CHAPTER 66

THE WIND PICKED UP out of the northwest then, whistling and bitter. In seconds, dark clouds took the sun, some thirty minutes from setting.

Shadows and snow swirls swept across the winter landscape.

And still I sat there on my idling snowmobile, staring at that gloomy spot where Officer Fagan had vanished from sight.

I had only the vaguest idea of our location.

The Mountie had been tracking us on some mapping app she had on her phone that did not require an active connection. I had no such app and my phone had lost service right after we left Kimberley.

But the compass app on my phone had to work. And we had just refueled. As long as I could locate the tracks of the Maestro soldiers, I reasoned, I could eventually find my way back to the warming hut. I’d light a fire. I’d spend the night and—

Two of the drivers who’d been chasing Fagan appeared on their machines. They were close to where she’d gone over, moving from my left to right about one hundred and fifty yards out.

I did not give them a chance to spot me. I killed the ignition, threw the hunting rifle over the handlebars, and shot the near rider as he passed through an opening in the scattered trees, then picked off the second.

I shoved the rifle back in the scabbard, and took off south toward that ridge with the big dead tree. I slowed to a stop near dense Christmas trees in the corner of the clearing, the snag silhouetted ahead and above me in the gray light.

I got behind the sled, watching my back trail over the top of the rifle scope, looking for the last of the seven people who’d been hunting us. The biting-cold wind blew snow devils through the low fir trees, which shook.

New snow began to fall. I glanced farther south, toward that abandoned mine, believing that Bree and John were there, yet wanting serious backup before I went in to see for certain.

Shooting erupted to my left, muzzle flashes at a distance. Bullets snapped branches of the trees nearest to me. I reached up, thumbed the ignition, twisted the throttle, and lurched the sled forward a good twenty yards, putting thicker trees between me and the gunman.

The shooting stopped. I slid the hunting rifle in the scabbard and picked up the submachine gun, knowing he was there listening for me just as I was listening for him.

For the second time in less than ten minutes, I felt as if I had no choice in my next move. Night was falling, bringing temperatures that could eventually kill me, and I doubted I could find my way back to the distant trailhead. I could see only one real option.

Forget backup. Forget trying to get out of the wilderness.

You’ve got to kill this last guy and go to that abandoned mine building.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, my headset crackled with a woman’s hoarse voice.

“Dr. Cross? Are you there?”

For a moment, I was sure it was Fagan.

But then the woman said, “Dr. Alex Cross? Are you hearing me at this frequency?”

I realized she had a light British accent. I debated whether to reply.

“We can hear you breathing, Dr. Cross. And there’s someone here who wishes to speak with you.”

There was a pause before the sweetest and most familiar voice came to me over the headset. “Alex? Are you there?”

My heart soared. “Bree?”

“Right here,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s time to put the guns down. They have too many men. Even if you knew the way out of this place, they’d catch you.”

I said nothing, wondering at her level of duress.

“Alex,” Bree said. “It’s going to be fifty below zero out there tonight.”

“What do they want me to do?”

The other woman’s voice came on the headset. “Leave your weapons. Follow the snowmobile and driver when they cross in front of you.”

I said nothing for several moments. Finally, the woman said, “Do you wish to see your wife and Mr. Sampson again? Or do we hunt you all night?”

The situation was no-win, and I knew it. “Putting my weapons down.”

“You’ve made your wife happy, Dr. Cross.”

But I was not happy as I got out the hunting rifle and hung it by its sling on the nearest tree. I tossed the submachine gun in the snow below it, unzipped my coverall and my down parka, and dug for my shoulder harness and the Glock, which was right above the avalanche beacon Fagan had made me wear.

As I did, I felt something brush my knuckles, something small and oblong in the pocket of my parka. I got the Glock and the backup ammo out and regretfully dropped them as well.

“Dr. Cross?”

“Almost,” I said, digging again. “I’m not good with coveralls and cold.”

My fingers closed on that little oblong object in my chest pocket. I’d forgotten Willow’s Jiobit fob was with me.

I squeezed the sides of it for several seconds, praying Sampson was right, that its GPS signal could be picked up anywhere. I debated taking it with me but decided not to; I hung it low, near the trunk, and zipped up the coverall.

I shrugged off the pack and tossed it by the machine gun. Some instinct told me I needed to remember this place. The same instinct told me to empty the sled’s under-storage compartment, take out the tent, sleeping bag, and emergency gear.

If I can save Bree and just get back here, I—

“Dr. Cross?”

“Okay,” I said, putting my mitts back on. “I am officially without weapons.”

“Good,” the woman said.

A moment later, I heard a snowmobile start up off to my left. A headlight cut the gathering gloom, slashed, and wavered like a fighting sword.

The light became the snowmobile and the final driver, who did not look over at me before accelerating toward the abandoned mine.

I looked at the cache of weapons and emergency gear in the glow of my sled’s headlights. I remembered Bree’s voice, knew she was captive, and knew I might not see her or John or my kids or my grandmother again. And if we all did survive, our lives might never be the same.

I understood all that and yet I followed the red taillight of the gunman’s sled into the gathering storm and the night.