Chapter 9

Flynn needed to go home before she did real damage to her heart.

Starting with her love for Axel’s mom and her baking skills. What.Ever.

Flynn walked out of the Last Frontier Bakery, peeling a layer off a hot and gooey cinnamon roll, Axel beside her holding a couple coffees and a grease-stained bag with a cake donut. Overhead, the sky arched a deep blue, although heavy clouds obscured the mountains, a slight chill in the air.

She popped the bread into her mouth. Cinnamony, caramelly . . .”I’ve died and gone to heaven. How are you not three hundred pounds?”

“Lots of hockey as a child,” Axel said.

She could see that. He had a competitor’s aura about him. He wore a pair of black cargo pants, hiking boots, and a white long-sleeved shirt, had shaved, and looked like he might have walked off some celebrity movie shoot with the confident stride in his aviator sunglasses.

His words last night—this morning?—hard to keep track with all this sunlight—returned to her as they sat at an outside picnic table, him setting the coffee cup in front of her. “You make me feel like that guy—the guy I thought I was—is back. Like Rose did for Jack. You make me feel like I can be more.”

Yeah, any more and she might lose her brains altogether.

Except, she got that. He made her feel as if . . . well, as if she might be discovering a part of herself that she’d forgotten.

The Kennedy part of her, maybe.

But not today. Today she was Flynn with a purpose. And on this morning’s agenda was a stopover at the ranger’s station because Axel had gotten a text this morning from Peyton saying that she’d brought in the journal. But first, a chat with the sheriff and maybe the regional forester, Hank Billings, with the hope of getting a list of recurring seasonal tourists.

She had the victims list plastered in her brain but also on her phone, which Peyton had grabbed also.

“We’re getting somewhere; I just feel it,” Flynn said, setting the cinnamon roll on a napkin, wiping her hands on a wet wipe from the bag, and reaching for her coffee.

“I’ll say,” Axel said and winked.

“Stop.”

“Just saying that we were getting somewhere last night pretty well.”

“Seriously?” But she grinned. Frankly, the fact that he’d called a halt to their campout by the river had her trusting him more than he could know.

Jack was the real deal. And his words to her kept whispering around her brain, even in her dreams. “I’m helping you see that maybe there is something else—for both of us—if you have a little faith.”

Last night, she’d stood on a cliff facing the valley below, spread her wings, and taken off.

Wait. She put down her coffee. “Right before I was shot at, I was standing on a mountaintop, and I saw some smoke in the distance. Like from a campfire or a cabin . . .”

“Could be.” He took a sip of coffee, then reached into the bag.

“But didn’t you say that was all national forest? Can people camp in a national forest?”

“If they have a permit, sure. And there are a few off-grid cabins that are grandfathered in, so yeah, smoke from a campfire or a chimney isn’t unusual.”

Oh.

“You thought it was a clue?”

“Hoped so.”

Around them, tourists wandered the streets, some of them entering the Last Frontier, others walking along the wooden boardwalk between stores—gift shops, Bowie Mountain Gear, a bookstore with a sandwich board advertising a BOGO sale. The outfitters had set a teepee of kayaks out with a rental sign.

And down the street, workers strung lights across the road with American flag banners hanging down.

“Is there a festival this weekend?”

Axel set down his donut, leaned in, his voice low. “Fourth of July? It’s sort of a once-a-year thing. Involves hot dogs and fireworks. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.” She finished off her roll. “No wonder the town is so full.”

“Actually, Copper Mountain does it up right—street vendors, the Midnight Sun Saloon sells barbecue sliders that are so good they will melt your face off. And the VFW pays for the fireworks. We even have a street dance.”

“I love street dances. They have one in a small town on the north shore of Minnesota every year. My family usually goes up to visit my cousins there. It’s a blast.”

“Clearly you’ll have to show off your street-dance moves,” he said, finishing his donut.

“Really.”

“Probably with me.”

She smiled. “We’ll see. I might go with Sully.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“You said I was a better kisser.”

“Yeah, I dunno.”

He leaned forward. “Need more proof?”

“Keep your proof away from me. I have work to do.” She wadded up her napkins, got up, and dropped them into the trash, along with the wet wipe and empty coffee cup. “I’m going to talk to the sheriff. You coming with me?”

“Sure. Then I need to duck into Bowie Mountain Gear and pick up radios for Moose. He ordered some after I dunked ours in the Cook Inlet.” He shot his wadded bag into a nearby basket, then followed her across the street to the sheriff’s office.

It hadn’t changed since she’d last visited. A long, ranch-style building with a front porch that creaked as she walked inside, the sheriff’s office might have been a house in ages past, although the inside had been gutted for a reception area and chairs. A dividing counter separated the waiting room from a small administrative area. Behind it, windows protected the back offices. The place smelled of age, old coffee, and overwork, indicated by the worn vinyl chairs and the cluttered Wanted board.

No wonder Deke hadn’t gotten anywhere with the investigation. They needed help.

So different from the high-tech offices back home. She worked downtown in the Minneapolis city hall building, built in the 1800s with the green copper roof, rose stone, and the breath of generations of investigators, including her mentors, Eve and Rembrandt Stone, and the old chief of investigations, John Booker. But the place had undergone an overhaul over the past few years, with smartboards in every conference room, electronic whiteboards to cast investigations onto a big screen, and two screens at every desk, connected to high-speed internet. She barely left her cubicle when caught in an investigation, knitting together leads, creating profiles, and rewatching surveillance videos and interviews.

So maybe her hands-on sleuthing needed some resharpening.

She waved a hand to Deke as she came in. He had looked up from his computer and now came out of his office. “Flynn. How are you?”

“Better.”

“Still limping.”

“Swelling’s down. Nothing broken.”

He pointed to her bruised head, the healing cut. “How’s the noggin?”

“Still working. Enough to wonder if the Midnight Sun Killer might be a seasonal tourist. All the murders happened in the spring—late June, early July. Right during tourist season.”

He motioned her back to his office, met Axel’s hand. “Saw the latest episode last night. The blizzard on the mountain. Rough. The father took it badly.”

“Anyone would. Her fiancé had to be sedated,” Axel said.

She got that too. Maybe it was easier to live with the hope that Kennedy was still alive. Although, since yesterday, the feeling had started to loosen its hold.

How could Kennedy walk away from a man who loved her?

Flynn glanced at Axel, leaning against the wall of Deke’s office with his arms folded, and shook the thought away. Reasons. Good reasons.

And she wanted to find them.

Deke sat down at his desk. “Seasonal visitors. Yeah, that makes sense.”

“I’m wondering how we’d get a list of the yearly campers at the RV park. I have no jurisdiction here, but you could ask for it, as a matter of your investigation. You might not even need a subpoena—it’s not private information.”

“I could do that. And we have a good relationship with the park owners. We run a patrol through the park once a day, just to keep trouble down.”

“Lots of seventy-year-old rabble-rousers?” Axel smiled.

“You’d be surprised. Most are great folks, but people get up here, out of the lower forty-eight, and the midnight sun does something to them. Turns on the serotonin, revives their youth. We have more accidents from the over-sixty crowd than the risk-loving youth. Usually in over their heads with a four-wheeler or a river raft or even a hike that they can’t get back from and, most often, a barbeque pit out of control.”

“Thanks, Deke. How soon can you get the list?”

“I’ll call over in a bit.”

She stood up. “Great. I’ll round back after I talk to Peyton.”

Axel held open the door, and she walked through, noticing a couple guys at the counter.

“Hey, Mal, what’s going on?” Axel said. He shook hands with a younger man, good-looking, with long blond hair, wearing a T-shirt with Bowie Mountain Gear on the chest.

He stood next to an older man, maybe early sixties, dark hair cut short, looking fit in a denim shirt and jeans. He wore a cap with Bowie Fishing Tours on the front.

“Wilson,” Axel said. “Didn’t know you were still in town. How’s the fishing?”

“Good. Got a freezer full to take home.” He turned to Deke. “I wanted to report that my truck is missing.”

Deke had followed them out. “Oh?”

“I left it on the camp road, near the trail to the Bowie fishing lodge, and it went missing.” He looked at Mal. “Of course, I left the keys in it so . . . I don’t mind anyone using it—but it hasn’t turned up. Can you keep an eye out for it?”

“That old ‘84 Ford? Blue with the white stripe? You still have that thing?”

“That’s the one. It’s not worth much, and I just use it when I’m here, but . . . you know. Hate for it to get into the wrong hands.” He looked at Axel. “Keep an eye out?”

“Yes, sir. You heading back to Montana?”

“Yep. Stay safe out there.” He shook Axel’s hand as Flynn exited into the sunshine.

Axel came out after her.

“Who was that?”

“Wilson Bowie. Mal’s uncle. He was the executor of their estate for a while. Now he just checks in on them a couple times a year.”

“Every May and June?”

He gave her a look. “Wilson is a great guy. He has his own family down in Montana, a ranch, and is real close with the guys. I promise, he’s not a”——” he pitched his voice low—“river monster.”

She glanced at him. “You’d be surprised.”

“I hope not. I’m heading over to Bowie Mountain Gear for the radios. I’ll meet you at Northstar Pizza.” He pointed to a place with hanging lights and a deck, the smell of pizza stirring in the piney breeze.

“All you do is eat.”

He laughed. “A guy can’t live on donuts alone.”

He walked away, and she watched him even as he looked both ways and jogged across the street, toward the outfitters.

Maybe that was her problem—she had too many river monsters hiding in the shadows to have faith in anything but disappointment.

Still, faith—or hope—had brought her out here. Maybe she should start leaning into it . . .

A truck filled with dogsled boxes passed, and she crossed the street after it, walking up the stairs to the ranger’s office.

Hank was at the desk, talking with a couple of hikers. He pointed to a side office as she came in.

Peyton sat at her desk in front of her computer, wearing her uniform, her dark hair washed and fluffy around her head. She looked up with a smile. “You. Sheesh. Seriously, how much trouble can you get into in seventy-two hours?” She got up and gave Flynn a hug. Leaned back and pointed to her head. “Ow.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what exactly happened?”

“I got shot at.”

Peyton’s smile dimmed, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sure? Because that’s a national forest area. Could it have been a shot that carried? The Bowie land is nearby—maybe some fishermen, firing at bears?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It pinged off rock at my feet.” She sank into a chair. “I can admit to some panic.”

Peyton folded her arms. “I’d be panicked. I’m glad Axel showed up.” She gave her a smile, something of tease in it. “So . . . there are rumors . . . I saw London today at the Last Frontier.”

“Wow, can this town get any smaller?”

“Probably not. The ham-radio date worked out, then?”

“I don’t know.” Flynn looked out the window to the river in the distance. Back to Peyton. “I have a life in Minneapolis.”

“Yeah, you do.” Peyton smiled. “That’s what my dad said. But he and my mom are back here every summer because this is her hometown. They make it work. You want something enough, you make it work.” She reached down beside her desk and hauled up Flynn’s backpack. “The journal is in there, and I put your phone in the side pocket.”

“Wow, thanks.” Flynn stood up. “Hey, do you think I could get a list of recurring hikers in the area who’ve gotten permits for the national forest where we were?”

Peyton frowned at her. “Why?”

“I can’t help but think that the Midnight Sun Killer might be a tourist.”

Her friend went quiet.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Most of the hikers I meet are crunchy granola types. And I don’t know much about the case except for the rumors, but the Midnight Sun Killer seems more ex-military. Like a tracker or a sniper or . . . a big-game hunter. I think you’d have more luck asking some of the guides around here for their client lists. You could start with Sully. He brings a lot of groups in all year round.”

“We’ve met.”

Peyton smiled. “Okay, I’ll ask Hank. You going to be in town for the festival?”

“Not sure. Thanks, Peyton.” Flynn grabbed her pack.

“Glad you’re okay.” Peyton gave Flynn a hug on the way out.

Flynn stopped in at Bowie Mountain Gear and searched for Axel but didn’t spot him, so she headed over to the pizza place and took a seat at one of the yellow tables.

Opened up her backpack. The journal sat at the top and she pulled it out, along with the map.

Spread it out.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

The question came from a teenager, clearly a waitress, her long blonde hair pulled back. Pretty. She wore a nametag—Parker. “Water is good.”

“Menu is on the board in the middle of the table.” She pointed to a blackboard, chalked and shellacked. “But we have a lunch appetizer special on breadsticks.”

“Sure.” Why not eat all the bread in town?

She dug the phone out of her backpack’s side pocket. Dead, but she’d powered it down when they left civilization, so she pressed the power button.

It came to life, vibrating, and suddenly a slew of messages came in. She thumbed open her app.

All from Eve. She opened the text loop.

Eve

How’s Alaska?

Have you found anything?

Hello?

I’m getting worried.

Call me before I send out a search party.

Flyyyyynn!

She sent a reply. I’m fine. Safe. Still searching. XO.

She set down the phone, opened the journal, and found the last page she’d read. She hadn’t noticed it before, but a tiny sparrow was drawn at the bottom of the page. Her thumb ran over it.

Reading through the entries, she saw that most of them were about the wolf pack, Koda and Luna and the pups. And then?—

Met a trail guide today near the river. He carried a bear gun and had another man with him. The other man called him a name—something like Indiana, or Iowa. The first guy reminded me of Slade. Handsome, but dangerous. I think they’re poaching.

Poachers. She hadn’t thought about that, but it made sense.

Her sister had drawn something on the page again. Not a sparrow—it looked like a wolf with a tribal tattoo woven into the hair at its neck. She ran her thumb over it.

Her phone rang. Eve. Wow, talk about hovering. She picked it up.

“What? I said I was okay.”

“Five words—that’s all I get? It’s been five days, Flynn. And radio silence?”

“Sorry. I was in the bush.” Seemed like the simplest explanation.

A pause. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m going to assume you were searching for Kennedy. Anything?”

Where to start?“Maybe. I’m checking into seasonal tourists. And maybe . . . poachers.”

“Listen. Don’t do anything . . . well, don’t be you.”

Funny, in a way she felt more her than she ever had. Or maybe a part of her she’d always known existed and had never let free.

“When are you coming home?”

“Why?”

“It’s just that . . . I think we have a copycat on our hands. 1039-style kills. Young women taken from a local bar after hours, found days later in the river—it’s eerie. I could use your brain.”

She drew in a breath.

“Flynn?”

“You’re the one who said I had months of leave.”

“Right. Yes, you do . . . Is there something . . . happening out there I need to know?”

“No!”

“That was too quick.”

“Okay, I might have met someone.” She looked out into the street, and there he was, that someone, heading out of the gift shop.

“An Alaskan woodsman?”

“Sort of. But it . . . I have a life in Minneapolis.”

“Yeah, you do. But what if?—”

“No. No what-ifs.”

“I’m just saying that everything happens for a reason. A purpose. And I know you have to figure out everything, but what if you didn’t? What if you just had a little faith it would work out?”

“I don’t know, Eve. Maybe this whole thing is . . . just . . . Maybe I should come home.”

“Or maybe you should trust that God has a plan.”

Axel came over and sat down opposite her. Smiled.

“See if there’s a pattern to the nights the victims were killed. I gotta go.”

She hung up.

“More river monsters?”

“Something like that. Hey, have you ever heard of a hunting guide called Iowa or Indiana?”

“Idaho?”

“Maybe.”

“He was a poacher—got arrested last year.”

Oh.

“Why?”

“Nothing. It’s in the journal.” She closed the book. “What did you get?”

He pulled out something wrapped in tissue. “The gift shop is having a sidewalk sale. I saw this and thought of you.” He drew a necklace out of the tissue and held it up. A small black bird with veins of green, tiny wings spread. “It’s a sparrow.”

She took it in her hand, stared at it. Ran her thumb over the smooth surface. “Where . . . Is this locally made?”

“I don’t know. Probably. But . . . it’s a sparrow.”

And with his words, something simply took hold inside her.

She might even call it faith.

* * *

Axel didn’t want to pay attention to the storm on the mountain. The one obscuring the peak of Denali and drifting southeast. But a breeze worried the trees, and it picked up their paper plates and tried to toss them from the table.

“Whoa—” He grabbed Flynn’s cup before it went over.

She was too late to stop her plate from frisbeeing away.

He got up and chased it across the deck, out to the street.

“That’s not a good sign.”

A foot stepped on the plate, and he looked up. Shasta Starr stood on the sidewalk, dressed in a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, her dark hair loose in the wind. “Hey, Axe.”

“Shasta.” He leaned down and picked up the plate. “What do you mean, not a good sign?” But he already knew.

“Storm on the mountain.” She shaded her eyes, gave Denali a grim look. “It moved in fast. Hopefully there are no climbers on the summit.”

He’d bet against it—Denali, from June to July, had turned into Everest, a virtual highway of climbers trying to conquer the tallest peak in North America.

“I saw Moose in town and heard about the rescue yesterday. You’re at it again.”

“I’m at nothing again.” He glanced at Flynn, but she had her head buried in the journal.

“Oh please. You saved a kid off a cliff?—”

“That’s my job.”

“Because you’re a hero.”

He held up his hand. “Shasta, I’m just an ordinary guy.”

She gave a laugh. “Why can’t you get it through your head that ordinary people don’t do the things that you do?”

“It’s not extraordinary if you were made to do it.”

“It is to the people you save.”

He stared at her.

“Why don’t you want to do an interview?”

“Because . . . it’s . . . Listen. Things go south in a rescue. A lot. And I don’t want to be some kind of hero and then have everything implode, okay? Just . . . leave it, Shas.”

He walked back to Flynn, who set the book down.

She considered him as he sat down.

“What?”

“What was that about?”

“Oh, that’s just Shasta. She works for the newspaper.”

Flynn’s attention went to Shasta. “What did she mean, hoping there are no climbers on the summit? Is she talking about Denali? Isn’t this the climbing season?”

“Oh. Yes. And it’s crazy busy on the mountain. The park service has a permanent base camp set up at 7200 feet, on the Kahiltna Glacier. People flying in and out every day—they even call the runway there the KIA—Kahiltna International Airport. But there’s a storm coming in, so people want to get off the mountain.”

“In July?”

“Yeah. The mountain is constantly between storms, and it can get to twenty below up there. Or colder. It’s one of the most dangerous mountains to scale because of the weather.”

“Have you climbed it?”

“No.” He leaned back. Every year we pull people off the mountain who have their fingers or noses or toes frozen off. And then there’s the ones who just freeze to death. I happen to like my fingers and toes.”

She reached out, touched his hand on the table, wove her fingers into his. “Me too.”

Aw, really, he shouldn’t get used to this. Because, well, because of the very reason he didn’t want to give an interview to Shasta.

The minute he started to believe in something . . . that was the minute he had something to lose.

And that thought shook through him and loosened his grip on her.

She didn’t seem to notice. “So no climbing for you.”

Calm down. He wasn’t going to lose her just because he’d started to care . . .

“My worst nightmare is being stranded on the mountain in a snowstorm, watching my fingers turn gray.” He opened the pizza box. “One piece left.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“You ever want to climb a mountain?” he asked.

“Not even a little. It’s too . . . unpredictable.”

“And yet you want to go skydiving.”

“Skydiving is vastly different than climbing a mountain. Besides, I only talk about skydiving. Never going to happen.”

“Why not?” He took a bite.

“I just like to keep my feet on solid ground.”

“You might like scuba diving. It’s like flying.”

“Except for the no-air part.”

He laughed. “Seriously—you’re weightless and underwater with all the fish—it’s breathtaking.”

“Literally.”

“Right.”

“So.” She took a sip of her soda, put it down. “She’s right, you know. To the people you save, you’re not ordinary. Speaking from experience.”

He looked at her. “You heard that.”

“So you do the interview, and people think you’re awesome. What, you think you might get a big head?”

“Wow. I haven’t heard that phrase for years.”

“My mom is Lutheran. It’s a thing—no big heads.”

“Right. Well, no. I mean, most of the time I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop—if we’re speaking in idioms.”

She leaned forward. “Why?”

He frowned.

“Why are you holding your breath, waiting for disaster?”

He drew in a breath. Swallowed. “Maybe it’s just better to expect disappointment.”

He didn’t know where that’d come from, because yesterday he’d been telling her to have a little faith.

Except yesterday it hadn’t felt like this might be real. He’d hoped it, and now suddenly they were holding hands and sharing a pizza, and he’d purchased her jewelry and . . .

Oh.

His chest tightened.

“Axel? You okay?”

He nodded. No. “I’m fine.” Not in the least.

Because howdy, he had something to lose. Something big and painful and . . .

And no, he didn’t have an ounce of faith that it wasn’t going to crash and burn. Because fate didn’t play fair.

Parker came to the table. “You done?” She gathered up the plates, the pizza box. “You guys going to the festival this weekend?”

He pulled out his wallet and handed her a card.

“Axel!”

He turned and spotted Moose headed across the street. His brother stepped up on the deck of the pizza place, walked over.

“I picked up the radios, if you’re wondering. They’re in the truck,” Axel said.

“Good. We have a callout. Dodge called, and he’s been ferrying climbers off the mountain all day in his Otter, but there’s been a fall. The wind took a couple of climbers off Squirrel Hill, and they’re on a slab overlooking Peters Basin.”

“That’s pretty high elevation.”

“We can be up for thirty minutes without supplemental oxygen. C’mon—we need to go before the winds get worse. We’re meeting Dodge at Sky King Ranch—he’ll be my copilot. I need you on the line—London will run the hoist.”

Axel was already swinging his leg over the bench. “What about Flynn?”

“She can take your Yukon back to the house?—”

“Or I can go with you,” Flynn said.

Moose looked at her. “Not to Denali. Not this time.”

Flynn’s mouth tightened.

And Axel didn’t know why he said it. “She could wait at Sky King Ranch. Maybe man the radio. She’s good on the radio.” He looked over at her, winked.

“I think Echo can handle it,” Moose said. “But that’s okay with me. Let’s go.”

Axel drove the Yukon to the airport, then left it there and retrieved his gear from the storage unit. Moose arrived with London, and ten minutes later, they were airborne, Flynn strapped into the seat, her helmet on.

He didn’t know why he’d lobbied for her to come with them—it would probably have been better for her to wait at home.

Except . . . weirdly . . . Okay, yeah. He couldn’t get past the idea that he didn’t want her out of his sight. Or at least, not roaming Copper Mountain alone.

Because . . . shooting. And her bum knee. And maybe because he didn’t want it to end.

Sheesh,yeah—what she said. He was in big trouble.

Flynn stared out the window as the Air One chopper flew over the roaring Copper River and to the western hills and valleys that made up the Denali basin. Mostly homesteaders out this way, but Sky King Ranch owned a decent swath of land, a lodge, some cabins around their own lake, and had for years run a bush pilot service. Dodge still managed that, in between rescue flights.

Axel spotted the ranch from a distance—the Quonset hangar for Dodge’s Otter and the Air One chopper, the red barn for their cars and gear, the lodge, with the front porch and stone chimney jutting from the roof. A runway ran along the back of the yard.

The storm hadn’t yet reached the valley, clogged on the jagged mountaintops. Echo stood outside, a sweater wrapped around her body, not quite able to fit over her nearly-to-term belly. She wore a pair of oversized sweatpants, a stretchy shirt, her dark hair back in a messy bun, and now stepped back, away from the rotor wash.

Axel opened the side door, and he and Flynn got out. He walked her over to Echo and introduced them.

“Flynn can help with the radio, if you need.”

“Good, because my back is killing me.” She stretched, her stomach larger than her body, it seemed. “Dodge flew up to the base camp. He’ll meet you there.”

Axel turned to Flynn. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Stay safe,” she said, and stood there. And he wanted to lean over, give her a kiss goodbye, but suddenly that felt too . . . domestic. Real. Like they somehow belonged to each other.

He nodded instead and ran back to the chopper.

Moose lifted them off, and Axel glanced down to see Flynn bracing a hand over her eyes, watching them go.

He should have kissed her. Stop panicking. Everything was going to be fine.

The storm hit them twenty miles away from the mountain, catching the chopper in its flurries, but Moose kept it steady, and they landed neatly at KIA. Dodge’s DHC-3 Otter sat on the snowy tarmac, and he helped load the plane with packs and other gear.

He wore a parka and a wool hat and looked up as they landed. His aviator glasses reflected the activity at the base—orange tents flapping in the wind, climbers sitting on their expedition sleds, packs, and other gear, a few climbers digging tent platforms in the snow.

Axel counted maybe fifty climbers, all hanging out, waiting for the weather window to pass. Around them, the north face of Mount Hunter rose, a forbidding jut of sheer ice and granite. Fresh snow lay like a creamy layer on Mount Foraker to the southwest, the mountain only slightly dwarfed by Denali. The afternoon sun turned the eastern slopes to a deep blue-gray.

Dodge lifted a hand to the chopper and trudged over, wearing snowshoes. Moose opened the door.

“Hey. So, the update is that they’re on a serac outcropping on Peters Basin. They fell about two hundred feet and lost their packs, and the wind is gusting off Motorcycle Hill, so rescue teams can’t get down to them.”

“What’s the wind at up there?”

“About thirty knots. There’s been at least one avalanche sighted, and that serac could let loose at any time. Still need me on copilot? We’re still waiting on some climbers to finish packing up.”

Moose nodded and turned to London, who was already unbuckling.

She worked her way to the back, and Dodge climbed in at copilot, pulling on a thermal rescue jumpsuit and donning a helmet.

He and Moose huddled in the cockpit, working out how to reach the climbers, Moose with his tablet out, tracing a route down.

London wore a tight-lipped look.

“What?”

“I was on a rescue like this in the Alps. Nearly went down with the gusts.” She drew in a breath, forced a smile. “I’m not a fan of mountain rescues.”

Moose turned and held up the screen. “This sounds crazy, but with the angle of the mountain and the size of the serac, I think we can get a skid on it and, Axel, you can just climb out and haul them in. We’ll put you on a safety line, and London will lower down a double sling. I think we only have one shot at this, so work fast.”

Axel gave him a thumbs-up, and Moose lifted them off the snow and into the air. Axel had never had a desire to climb the Tall One, as it was called by the locals, and as they rose now, past the dark granite walls, deep glacial runnels, and thick snow-capped ridges, that resolve settled into his bones. He wasn’t fueled by adrenaline and risk—he just wasn’t afraid of it.

Although, as he spotted the two climbers clinging to the massive serac the size of an oil platform jutting out from the white face, a tremor strummed through him.

He’d be glad to get off this mountain.

Moose had judged correctly—they could set a skid down on the serac and load up the climbers in one fell swoop. But Axel would have to get out and assist them into the sling because the way they both clung to the ice, their axes dug in, they weren’t moving. Ice crusted their face masks, and one might be hurt, because his arm hung loosely, his grip unused.

London checked Axel’s secure line as Moose lowered them to the lip of the icy protrusion; then, when he’d settled the skid, she opened the door.

The frigid wind swept Axel’s breath away.

“Make it quick!” Moose yelled.

Absolutely. Axel ducked his head, glad for his helmet and visor, his thermal suit, and stepped out onto the skid, still attached to the safety line in the chopper. London had released the hoist with the two slings attached. He grabbed it, then stepped off into the snow.

He landed thigh deep in the fresh layer and fell, still holding the slings. He moved to lie on top of the snow and army-crawled over it, distributing his weight.

The guys were shouting at him, but he couldn’t make out their words over the rotor wash. He reached them, and they grabbed on to him, pulling him close.

“Get in!” He held out the hoist, and one of them pulled it over himself, under his arms, then let go of his ice axe and wrapped his arms around the sling.

The other shook his head.

“C’mon, man! It’s cold out here!”

He reached out for the sling, grabbed it?—

A gust of wind sailed over the top and sent snow funneling down over them like a waterfall. Axel tried to brace himself, but the snow whipped him back, turning him, tangling him in his line.

The chopper ripped away from its perch, jerked him, and in his peripheral vision, he saw the line rip away from the mountain. One man hung on, inside the yoke, safe.

The other hung onto the yoke with both arms, dangling.

“Get them in, London!”

The chopper dragged him, snow crammed into his visor, blinding him.

And then he was hanging. Simply twisting in midair, eleven thousand feet in the air, nothing but a carabiner saving him from a plummet to the earth below.

He shoved up his visor, tried to clear his eyes even as the wind whipped through his ears, freezing his body. Shouts came from the duo on the line as London tried to reel them in.

Moose, in his ear, talked over London, fighting for control of the chopper.

Then, “The hoist is breaking free!“ London shouted.

No, no?—

And Axel’s safety line might be next?—

Moose’s voice came through, even, calm. “We’re going to put down on the pass above Motorcycle Hill. Hang on, Axel.”

What—he was going to do what?

But the chopper suddenly lifted into the air, some one thousand feet, and he swung like a trout on a line, deaf from the wind, his eyes burning, nearly frozen shut as Moose angled them toward the pass.

Snow swirled up under him as he skimmed over the plateau, Squirrel Hill rising in front of him. “Put me down!”

As if he heard him, Moose descended, the snow a tempest, churned up by the blades.

Then the chopper started to spin. Axel looked up, saw it fighting the wind that churned over Squirrel Hill, spinning and bobbing. The bird dragged him through the snow as it descended.

He lost sight of the climbers as he tunneled into the drifts, his body tugged along by the failing chopper. Please, let him not crash into a granite outcropping. He rolled, trying to get his hands on the carabiner, but snow crusted his gloves and?—

And then, suddenly, he stopped.

He rolled over.

Then everything inside him died as he watched the chopper disappear into the mountain in an explosion of snow and ice.