my way across the porch, the floorboards echoing beneath my feet.
I went straight in without knocking, stopping on the rug inside the door. Everything appeared to be exactly as it was the last time I was there, the only difference being a noticeable lack of light, a single lamp burning in the living room.
Seated beside it was Mike Ferris, a hardback book in his lap, a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. He remained perfectly still as I entered, finishing the page he was on, before closing the book and looking up, pulling the glasses away and letting them hang from a chain around his neck.
If he was surprised in the slightest to see me standing there, he gave no indication whatsoever.
“Is Rake okay?” he asked, raising a gnarled hand and motioning me forward.
My wet shoes squeaked as I walked, water tracing my path across the floor.
“He will be,” I said. “His legs got chewed up pretty good, but nothing vital was damaged.”
How he had known his brother was hurt, I couldn’t be certain, though he most likely reasoned I wouldn’t be here alone unless something had happened to Rake.
“So you found her?” Mike asked.
“Not yet, but getting closer. We found their truck abandoned along the side of the road. They had rigged a grenade to the door...”
I left it at that, already having let enough time slip past, the afternoon fast giving way to evening.
“He told me you would have some things I could use,” I said.
I didn’t have any real idea what he had meant when he said it, knowing only that I couldn’t roll up on whoever was out there in Ferris’s truck carrying only the Kimber and the MK-3. I now knew of at least three men, possibly many more, waiting for me, and I knew that if they had grenades, they could have any number of other weapons.
What Mike, a withered old man, could have that would help, I couldn’t imagine, but it was worth 20 minutes for me to stop and find out.
After that, there would be no more stops.
Not until I found Yvonne.
“Did you know, I was the one who convinced Rake to find you?” Mike said, fixing his gaze on me, waiting for a response I did not give. “He was already toying with it, trying to balance it against his guilt, feeling like me and Yvonne were both his responsibility.”
Turning his head to the side he coughed twice, a wet, guttural sound that echoed in the room before falling away.
“I told him he was being an idiot. Someone out there had our Yvonne, and he needed someone like you on his side.”
“Someone like me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
His gaze met mine for a moment.
“There’s no need to play it off or be ashamed. This is a small town, we all know what happened. We also know that the only reason you are breathing free air is that you were in the right.”
I remained fixed in my spot, standing halfway across the room from him, saying nothing.
“And that’s the guy we needed to find Yvonne. Someone who doesn’t mind kicking a whole lot of ass, so long as he’s in the right.”
Just like his brother, Mike Ferris was only partially right. I had never thought to put anything I had done into those terms, but I could see how from his perspective, it could be construed that way.
“So,” Mike said, not bothering to wait for my response, “how can I help you go do that?”
Chapter Fifty-One
The first part of the journey had been easy. Yvonne’s legs had gone numb within seconds, helping her to move past the searing pinpricks of the cold as it passed through her scrubs and running shoes, gnawing at her toes. Her progress was slow, but fairly steady.
The coat and gloves, the three blankets, had kept her upper body warm, her blood pumping, reaching her lower extremities even if she couldn’t feel them.
She knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep frostbite at bay for long, praying with each step that town wasn’t too far beyond the scope of her vision, that it was just the swirling snow that kept her from seeing the lights of the hospital in the distance.
Time became irrelevant, she was making progress, the light of the barn and the men inside it, fading from view behind her.
Moisture continued to leak from the corners of her eyes as she pressed on, a natural reaction to the bitter cold, the wind freezing it to her cheeks. Her throat felt raw as she drew in ragged breaths of the icy air, the blanket pressed over her face, covering everything but her eyes.
The only way Yvonne could think to describe it was like a frigid Hell, a complete inversion of the traditional stereotype of the fiery afterlife.
Not until she spotted the light emerging in the distance did she have any idea how much worse things could get.
When she first saw it, her initial thought was that she had made it, that the edge of town was just up ahead, a beacon to guide her in. Her mouth turned up in a smile as relief flooded through, her progress stopping for a moment, her gaze raised to the sky, giving silent thanks.
It wasn’t until she lowered her face and opened her eyes again that she heard the sound accompanying it, the persistent rumble of an engine, unmistakable as it cut through the howling wind around her.
With every part of her clenching tight, Yvonne felt her jaw drop open, seeing the light grow from a tiny speck to a small orb, each moment bringing it closer.
The third man was returning.
The thought of help arriving, of someone having found her, never entered Yvonne’s mind as she stood and watched the light grow closer, frozen in place, unable to react. Gripped by cold, her feet entrenched in the snow, she waited, her psyche forcing its w
ay past the elements, tapping into the most primal of all human instincts.
Self-preservation.
Without thought or reason, without even looking where she was going, Yvonne turned hard to the left, flinging herself over the edge of the elevated surface she assumed to be the road. Turning on her side, she rolled three times, the snow and the blankets padding her body, a spray of ice flying up around her, whipping at her face, entering her mouth.
With each revolution her momentum grew, the pitch of the ground sharper than she realized, her body gaining speed before stopping abruptly.
Pain erupted in Yvonne’s ribs, stars appearing in her vision as she slammed into the base of a lodge pole pine, the trunk almost the width of her midsection, bending her in half around it. Her eyes bulging, she released her grip on the blanket, the wind ripping it away, pinning it to the tree behind her.
She forgot her frozen extremities, her raw lungs, as she lay wrapped around the base of the tree. Only vaguely did she notice the light as it passed her by, the enormous outline of the truck as it rumbled past never once slowing, giving no indication that anyone had seen her.
In that moment, for the first time, the thought of quitting entered Yvonne’s mind. Lying face down in the snow, all she had to do was wrestle her way out of the coat and gloves, let the blankets blow away. There she could remain, the bed of snow beneath her sapping all warmth from her body, forcing her into an eternal sleep within minutes.
Nobody would find her for days or even weeks, let alone disturb her as she slipped into the afterlife.
Just as fast the thought passed, ripped away by the wind as if it were the blanket that had enveloped her head.
She had come too far, had endured too much. Already, she had bested her captor, would find a way to make it back, to best the elements as well.
The last face she ever saw would damn sure not be that bearded bastard lying back there in the barn.
Forcing her legs up under her, Yvonne rose to a kneeling position. Her head ached, the world spinning just slightly, the last of the Advil beginning to fade from her system. Every breath was pained, a knife jabbing into her side, the instant diagnosis seeming to indicate at least one broken rib, potentially more.
Yvonne had seen enough such injuries through her training to know she had to be careful, the possibility of a piece of fractured bone piercing her lungs or heart very real.
Still, she was out of options. She had to chance it, to make her way back up the slope and keep moving toward town, to hope her body would hold up long enough for her to make it back.
Scooping a handful of snow from the ground beneath her, Yvonne pressed it into her mouth, holding it on her tongue a moment in hopes that it would melt before giving up and chewing slowly, the crystals forming a slush that she swallowed straight down. Twice more she took up massive scoops, fighting a losing battle to ignore the aching in her side, hoping the hydration would help, before rising to full height.
No matter how hard it was, no matter how long it took, she had to keep going.
Chapter Fifty-Two
I had made the mistake of letting my eyes tell me that I knew everything there was to know about Mike Ferris. I saw the breathing tube, the gapping bathrobe, the withering frame, and assumed that he was just another old man, the kind prone to sitting around and embellishing the past, the very kind I would probably be if there was any chance of me actually making it to his age.
What I had discounted was how much of what I saw was attributed to the sickness, sapping the vitality from the man long before his time. I had forgotten his life in the army, the fact that he was a Montana man through and through, with all the trappings that came with it.
When I was growing up, my father had a gun safe. It held one .30-06 for deer hunting, one Wingmaster for the occasional trip out for birds, and two antique handguns that had been passed down to him by my grandfather.
Back when I had an actual home of my own, beyond the hermit’s cabin outside of Glasgow, I had a gun cabinet, a handsome wood and glass job with a heavy lock on it to make sure that even if my daughter ever did ignore my repeated admonishments, she couldn’t open it.
Inside were two shotguns and a deer rifle, along with the same two antiques my father eventually gave me.
When not on the job, my service piece was stowed there as well.
Mike Ferris had a gun room.
The old man couldn’t get up from his chair, but directed me to the basement stairs, telling me where the light switch was on the wall, and instructing me to take whatever I wanted.
The hinges on the door screeched in protest, indicating it hadn’t been opened in some time, Mike probably unable to make the trek down, Yvonne having no need to.
The pale glow of yellow light illuminated everything as I flipped the switch. I descended the old creaking stairs into an unfinished basement cluttered with boxes, yard tools for summer, an ancient freezer that was unplugged, and the usual assortment of junk.
All of that I processed and pushed aside in a matter of moments, my attention drawn to the right, to the spread that was laid out on the opposite half of the space.
“Be all you can be,” I muttered, as I stared at what he had put together, an arsenal with everything needed should an invasion come sweeping over the Canadian border.
Three metal racks were affixed to the wall, large bolts countersunk into the concrete block. On them hung more than a dozen rifles, ranging from a .30-06 Winchester matching my own, to what looked like an Israeli assault weapon.
There was an M-16 and an AK-47, enough firepower to take out a small army, or make a certified gun nut swoon.
A glass case was positioned in front of the racks with least as many handguns, big revolvers on down to a Derringer that would fit in the palm of my hand. Each one had been cleaned and polished, all resting on oil cloths, ready to go.
Beneath the case were scores of ammo boxes matching each of the weapons.
The opposite wall had racks with army camouflage uniforms for all seasons, even heavy coats and other accessories for winter.
In the corner more boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling, the letters MRE – Meals Ready to Eat – stenciled on the side along with a description of whatever army delicacies were packed inside.
There was no stopping my mouth as it dropped open, staring at the display before me. For five years I had lived in Montana, had heard the stories about anti-governments types and militias hiding in the mountains, but had never put much stock in them.
Never would I have imagined...
Just as fast I pushed the notion aside, unbuttoning my canvas coat and letting it drop to the floor. I placed the Kimber on top of it, not knowing what was about to take place, but reasonably certain the sheriff would appreciate me not using a weapon registered to him in a gunfight.
Starting on the far wall, I snatched a white blizzard parka off the rack and shrugged it on. The shoulders were a bit snug, the sleeves just a touch too short, but the front zipped fine, the garment much warmer than the one I had just stripped off.
It would do.
I also grabbed a watch cap and heavy gloves, both made from thick wool knit, and a pair of goggles. Despite the cold outside, that would be enough to keep me warm without inhibiting my movements.
I moved to my left and took up a matching pair of Walther PPK’s, both with full magazines inserted, a round chambered. I stowed them in my front pockets, my gaze lingering on the ammunition piled on the floor, before shoving aside the notion.
The Walther’s alone held 30 rounds, the odds of firing even a fraction of that low, any more than that nonexistent.
My last acquisition before heading up out of the bunker was an M-16 with a full banana clip, the same weapon I had cut my teeth on in the navy years before.
The Israeli weapon was bigger, offered a larger magazine, and the AK had a bit more stopping power, but there was something to be said for familiarity. I had trained with the M-16, could switch from single shot
to three round bursts without glancing down at it, knew it wouldn’t seize up in the cold.
My old coat and the Kimber I left where they lay, ascending the steps, my body temperature rising in the army winter gear, the new weapons filling me with renewed resolve.
I now had a heading for Yvonne Endicott, or at least some clear tracks cut through the snow. I also had the firepower I needed to meet whatever challenge may await when I arrived.
Together, those two facts combined to put me in a state I had once been intimately familiar with, had spent most of the last five years hiding from. The guesswork was over. Now all that was left was the matter of riding out to meet the enemy, of seeing which side was the better prepared.
One of the guys on my FAST team liked to say the person who wins a fight is the one willing to take it the furthest.
I didn’t know the men who had Yvonne Endicott, but I knew for certain that they were not willing to take things as far as I was.
As I emerged from the basement, Mike Ferris had managed to work his way into the kitchen, the canister of oxygen by his side as he leaned against the counter taking in deep breaths of the precious air.
He looked me up and down, apparently approving of what I had chosen, a small nod his only response. He reached out to the side and pointed at a single silver key lying on the countertop beside him, a rabbit foot’s keychain attached to the end.
“Take this out to the garage,” he said. “I think you’ll find something better than Rake’s big truck.”
I offered my own nod before taking up the key and moving through the side door into the garage. A single overhead light was already on as I entered, an older Dodge Ram sitting beside the door.
Glancing to the key in my hand, seeing it would clearly not fit the truck, I moved around it.
I couldn’t help but smile again as I saw what Mike had been directing me to, a polished black Polaris Switchback snowmobile tucked away on the opposite side. It was backed in, facing outward, ready to shoot out into the storm.
As if reading my thoughts, the garage door began to rise, a quick glance over my shoulder showing Mike leaning against the kitchen door, his hand pressed to the opener.
Fire and Ice: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 3) Page 20