“Okay, calm down, nobody needs to get hurt,” Oliver pleaded as he stood.
“Shut the fuck up.” Pope shoved Oliver toward the back, and when he stumbled and fell Holly squealed.
Pope thrust the gun in her face, choking the scream from her throat, and when Regi saw the glint in Pope’s eyes, he froze. Holly was about to die. Regi’s breath trapped. His heart thumped. The seconds ticked as he watched Pope fight his own demons.
Holly held her hands up and lowered her eyes.
Out of the corner of his eye, Regi saw Oliver scramble to the opposite chair and clutch the back of the seat in front until his knuckles bulged white. “Pope! No!”
Pope ignored Oliver and turned to Chancy. “Get to the back.”
Chancy offered his palms to Pope and edged sideways down the aisle.
Maybe Holly’s downcast eyes were saving her. Or maybe Pope wasn’t completely psychotic. He needed Holly, and Oliver and Chancy, to find Milton. Without Milton, there was no billions.
Pope tapped the gun on Holly’s shoulder. “You too.”
She jumped up, and the sound of her boots tracked her dash for the tiny slot behind Oliver’s seat. Oliver reached around behind her in a lame attempt at protection.
Pope jerked his gun from one person to the next like a raving madman. “Right.” The gun tapped the roof of the cabin, emitting a hollow metallic sound, and Regi thought if he wasn’t careful, he’d pull the fucking trigger. “Toss your packs up here.”
Oliver carried his and Holly’s bags to the front, and when he returned Regi tossed his pack on top of the others. He glanced at Pope, who for a moment seemed unsure of himself. “Pope…” Regi decided to play the only card he could think of. “Is this what Carson wanted?”
Pope snapped his eyes up and grunted. “You think you're so fucking smart, Regi?” Spittle landed on Pope’s chin as he spat out Regi’s name.
“What’re you talking about? “Regi touched the lump at his temple and winced. “I didn't make you come here. Carson did.”
“You’re such a fucking fool. You think you’re so immune to it, don’t you? Stupid naïve shit.” Pope aimed the gun at Regi’s forehead. The black hole was like the eye of a demon.
But rather than be scared, Regi was pissed off. He’d had enough of being bullied. He clenched his fists and glared around the weapon into Pope’s bloodshot eyes. “Go on. Kill me. Get it over with.” Pope clenched his teeth so hard his body trembled. The gun quivered too. Yet despite his obvious fury, Regi was confident he wouldn’t do it. There’d been dozens of times when Pope could’ve killed him, but hadn’t. He prayed this was another. Not when he was this close to his money.
“You still haven’t figured it out, have you?” Pope edged back.
“Figured what out?” Maybe Pope wanted to see Regi’s reaction to whatever he was about to say, because he lowered the gun. If he pulled the trigger now it’d go right through Regi’s chest.
“Why Carson’s been keeping you alive.”
Regi’d been asking himself the same question for years. “Tell me, ’cause I’ve got no fucking idea.”
“He’s grooming you. You’re taking over.”
He cocked his head. “You’ve lost your mind, Pope.”
“I was like you once. Young. Stupid. Up to my eyeballs in debt. When Carson gets his claws in, he ain’t lettin’ go.” Pope held his free hand out as if using it for balance. A millisecond later, his fingers trembled. “Parkinson’s,” Pope said. “Carson’s ready to get rid of me. Hell, he’s probably hoping I stay up on this mountain like him.” Pope pointed the gun at the pilot.
The frigid air seemed to crackle with silence. But there was something more. Anticipation. Pope was waiting for his response. Regi rolled the cogs in his brain and a question clicked into place. He glared up at the madman. “So, why’d you come then, dickhead?”
Pope lashed out and smashed the gun into Regi’s forehead. Regi howled and forced the tears from his eyes. “Fuck. Fuck!” He sucked air through his teeth and clenched his fists, determined not to give Pope the satisfaction of seeing his agony.
“I had no choice,” Pope spoke through clenched teeth. “Just like you. You think this money’s settin’ you free? You’re a fucking idiot.”
“What money? Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Chancy’s gruff voice seemed to surprise Pope, because he looked at him like he’d forgotten he was there.
“Yeah, Regi, why don’t you tell ’em?”
Regi dragged his eyes from Pope and turned to Oliver, then Holly. Fear riddled her wide eyes, and her face was so pale her lips had turned blue. Regi wondered if that’s what he looked like every time Pope had him cornered.
“They’re after the ransom money,” Oliver said, maybe trying to distract Regi’s attention from Holly.
Regi shot him a glance. “What?”
“The ransom money Angel and Fred took.”
Shaking his head, Regi glared at Oliver. “What’re you talking about?”
Both Holly and Oliver blinked at him.
“What money are you talking about?” Holly said.
“My father’s… Milton Ashcroft’s money.”
Her jaw dropped, and when she looked at him like he’d lost his mind he got angry. He was not the crazy one. Hell, he was probably the only sane person on this fucking mountain. It was time to prove it. Regi decided to tell her every sleazy detail about the “sperm donor.” Everything from Milton’s twenty-three-year affair with his mother to Carson’s admission that Milton fucked any woman he could get his hands on.
“You’re lying.” Tears spilled from her eyes and down her cheeks.
“I wouldn’t be here if I was.”
“Why are you here?” Oliver frowned.
“I need proof.” Regi went on to tell them about how Milton and his mother had kept their affair so secret there wasn’t even one photo. When he mentioned the five grand in cash his mom got every month, in person, Holly released a sob. But when he saw her sadness and how she seemed to have shrunk in size, it wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as he’d thought it would be.
“So,” he said, “Milton’s DNA is the only thing between me and twelve billion bucks.”
“Twelve billion,” Pope and Chancy said at exactly the same time.
Regi turned to Pope, his jaw dropping. “You mean Carson didn’t tell you?”
Pope lunged with the gun again, but this time Regi was ready. A second before impact he launched from his seat, deflected the gun with one hand, and punched Pope in the nose with his other.
At the same time blood burst from Pope’s nose, the gun exploded.
Chapter Twenty-five
The explosion was so loud and so unexpected it took Oliver a couple of seconds to react. Holly was quicker; she fell to Chancy’s side and didn’t hesitate to place her gloved hand over the gaping wound in his neck.
Oliver joined her, his heart thumping, his eyes darting to Pope, then Regi, then and back to the bloody wound. “Jesus, you shot him!”
While Regi’s expression proved his horror, Pope’s fury had hit a whole new level. With blood spilling from his nose, down his chin, and onto his jacket, he raised the gun again and pressed the barrel to Regi’s temple.
Pope had his teeth clamped so tight his jaw trembled. As did his hand. Rage smoldered in his eyes.
Oliver’s breath trapped; he wanted to drag his eyes away, but couldn’t.
But Pope didn’t pull the trigger; he beat Regi with the gun instead.
Oliver snapped his eyes away, and as he tried to block out the agonized grunts and horrid thuds, he turned his attention to Chancy. The guide’s lips were coated in his blood, and a bubble formed and burst from the wound in his neck.
“What do we do?” Holly’s wide eyes were pleading, desperate for Oliver to have answers. But he didn’t. Even if he did, one glance at Chancy was enough to know they would’ve been futile. Chancy sucked in a ragged breath, and when he let it out, long and slow, it was his last ga
sp at life leaving his body.
His head rolled to the side. His eyes stared at nothing.
Oliver removed his glove and put two fingers beneath Chancy’s chin. He’d never done this before, and he shifted his fingers several times before he confirmed there was no pulse. He shook his head and Holly broke into sobs. Oliver wanted to wrap his arms around her, protect her from their new hell, and tell her it’d be okay. But he couldn’t. Everything was so far from okay that his mind shattered into a dozen scenarios. None of them good.
Silence, as deathly as a funeral parlor, filled the cabin.
Oliver turned to Regi. His heart was in his throat as he stared at his bloody face and prayed the kid was alive. His left eye was already swollen shut and the cut to his lip was so bad he’d probably need stitches. Regi’s good eye fluttered and Oliver let out the breath he’d been holding.
Regi reached up to touch his split lip. “You fucker.” He spat blood at Pope’s feet.
The thug didn’t seem to notice. Pope’s meaty hand was smeared in blood, and he stared at it like it was the first time he’d seen blood. Oliver was certain it wasn’t. His other hand was slack, the gun aimed at the floor. When Pope raised his eyes and looked at Oliver, a sick grin formed on his burnt lips.
Oliver waited.
Waited for Pope to make the next move.
Waited for Regi to.
Waited to be assassinated.
The plane creaked as if overwhelmed with the horror it contained.
Regi groaned and Holly cried soft little whimpers that broke Oliver’s heart.
When Pope slumped into the front seat and blinked around at the carnage, Oliver had a feeling that the man was emerging from some sort of evil state. His rage, like his brutish stature, appeared to diminish. His eyes, which had emitted pure hatred just moments ago, had a glimmer of lucidity.
“Right.” Pope’s voice was brittle, like his throat too had been scorched by the sun. “We better get ready for the night.”
Holly’s hand darted to her mouth; her eyes skipped from Oliver to Pope and back to Chancy’s lifeless body. Oliver knew what she was thinking. That they should get out of there. Get back to safety.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
Not now.
Maybe never.
Pope won’t let them go. Not after what he’d just done. After what they’d witnessed. They were dead. Just like the pilot, they were destined to remain on Whiskey Mountain. Maybe forever.
Oliver forced his brain to focus. They were alive. Pope could’ve shot them all right there and then. But he hadn’t. He’d spared them for a reason. The answer came quickly. Pope needed them. Without them, he wouldn’t get to Milton’s body. He needed Regi too. Without Regi there was no billion-dollar estate to settle.
Their only option was to follow Pope’s orders, keep him pacified, and hope for a miracle.
That glimmer of hope was enough to get him moving.
He touched Holly’s arm and begged for her to look at him. When her red-rimmed eyes met his, he nodded and tried to portray a look of strength and control that implied everything would work out.
Oliver turned back to Pope. “What do you need me to do?”
Pope squinted at Oliver as if he was assessing whether he was planning to double-cross him. “I’ll get the food,” Oliver prompted.
Pope nodded. “Yes, the food. And don’t try anything stupid or I’ll shoot her.” He aimed the gun at Holly. But rather than crumble under the weight of the threat, she pushed up from her knees and stood with her bloodied gloves rolled into fists at her sides.
The determination in her eyes, in her stature, in everything about her, made Oliver’s heart swell, and for the first time in his life, he was willing to put his life on the line to save someone.
No matter what happened, he’d do anything and everything to protect her.
Oliver stood with his hands raised and stepped to block Pope’s aim. The thug eyeballed him. “The food’s outside,” Oliver said. “On the sled.” As he walked between the rows of chairs, Pope backed up to stand between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats, giving Oliver access to the door.
The exit creaked open, and when Oliver stepped into the frigid air, he realized just how warm it’d become inside the plane. It gave him hope that they wouldn’t freeze to death in their sleep.
Without the crampons, his boots slipped in the snow, and using his hands as stabilizers he crossed the short distance to the sled. He tugged off his gloves, shoved them in his pockets, and, working quickly, untied the knots to release the webbing that held everything in place. The satchel containing the food was on top. He removed it and tossed it toward the plane door, along with the cooking equipment and small cooking stove.
His heart raced when their belts caught his attention. Hooked into everyone’s belts were ice axes. The temptation to grab one and shove it down his jacket was so strong he could barely breathe. But Pope would be watching through the cabin windows, of that he was sure.
He spied the lanterns, and while making a show of releasing them from the webbing he covered an axe with a roll of rope. All sorts of other equipment on the sled could serve as weapons too: hooks, ice screws, the crampons—hell, even the belay devices could do some damage. All Oliver needed was the right moment.
Just before he pulled his gloves back on, he saw a first aid kit. He pulled it from the rigging and resisted opening it until he returned inside. Oliver’s fingers were aching with the cold by the time he put his gloves back on.
Back at the door, he tugged it open, shoved everything inside, and, mindful of the escaping warmth, quickly jumped back in and slammed the door shut. He turned to Holly; she was in the back seat, and she nodded at him, confirming she was okay.
Oliver tipped the contents of the food bag onto the front seat. There were several different choices of hydrated meals. He turned to Pope. “What do you want?”
Pope indicated with the gun for Oliver to go to the back. He turned his back on Pope and strode to Holly. They wrapped their arms around each other and he kissed her forehead. When he pulled back, he squeezed her hand and met her glare. “We’ll be okay.”
Maybe she believed him, or maybe she was too petrified to talk. Either way, she remained silent. Oliver turned to Regi and touched his leg.
Regi flinched and opened his right eye.
“Hey, man, I found the first aid kit. I’ll get you painkillers in a minute.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“I’ll have this one.” Pope tossed one of the food packets onto a spare chair, and Oliver picked it up.
“Beef curry. Good choice.” Oliver hoped his upbeat response would give him some leeway. “Mind if I grab that first aid kit?”
Pope gave a curt nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.” Oliver unclipped the clasps on the kit as he stepped back to Regi. Using the opposite chair, he rummaged through the contents and plucked out a packet of painkillers.
He turned to Holly. “Can you get some water?”
She nodded and reached for her water bottle.
Oliver touched the younger man’s shoulder. “Regi.”
Regi’s right eye opened and he wriggled back on his seat. “Yeah.”
“Here’s some painkillers.” He placed two pills into Regi’s palm.
“Here you go.” Holly handed him her water bottle.
Oliver couldn’t imagine the pounding headache Regi must be experiencing. When he opened his mouth to take the pill, Oliver noticed blood all over his tongue. Blood covered Regi’s chin, and the swelling over his closed eye was now a nasty shade of purple. But other than his hideous facial injuries, the rest of him looked fine.
Oliver had lived a fairly uneventful life. He’d never been in a fight, at least not a physical one, and the only bruises he’d ever had were from sports. He’d never even broken a bone, so he couldn’t comprehend what Regi was going through.
Holly certainly could, though. He turned to her. “You
look after him, I’ll get the food ready.”
“Okay.” She paused, her mouth ajar, her eyes wide, and he knew she wanted to say more, but, like him, it was impossible to find the right words.
He placed his hand on her cheek, and with their eyes locked he gave a slight nod.
Oliver tried to ignore Pope’s glare as he returned to the equipment on the wreck’s floor and removed the propane gas burner from the kit. With everything he touched in the set-up process, he wondered how the item could be utilized as a weapon. The pot, forks, gas bottle. Weapons were everywhere, though none were as efficient as the one Pope hadn’t let go of.
The gun.
Darkness fell so quickly Oliver had to fumble to find the camp lanterns and matches. He gave one light to Pope and positioned one lantern on the floor between Regi and Holly. The glow made Regi’s already gruesome facial injuries look hideous.
Meal preparation was as easy as pouring boiling water into the individual food satchels, letting them sit for ten minutes, and stirring. Oliver had to resist his urge to pour the water over Pope when it hit boiling point. His worry was that the brute would not only survive the attack, but that it would enrage him even further.
He handed out each meal with a fork, and then sat beside Holly on the floor at the back of the cabin. At their feet was Chancy. His body occupied a significant portion of the floor space, and Oliver contemplated moving him to one of the seats. But the idea of manhandling his lifeless body was enough to put him off his food. And he couldn’t afford that.
Despite his swollen lip, Regi managed to eat his meal, and Oliver was impressed when Holly ate hers too. She didn’t balk at the absence of a vegetarian option. She didn’t hesitate over eating beside a dead body. And she didn’t recoil at Chancy’s dried blood on her gloves. Instead, she was robotic in her movements, forcing down each mouthful until she’d finished her rehydrated cottage pie.
Holly’s determination never ceased to amaze him.
After they’d eaten, Pope went through everyone’s packs and began throwing anything he didn’t want them to have outside. When he found Holly’s first aid kit, he downed a couple of painkillers, and Oliver secretly enjoyed knowing he was in pain.
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