CHAPTER 64

FOR A SPLIT SECOND I hesitated, needing to be sure, but when Officer Fagan put her sled in gear and took off south, the decision was made. I followed in her tracks, wanting to look back but not daring because the snow was soft in the meadow and I was struggling to keep my machine going.

“You have ten rounds three hundred Win mag,” the Mountie said over the helmet headset. “Eighteen rounds nine-millimeter?”

“Correct,” I said.

“I have eight rounds in the Ithaca, and eighteen rounds nine-millimeter.”

“Not enough if they mean us harm.”

“Roger that, so we are going to have to put distance between them, find some high ground for an ambush where I can use my satellite phone, alert dispatch.”

She banked her sled toward the southwest corner of the first meadow and accelerated, throwing a plume of powder snow in the late-day sun that made it hard to—

Even though I had my helmet on, the flat crack of automatic-weapon fire behind me was unmistakable. I ducked and cranked the throttle, no longer caring whether I could see or not, hoping I was throwing up enough snow to mess with their aim.

And then we were in fir trees on a lane that led to the second meadow.

“They’re close enough to shoot at me,” I said.

“I heard,” Fagan gasped. “Stay with me. We’ll hit the second meadow, peel away west, then loop around to cover in the east toward the rim of the canyon. We’ll have a bit of high ground, and the sat phone will connect no problem.”

“Your country,” I said, seeing the lane ahead break free into the second meadow, which had many more scattered trees than the first. I followed the Mountie hard west toward the sun, which was now right in our eyes, making it difficult to see. “If they follow, they’ll be as blind as we are going through here.”

“Exactly, so that knoll there, then,” she said, turning her sled toward a rise in the meadow where trees had burned down a long time ago.

I said, “You go to the rim and call. I’ll go up the knoll and cover you.”

“Done.”

The Mountie rounded the back of the knoll and headed east toward the rim of the canyon. I climbed the knoll, stopped the machine just below the crest of the rise, and looked over our back trail. After unstrapping the scabbard, I pulled out a Winchester Model 70 stainless-steel rifle with a Leopold scope, ran the action, and watched a 180-grain .300 magnum round seat snugly in the chamber.

Beyond my sled, the snow was deep. I struggled the last few feet to the top, then flipped up my helmet visor and scanned the tree line in the slanting light.

It was pushing zero. My breath hung in the air like fog.

For several moments, there was nothing but the fading buzz of Fagan’s machine. I looked behind me and realized I could see quite plainly that butte where the old silver mine had been and where we’d seen movement. It was no more than two miles away.

But the light was fading. I didn’t have an hour of it left and—

Three snowmobiles came from the north and exited the lane between the alpine meadows, following in our tracks. I took two steps forward in the snow and eased in behind the stout and charred stump of a burned fir tree.

“They’re here,” I said into my helmet microphone.

“Come back?” Fagan said, barely audible over static.

“They’re here.”

“Can’t … you. Try to…”

There was nothing but a hiss in my ear as the sleds slowed no more than four hundred yards below me. I swept aside the snow atop the stump and laid the hunting rifle over the top.

The sleds stopped. The drivers looked around.

I peered through the telescopic sight. As Fagan had said, they had automatic weapons hanging from chest harnesses.

I heard other machines and looked northeast along the tree line. The other four sleds were leaving the woods in the far corner, headed south.

A northwest wind had picked up, spinning snow devils across the landscape. I looked to my right far off the knoll, trying to spot Fagan toward the rim of a canyon she’d said was right there, no more than five hundred yards away. In the rising wind and blowing snow, it was impossible to make out for certain. I was on my own until the Mountie came back in range.

My eye went back to the scope, and I moved it on the first rider. My finger went to the trigger. Given that we had already been shot at, I believed I would be acting in self-defense. As far as I was concerned, there was no legal issue if I was forced to shoot under those circumstances.

But a hunting rifle against machine guns?

Was I better off running? Without Fagan and with darkness coming?

The lead driver of the three pressed the ignition on his sled. He started fast, following in our tracks, but slowed some two hundred and fifty yards from me, caught in that blinding late-afternoon sun and swirling snow.