White Out: A Thriller (Badlands Thriller)

by Danielle Girard

  Screw that, she thought. She drew a breath, filling her lungs as much as she could. You’re not dead yet. Get the hell up.

  She shifted in the snow, wincing at the pain. It hurt like hell. Setting her gun across her chest so as not to lose it in all the whiteness, she reached her right hand under her coat and pressed gently on her shirt. When she removed her hand, blood tinted her fingers. “Shit.” Vomit rose in her throat, and she swallowed it back. Closed her eyes. It wasn’t that much blood.

  If the bullet had hit a vessel, her hand would be covered in blood. She wasn’t dying. She reached back, pressed again, walking her fingers under the shirt to feel the skin. The shirt felt moist but not saturated. She was bleeding, but not bleeding to death. Not yet anyway.

  Pinning her left elbow to her side, she gripped the gun, rolled over, and pushed herself onto her knees with one hand. She drew a shallow breath and stood, staring into the storm. The dark figures had disappeared. All she saw now was white.

  She felt the swell of panic and pressed it down. She turned back to study the snow where she’d been lying, trying to discern where the bullet had come from. In every direction, there was only snow.

  She squinted as though she might sense something even if she couldn’t see it. Then, by some chance, the wind shifted, and she could make out the dark form of a shed. A moment later, a light shone through the narrow slit of a window. Bingo.

  She started in that direction, taking slow steps and studying the growing darkness for signs of anyone else.

  She thought of Iver Larson. Was he still waiting in the car? Had he heard the shots? Would he come to find her?

  There was no depending on anyone now. She shifted her grip on the gun and moved forward, the shed looming ahead.

  She was almost there when she heard noise over her shoulder.

  “Thank God I found you. It’s a whiteout.”

  She turned back. Iver Larson was her first guess, but the voice was wrong. She held the gun and watched as the shape grew closer.

  “Kylie? You okay?”

  She blinked, and Steve Cannon’s features came into focus. She cried out in relief. “Glen Vogel’s in there. He’s got Lily Baker.” She shifted toward him. “He shot me.”

  Cannon furrowed his brow. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “Hurts like hell.” She drew a breath. “Is there more backup coming? Did you get in touch with Davis?”

  “No. Afraid it’s just me,” he said. “Let’s take a look at that wound.”

  She shook her head. “It’ll wait. Let’s get Baker out of there.”

  Cannon nodded, but instead of moving toward the shed, he gripped Kylie’s injured shoulder. A strange smile twisted on his lips as he clenched down on the place where the bullet had entered.

  Kylie screamed out and dropped to her knees. Reflexively, she dropped the gun and pushed him away. “What the hell?”

  Cannon stooped to retrieve her gun, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

  “Shit,” she cursed, pressing her palm to the pulsing ache in her arm. But there was something unfamiliar in Cannon’s expression. She’d always thought he had kind eyes, but now they were hard and flat. “Steve?”

  “Let’s go,” he said, motioning to her with his gun.

  Kylie didn’t move, her mind spinning. Was Steve Cannon Derek Hudson’s accomplice? But . . . what about Vogel? And Gilbert?

  “Stand up,” Cannon directed.

  She didn’t move. “Steve, what is going on?”

  “Get the fuck up before I shoot you in the head.” He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Christ.”

  Kylie did the only thing she could. She stood.

  Cannon shoved her toward the shed, the barrel of a gun pressed between her shoulder blades. When they reached the door, Cannon knocked. “Glen, it’s me. I’ve got Milliard.”

  The shed was silent.

  Cannon pounded again. “Uncle Glen?”

  Uncle?

  Cannon reached around her and twisted the door handle. The door fell open, and he shoved her inside.

  Across the shed, Lily Baker was huddled against the wall. Glen Vogel stood, a gun aimed at Baker. When the shed door slammed closed, Vogel looked up.

  Glen Vogel was Cannon’s uncle.

  But what did that have to do with Hudson and Carl Gilbert? Was Cannon protecting him? But from what? When Hudson had kidnapped those girls, Vogel had already been in Hagen, working for the old district attorney. He couldn’t have been Hudson’s partner.

  The gun trembled in his hand, and Vogel looked unsteady on his feet.

  “What happened?” Cannon started across the room before swinging back to face Kylie. “Sit over there.” He pointed to the floor beside Baker.

  Kylie moved slowly, studying Glen Vogel, still trying to process what was happening. Vogel looked sick. His skin was a pale yellow, and sweat dripped down his face, the hair at his temples damp. His breath came in shallow pants, his free hand pressed against his chest, the fingers like red sausages against his coat.

  He was having a heart attack.

  Cannon shoved her. “Sit.”

  Kylie sank onto the cement, using the wall to guide herself down. She grabbed hold of Baker’s hand, the fingers icy to the touch. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered.

  Cannon spun toward them, his gun in his fist. “He’s been shot. Who shot him?”

  Kylie realized that Carl Gilbert wasn’t guilty at all. It had been Steven Cannon all along. She watched as he cocked the hammer and stretched the gun toward them.

  “One of you had better start talking.”

  CHAPTER 62

  LILY

  Every word from Derek Hudson’s lips was a shock of electricity, a burning pain in Lily’s spine. This man had kept her prisoner for sixteen months. He was supposed to be dead. All these years, she’d thought he was dead. Who was the man she’d shot at the cabin? Abby’s voice in her ear. “It’s over,” she had said. “You saved us.”

  Had Lily even been the one to pull that trigger? Had she killed that man? And if it was her, who exactly had she saved? Herself and Abby and Jenna? Yes. They had escaped. But was that what Abby had meant? Or had she meant that Lily had saved Derek Hudson? That shooting the other man had enabled Hudson to escape? To live like a free man until . . .

  “What is happening to him?” Hudson shouted.

  Lily trembled, and the detective squeezed her hand. Lily had wanted to save the detective. Here she was, alive. But now they were both going to die.

  Hudson spun back to them. “Did you shoot him?” he said, aiming the gun in Lily’s face.

  “No.” The word caught in her throat.

  “Then what happened?”

  “We didn’t shoot him,” the detective said. “Lily doesn’t have a weapon, and I never fired mine.”

  His gaze shifted to the door of the shed. “Larson,” he whispered. “Damn it.”

  “Iver.” The name escaped Lily’s mouth without thought. Iver was here.

  Vogel gripped Hudson’s pant leg. “Can’t. Breathe.”

  Hudson crouched by his uncle. “I didn’t think he hit you. He was so far away.”

  Relief flooded her. They weren’t alone. Iver had come to help them. He’d found her.

  Hudson looked frantic. His uncle was tachypneic, his breathing abnormally rapid, the pallor of his skin more pronounced with every minute. There was no sign that he was actively bleeding. She wasn’t even sure he’d been shot. It could have easily been a coronary event. Something was definitely wrong, but without being able to examine him, Lily had no idea what it was.

  Hudson slid his jacket off his shoulders and pushed his sleeves up. An intricate tattoo wrapped around his right forearm, a lattice of vines with purple-black flowers. As he twisted his hands together, Lily saw the scars beneath the art—the short, thin ridges. Like the ones on her shoulder.

  In a wave of panic, she closed her eyes and recalled the texture she’d felt when she was attack
ed in Iver’s home. A strange ridged material, like soft rubber. Skin with old scars. Derek Hudson’s arm.

  “Kill,” Vogel whispered. His lips parted, and red bubbles formed in the corner of his mouth.

  Hudson lowered himself to the floor. He still held the gun, but with his free hand, he wiped the blood from his uncle’s lips and dabbed the sweat from the old man’s skin with his sleeve. Then he wrapped his jacket across his uncle’s shoulders. “I shot him, Uncle Glen. I shot him right in the back.”

  The scream caught in Lily’s throat as the detective gripped her hand. Nails dug into her skin. Iver. Shot. She shook her head. She was propelled forward onto her knees. The detective yanked her back, shaking her head.

  Iver was here. He’d come for her. He’d been shot. She yanked herself free of the detective’s grip. “Your uncle’s going to die,” she spat at Hudson. “Look at him. The pale, sweaty skin, the hemoptysis.”

  Hudson sat back on his heels. His mouth fell open. “Hemo-what?”

  “Hemoptysis,” she said. “The blood. He’s coughing up blood.”

  “How do I save him?”

  “You can’t.”

  Hudson panicked, his focus bouncing around the room. His motions were rapid, disjointed.

  Lily let the tears stream down her cheeks, pressing her hands to her face. The room was suddenly freezing, her insides hollowed out. The one person she had trusted—trusted completely—was dead. Let Hudson watch his uncle die. She would enjoy that.

  Hudson pressed his face to Vogel’s. “Stay with me.”

  Lily snickered.

  Hudson glared at her, patting his pockets and pulling out a phone.

  He set the gun down momentarily so he could use both hands to cradle the phone. Lily watched the gun, ready to pounce. She wanted to press that gun to Hudson’s head and pull the trigger. She wanted to watch his brains spray across the room and then empty the chamber into his chest.

  Hudson stared at the screen of his phone and cursed. Then he shook it as though that might fix it. After another glance at the screen, Hudson spun and hurled it at the wall. The device exploded against the concrete.

  A sob escaped her throat. An image of Iver’s face, his smile. The gentle way he had spoken to her in the bathroom. She leaned forward, eyes on that gun. If she tackled Hudson, the detective could get the gun. She just had to make sure Hudson didn’t get it.

  Before she could move, Hudson snatched up the gun and aimed it directly at Lily. “You. You’re a nurse.”

  Lily said nothing. She shook her head.

  “Don’t lie,” Hudson shouted, spit flying from his lips. “I know you’re a nurse. Abby told me.” He glanced at his uncle, then back to her. “Get over here and help him.”

  Lily shook her head. “I’m not helping you.”

  “I’ll shoot you in the head right now.”

  Lily was about to speak when the detective grabbed her elbow and squeezed.

  “You can do it,” the detective whispered. From her peripheral vision, Lily could feel the weight of the detective’s stare. Lily felt certain she was issuing some hidden message, trying to give her an idea. But Lily couldn’t think. Iver was dead. Hudson was going to get away with murder. He’d already gotten away with kidnapping and torture and . . . all she wanted to do was kill him.

  “Now!” Hudson shouted, his voice echoing through her, setting every nerve on fire.

  The detective nudged again, and Lily relented, crawling slowly across the concrete floor to the injured man. The rage suppressed thoughts of Iver, and she focused on Vogel. “We need to see the wound.”

  Hudson nodded, waving the gun at her in warning. “Do it.”

  Vogel’s eyes flashed open, his gaze flickering across her face as she grew close.

  She squeezed her hands into fists, fighting off the shaking, then unbuttoned his coat. He cried out, and she froze.

  Hudson studied his uncle.

  “It’s going to hurt him to move,” she said.

  Hudson licked his lips, his gaze bouncing between her and his uncle. “And if we don’t move him?”

  Lily glanced at the detective, who nodded.

  “He’ll die,” she said with a little satisfaction. She wanted him to die.

  “Then do it,” Hudson said. He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, the tips of his fingers biting her skin along the old scars. “If he dies, you know what happens.”

  His voice carved like a blade on her skin. The words so familiar. Don’t help nobody. Don’t stop for nothing. You don’t come back, you know what happens.

  Hudson slammed the gun into her ribs. “He can’t die.”

  Lily was thrown sideways, the air forced from her lungs.

  “He can’t die,” Hudson said again.

  Lily tried to push herself up.

  “Steve, stop,” the detective warned. “If you hurt her, Glen dies. Give her some space so she can save him.”

  Hudson shifted away from Lily. She unzipped Vogel’s jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. Vogel sagged forward, wincing with his inhales. She pushed the shirt across his shoulders and partway down his arms, looking for the source of the pain. Her eye caught a bloodstain on the fabric at his right side. At the center was a hole. Palpating his skin where the shirt had been, she located a corresponding entry wound.

  Vogel cried out in pain.

  She pressed a little harder.

  He’d been shot, and there was no exit wound. The bullet was in his chest cavity.

  She squeezed her eyes closed. This man was going to die.

  And when he did, Derek Hudson would kill them both.

  CHAPTER 63

  LILY

  Lily studied the dying man’s face. His breathing was shallow. She pressed her ear to his chest and listened. She couldn’t make out any breath sounds at all on his right side, but he was a big man, and she obviously didn’t have a stethoscope.

  She listened to the left side, which rattled with each inhale. She tried to remember the exact anatomy of the right side and adjusted for his bulk. Any number of organs might have been hit—liver, kidney, intestines. She tapped against the front right side of his abdomen. The sound was dull and flat. She tapped the other side and heard the normal deep sound of healthy lung.

  “What is it?”

  “I think his chest cavity is filling with blood,” Lily said. “It’s called a hemothorax.”

  Hudson punched Lily in the stomach with the gun.

  She cried out, hunching over and gripping her belly.

  “Do something!” Hudson screamed.

  Lily sat up, hands trembling, and leaned into Vogel. The man was wheezing heavily now.

  “You can do this, Lily,” the detective said. “Just tell us what you need. How can you help him?”

  “I have to relieve the pressure,” Lily said. Her fingers were tacky with his blood. She wiped it on her pants. “I need a knife.”

  “Fuck you,” Hudson snarled at her. “I’m not giving you a fucking knife.”

  “Fine,” Lily said, sitting back on her heels. “His chest is filling with blood. Eventually, the blood will fill the entire chest cavity, and the pressure will compress his lungs.”

  Suddenly more alert, Vogel grabbed Hudson’s hand, his eyes wide.

  “When that happens,” Lily continued, “he won’t be able to draw air at all. He’ll stop breathing and die.”

  Vogel opened his lips to say something. Blood trickled down his chin. He shook his head and made a rolling motion with his hand.

  “I’m not sure how fast the blood is pooling in his chest cavity,” Lily went on, enjoying the small satisfaction of watching the two men panic. “But if I don’t relieve the pressure, he dies. To do that, I have to cut an opening between the ribs.”

  Hudson looked between his uncle and Lily.

  “He doesn’t have long, Steve,” Kylie said. “Look at him.”

  Hudson cursed, moving the gun to his left hand, then reaching into his right front pocket. The det
ective shifted slightly against the wall, and Hudson spun toward her. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a hard floor, Steve,” she said, lifting her hands. “My ass was numb.”

  Hudson motioned with the gun. “Keep your hands in front of you, where I can see them.”

  “Of course,” the detective said, placing her palms on the concrete floor.

  Lily noticed the detective didn’t meet her eye. She had been doing something. What was she planning?

  Hudson pinned his gaze on the detective as he pulled a pocketknife from his pocket and slid it toward Lily. Before it was close enough to reach, Hudson had the revolver tight in the grip of his right hand again. “One wrong move with that, and I’ll put a bullet in each of you, whether he dies or not.”

  Lily stared at the knife.

  “Hurry up and do it already!” Hudson shouted.

  Lily picked up the knife and tried to pull the blade out.

  “The button,” Hudson shouted. “Press the damn button.”

  Lily pushed, and the blade extended. She shifted it, catching the dull light of the single overhead bulb against the steel blade.

  As she leaned forward, Vogel shivered and gasped.

  Hudson looked away.

  The light was too dim, and Vogel was slumped against the wall, making it almost impossible to get a clear view of the wound. But Hudson had thrown his phone against the wall, and if the detective still had hers, Lily didn’t want Hudson to know about it.

  Using touch, Lily worked blindly to locate the entry wound, counting along Vogel’s ribs. She’d never placed a chest tube to treat a hemothorax before. And if she had, it would certainly not have been with a pocketknife and a gun to her head. She tried to remember which intercostal space was ideal. Placement for maximum drainage should be at the posterior axillary line. That much she remembered, but between which ribs?

  She walked her fingers along Vogel’s ribs, counting. She stopped, shook her head, and went back, did it again. Was it between fifth and sixth? Sixth and seventh?

  “You can do this,” the detective whispered.

  Lily said nothing. She couldn’t let Hudson know that she wasn’t certain. That there was a chance she might make an incision and kill Vogel faster.