Blood Runs Cold (Stone Cold Fear Book 2)

by K. M. Fawkes

  “Can I help?” Pete asked.

  “Just keep the organ thief from getting in my way,” Marie said.

  Harrington held up his hands and then tucked them in his pants pockets, all while wearing a shit-eating grin on his face. Pete thought about slapping him around a little, knocking some of the smug off, but refrained.

  He needed to save his store of violence for whatever he ended up deciding to do with the guy.

  Marie started swabbing the wound with antiseptic liquid right then, and hissed in pain. Then, without missing a beat, she began to thread a needle with black thread.

  “How wonderfully old-fashioned,” Harrington said. “Of course, I prefer the stapler.”

  “Fuck off,” Marie responded.

  Pete kept the Glock pointed toward Harrington while trying to keep an eye on Marie. Was she actually going to do that herself? Did she actually have the guts?

  She did. She shoved the needle into the flesh of her leg, her lip caught between her teeth—and promptly went completely pale.

  Yes, she was incredibly stubborn. Yes, they needed that wound treated or it could go bad. And they’d never be able to get on the road if she didn’t have full use of her leg. But he wasn’t going to sit here and watch her stab herself—or further damage the leg—trying to stitch it up.

  “This is stupid,” he said. “Lie down. Let the doctor do it. I’ll have the gun pointed at his head the whole time. If I think he’s going to try something, I’ll shoot him.”

  For a long moment, Marie looked like she’d say no, but then she yielded, and laid on her back with her fists clenched at her sides.

  Chapter 8

  With unnecessary drama, Harrington went to a drawer and found the stapler and a tube of something. Then he went to another drawer, brought out a box of gloves, and began putting them on with a flourish directed entirely at Marie. The guy was definitely a piece of work.

  It looked like Marie wanted to say something to him, most likely “fuck off,” but her sour expression told Pete she’d probably realized she should have put gloves on before trying to stitch her wound.

  When the doctor approached Marie, Pete pointed the Glock at his temple.

  “Unnecessary, I assure you,” Harrington said. “It’s not like I have a scalpel in my hand. The worst I could do is staple her mouth shut.” He winked at Pete.

  “For a guy who’s at our mercy, you sure are a comedian,” Marie snarled.

  After dealing with David Clyde, Pete was immune to the verbal goading of psychopaths. “Just do your job, and shut up,” he said, keeping the empty gun pointed firmly at the doctor.

  Harrington shrugged and twisted the lid from the tube.

  “What’s that?” Marie barked.

  “Anesthetic gel,” Harrington said. “I can skip it, if you’d prefer. Some people enjoy the pain.”

  “Use it,” Marie answered, and gave Pete a look that reflected exactly what he was feeling: How many of these lunatics are we going to have to deal with, exactly?

  A corner of Pete’s brain wanted to go off on a tangent, wallow in some conspiracy theory that had the solar flare affecting people’s brain chemistry and turning them crazy, but he knew better. The explanation was obvious: you have a collection of people running a nefarious organ harvesting business and you’re bound to have evil and unstable people involved. Andersen. This Harrison person. Who else would do it, and with such relish?

  Harrington slathered on the gel and looked at his watch. When a minute had gone by, he pressed on the skin around the wound. “Numb yet?”

  “Yes,” Marie said.

  Harrington pinched the sides of the wound together, placed the head of the stapler down over them, and pulled the trigger, barely able to contain the look of glee when Marie jumped and grunted.

  “Not numb?” he asked.

  Marie ground her teeth together. “Numb enough. Doesn’t mean I can’t feel the pressure, and that’s one hell of a jolt.”

  He nodded, then hit the trigger of the stable gun again and again, drawing a quick line of staples down the wound and ignoring Marie’s gasps. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he opened the sterile dressings he’d laid out and bandaged it properly.

  As Harrington placed the final piece of tape, Marie sat up. “Pete, I just remembered something. Clyde said he had a warehouse in Anchorage. Full of stuff that would have survived the EMP.”

  Glowering at Harrington, she got off the table and put her pants back on.

  “No thanks needed,” Harrington said. “Fulfilling my Hippocratic oath is enough for me.”

  “I think you mean hypocritic,” Marie said. “And I’m sure the men you murdered to take their organs would agree with me.”

  “You say tomato, I say tomato,” Harrington replied.

  Pete was beginning to wish he had a round in the Glock, and wondered if there was something in the medical suite he could use as a gag. This entire situation was entirely too much like the one with Clyde, and it was giving him the creeps.

  “Think about it,” Marie said, turning back to Pete. “Clyde was bragging about it constantly, and the guys were convinced he was telling the truth. It might be something we could use.”

  Pete wanted to stop her from talking in front of Harrington, and gave his head a warning shake, but she stubbornly continued. “What the hell were you even doing thinking about something like that in the first place?”

  She grimaced. “You try laying there while someone is using a stapler on you and see where your head goes to escape the feeling. Anyhow, what if Clyde had older electronic equipment? If he thought he was going to take over the world, which he did, he’d stock up on all kinds of supplies. Blankets. Tents. Food. Clothing. And he might also have stuff that would have survived the blast.”

  “You can’t believe anything Clyde told you,” Pete said, but he was already starting to fantasize about a place like that existing. If it was there, it could be a one-stop-shop for everything on his wish list.

  Which meant it was too good to be true.

  “Besides,” he went on, “how would we ever figure out where it is? And, if it actually exists, Clyde’s followers must know about it, which means they’re going to go there at some point, if they haven’t already. Which makes it far too dangerous for us.”

  “I know where it is,” Harrington said smugly.

  Pete and Marie turned to stare at him.

  “Bullshit,” Marie said, crossing her arms.

  “My last harvest came from one of Clyde’s followers.” Harrington hoisted himself onto the surgical bed and sat there with his legs dangling.

  “So what?” Pete said.

  “The guy was pretty full of himself,” Harrington said. “He told me if I knew what was good for me, I’d let him go.” He began to laugh, but when neither Pete nor Marie joined in, he stopped himself and sighed, clearly disappointed in his audience.

  “Anyway, he soon realized his threats weren’t going to work, so he started to beg. He offered me the usual stuff. Money. Drugs. He even offered me a blow job.” Harrington shook his head. “But my door only swings one direction.” He smiled a gruesomely lascivious smile at Marie.

  Marie clenched her fists, her expression saying that if he tried it, it would be the last thing he tried—which only seemed to amuse Harrington. Pete made a hurry it up gesture with the Glock. Any minute, Marie was going to get into a brawl with Harrington, and Pete couldn’t blame her. But that didn’t mean they had time for it.

  “When he realized none of that would work, he offered up the warehouse,” Harrington said, and got off the bed. “The three of us can work together to get there. You two are obviously resourceful, and I have medical skills. If you’re here and you know what’s going on, I’m guessing it means something has happened at that prison. Which means my livelihood is in danger. I can’t stay here. You two are my best chance at getting out.”

  “No fucking way,” Marie said, glaring at Pete. “You’re not considering it, are you? Thi
s guy? This murderer? We can’t trust him, Pete.”

  She was right, but he was considering it. Harrington wasn’t in particularly good shape, but still, three should be better than two—even if one of them had the moral compass of a starfish. It would mean three sets of eyes on the road and any dangers. Three sets of hands for hunting. Three minds for coming up with ideas.

  The question was whether it would be worth him and Marie having to dedicate part of their time to watching Harrington and making sure he didn’t use his hands and mind to stab them in the back rather than protect them.

  He gave Marie a long, considering look, trying to communicate all of that to her, but she just shook her head at him.

  “Jesus,” she said. “In that case, I’ll just leave you alone to discuss the details, shall I?” She stomped over to the ladder and climbed it, leaving Pete alone with Harrington.

  “Women. So emotional.” Harrington shook his head sadly. “Let’s you and I talk this out rationally. Man to man.”

  “I’m not sure you’re capable of rationality,” Pete said.

  “I am a man of science, and my IQ is well above average,” Harrington said in a huff. “I assure you that rational thought is well within my scope.”

  Pete let that pass. He’d be the crazy one if he sat there arguing with Harrington. “Mostly, I’m trying to figure out how it will work if we decide to take you with us,” he said. “We can’t have you running around loose. I don’t trust you.”

  Harrington nodded rapidly. “Trust has to be earned. I get that. At first, until you come to trust me, I could wear handcuffs or some other form of restraint.”

  “Except that would cost us the energy of keeping an eye on you.”

  “I give you my word that I won’t be any trouble,” Harrington said. “I need out of here as badly as you do. You will essentially hold my life in your hands. I’m a smart enough man to respect that.”

  Pete remained silent, thinking through his options. It seemed to make Harrington antsy, because he kept talking.

  “You have no confidence in my word, I don’t blame you. If our roles were reversed, I’d feel the same.”

  When guys like Harrington began to sound reasonable, Pete knew he was about to get screwed. He’d almost have preferred to listen to continue thinking that Harrington was full of nothing more than crazy ramblings. At least then he’d know he was making decisions in the right frame of mind.

  But Harrington was right about his life being in Pete’s hands. And though Pete didn’t know much about the guy—other than that he evidently had a surprising lack of ethics—he didn’t think the guy was going to do anything to endanger his own life.

  “How about a gesture of good faith?” Pete said. “You tell me where the warehouse is located. Tell us ahead of time and I’ll bring you with us.”

  “But then I lose my only bargaining chip,” Harrington said.

  “True, but it will prove to me that you’re going to play on our team. Which will give me a reason to keep you alive.”

  “Alive?” Harrington backed away. “I thought we were discussing whether to work together.”

  “If I don’t take you with me, I can’t leave you behind alive. Alive means you can make trouble for us. Dead…” Pete shrugged. He wasn’t really planning to kill him, but he wanted Harrington to believe he would.

  “How about I tell you this? The warehouse is near Merrill Field Airport.”

  “There’s a whole warehouse district out there,” Pete said, picturing it in his head.

  “Which is why you’ll need to keep me alive.” Harrington looked cagey. “I won’t give you any trouble. My skill set is not suited for winter survival. I need you two if I’m going to get there alive. After we get to the warehouse, we’ll part company. No harm, no foul.”

  Something suddenly cracked above them, and a split second later, Marie came to the trapdoor and said, “Get up here. There’s something going on outside.”

  Chapter 9

  Pete’s head began to pound. What now?

  He urged Harrington up the ladder, and when the man didn’t move quickly enough, he shouted, “Go, go, go!”

  Harrington sped up the ladder at that, and promptly tripped over his own feet when he got into the bedroom. Pete leaped out behind him, glad to see that Marie already had a knife at the ready. She shot daggers from her eyes at the doctor, leaving no doubt that she’d use the knife on him if she had to.

  Pete headed straight to the window at the front of the ranger station and peered outside. At first, he didn’t see anything.

  Then he saw a man dart from one tree to the next.

  “Convicts?” he guessed. It wasn’t certain, but they were the only people who could have been following them. “I don’t get it. They can’t want us, not badly enough to travel in these conditions.”

  “They’re probably looking for this asshole.” Marie pointed the knife at Harrington. “We already know how far they’ll go to get revenge. And they knew that he was out here.”

  She was right.

  Harrington paled. “You have to protect me. I’m important to Andersen. No doubt he’ll reward you handsomely for my safe return.”

  “Oh, boy,” Marie gloated. “You have no idea.”

  Pete grabbed Harrington by the shoulders and shook him, wanting to make him fearful enough to answer without bullshitting. There was no more time for bullshitting. “Are there any weapons downstairs?” he asked.

  “There’s one,” Harrington said, grabbing Pete’s hands and trying unsuccessfully to free himself.

  “Where?” Pete asked.

  Voice shaking, Harrington described the location of the gun.

  Pete released Harrington and handed the Glock to Marie. It was a good thing they’d been able to catch the doctor by surprise. If he’d known who they were, and had a weapon, he could have blown their heads off.

  Pete trotted into the bedroom, got on his knees, and slid down the ladder with his hands and feet braced against the side supports to make it quick. In the surgical suite, he yanked open the cabinet Harrington had told him about. There was a semi-automatic rifle and several boxes of ammunition inside, just as the doctor had said.

  Pete looped the gun over his shoulder, filled his pockets from the boxes of ammo, and hurried back up the ladder.

  “I know you’re not going to like it,” he said to Marie. “But you should go below with Harrington. You won’t catch a stray bullet that way, and I won’t have to worry about you.”

  “Unless something happens to you,” Marie answered, looking fierce. “And then I’m trapped down there with this crazy fucker. Besides, don’t you think I should be up here to back you up, in case something happens?”

  Harrington glanced from one to the other. “I’m happy to go below, but she should stay up here with the handgun to help you,” he said quickly.

  Pete, whose head was spinning with plans and what-ifs, nearly blurted out that the Glock was empty. Marie saved him from himself by shouting at Harrington, though, and then it was too late to argue anymore.

  A bullet struck one of the front windows and it exploded inward, spraying glass onto the floor.

  Pete, Marie, and Harrington ducked low, covering their heads with their arms, and scattered. Harrington hid behind the sofa while Marie dove for one of the armchairs. Pete went to the blown-out window, showed his head for a second, and then waited to see whether they were going to try to talk to him… or shoot him.

  “We’re here for Andersen’s butcher!” someone shouted from outside.

  Verbal. Which meant there was an opportunity, however slight, to reason with them.

  Several of them began to close in, moving toward the front of the ranger station.

  “Stay back!” Pete shouted.

  He set the gun for single-round fire and began to shoot, taking care not to hit anyone. For now, all he wanted to do was warn them off.

  A couple from the front of the group ran and concealed themselves in the trees, but the
others dropped to the ground. Then the men behind them began to fire in earnest, showering the ranger station with bullets.

  Pete plastered himself against the wall beside the window, hoping that fake logs blocked bullets as well as real ones would have. The other window shattered, and Harrington cried out. He seemed to have been cut by a piece of flying glass—which meant Pete didn’t have to worry about him right now. A cut wasn’t going to kill the bastard.

  He popped his head up for another look, then ducked back down. Three more such glances gave him a better idea of what the convicts were doing, and he was starting to like his chances a bit better. The men out there weren’t dressed for the weather—because the prison hadn’t supplied them with outdoor wear, much less snow clothes—and each and every one of them looked worse for the wear.

  Except—and this was a huge exception—they’d obviously found the prison’s armory. They were armed to the teeth, a fact that made their poor physical condition nearly immaterial.

  He turned away from the window to tell Marie to go out the back door, but then remembered there wasn’t one. Fuck. Besides, Marie had left the room. God knew what she was up to. Hopefully not something that would put them at a horrible disadvantage. If she went outside to try to get the convicts’ stories, or talk them into behaving like civilized people, he might just shoot her himself.

  “We only want Harrington!” one of the convicts yelled.

  “You can’t have me!” Harrington shouted his answer from where he cowered on the floor.

  “Dumbass,” Pete hissed. “They didn’t know for sure you were here, but now they do.”

  Harrington’s eyes went wide, wild with fear and darting around like he was looking for a place to run. He was a liability.

  The question was, could Pete afford to keep him around, or did he jeopardize his and Marie’s safety too much? If he handed the doctor over, would the convicts leave them alone? Could that be their ticket out of here?