Snowbound

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Jonas could tell right away that the man was already dead, his face polka-dotted with buckshot. Besides, he wasn’t sitting right. His head tilted unnaturally to one side and the shotgun looked as if it had been propped up against him. Means there’s probably someone sitting a little ways down the corridor with some firepower trained on this spot.

If the Alphas hadn’t vetoed the use of radios, he’d have warned Roddy’s dumb ass, since they probably had the same setup at the end of the north wing.

He slipped off his goggles. Didn’t really need them yet, the moon bright as all get-out and lighting up the alcove like Christmas. He heard something in the distance behind him, glanced back across that long, narrow lake lathered in moonlight. At first, he thought they were men running toward him, then realized it was the wolves he’d been hearing, their heads rising and falling as they bounded through snow.

Why the fuck were they moving toward him? Ever since coming up to Alaska from L.A., all he’d heard was how skittish they were, and you were supposed to have an orgasm if you saw them in the wild. Fuck this Grizzly Adams shit. God, he missed the Valley. He turned back toward the lodge, raised the Beretta, and squeezed off a burst.

Suzanne was looking over her shoulder for Lucy when the glass of the west-facing window fell out. She hadn’t heard a gunshot, and from where she sat, she couldn’t see either window. Suzanne slowly rose to her feet, reaching for her radio, and as she pressed TALK, someone screamed at the other end of the lodge.

She backpedaled, heard the crunch of broken glass—someone in the alcove now—realized they’d put the bear trap on the wrong side.

A shotgun boomed somewhere on the north wing.

There was a bright, quiet muzzle flash at the end of her corridor.

Will pressed TALK, breathing so hard, he could barely speak. “Guy just came in through the east window. He’s dead.”

Kalyn said, “Copy that. We’ve had a visual. Everyone check in.”

“Devi, here. We’re fine.”

“Ken and Sean. We’re fine.”

After a moment, Kalyn said, “Suzanne? Lucy? Copy?”

No answer.

Will: “Kalyn, did you see or hear anything on the south wing?”

“No, just the glass breaking and the guy screaming at your end, so that had my attention. Look, everyone maintain your positions. I’ll check it out.”

Ken rose suddenly to his feet, as if he’d been resolved to stand for some time, his loops coiling, and just now worked up the nerve to spring.

“Dad,” Sean whispered, “what are you doing?”

“You know, we don’t deal in this currency.” He shook the Mossberg. “We’re gonna get ourselves killed sitting here.” He threw the shotgun down.

“Where are you going?”

“Out there.”

Ken strode twenty feet to the thick door and slid back the iron bolts.

“Dad!” Sean whispered. “You sure about this?”

“I love you, Sean. I’m sorry I brought you here.” He pulled open the door, and Sean could see a meter of snow just beyond the overhanging eave, the railing of the veranda nearly buried. The cold that swept into the passage made his eyes water.

Ken stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed after him.

Jonas put on his goggles, stood at the edge of the alcove, surveying the corridor. He saw the woman he’d shot a short ways down—motionless, sprawled, her shotgun unattended on the floor. He went and picked it up.

Looking down toward the end of the corridor, where it opened into the lobby, he saw bright green flares of light—lanterns perhaps. He could just make out the shape of someone sitting on the hearth.

He removed his white parka and snow pants, but instead of continuing down this corridor, he turned around and started for the stairwell.

Ken stood under the eave, feeling the cold infiltrate his down jacket. In the absence of lantern light from the passage, it took a full minute before his eyes picked out what detail the moon allowed—the veranda, buried under feet of drifted snow, the railing covered in places, poking through in others, the forest fifty yards to the east, out of which meandered a black stream, the snow dipping toward its banks in folds, something voluptuous about the curve, like white hips in the moonlight.

When he saw them, he wondered why the tracks paralleling the railing hadn’t been the first thing to catch his attention, and, likewise, the figure who stood where they ended, perhaps thirty feet away in the farthest corner, pointing a gun at him.

Ken felt his heart trip over itself, but he managed to raise his arms.

The figure waved him over. Ken nodded, moving forward onto the snow, sinking to his waist, doing his best to negotiate the snowpack while keeping his hands above his head.

Ten feet from the masked figure, Ken saw a gloved palm extend in his direction.

He stopped, trying not to stare at the wicked-looking pistol aimed at his chest.

The figure wore a white mask to match his winter apparel, with a bar cut out that exposed his placid blue eyes, and the divoted bridge of his nose.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the man asked.

Ken smiled nervously, ducked his head in greeting. “I just want you to know that my son and I are—”

“Where is your son?”

“Just inside that door. We’re guests of this lodge. Or were, and we don’t have any quarrel with you.”

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That we don’t have a quarrel.”

“Because I don’t know you.”

“I think it’s safe to say I have laxer prerequisites for having a quarrel.” The man raised the suppressed pistol to shoot Ken in the head.

“Oh God, please. I’m rich. That’s what I came out here to tell you.”

“You came out here to tell me that you’re rich?”

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

“No, not just that. Also that I would give you any amount of money if you would let my son and me sit out whatever’s getting ready to go down in there.”

“You have this money with you?”

“No, but I could—”

The man squinted his eyes, grimaced. “What? I leave you my address? You send me a check?”

“Or a bank account number. It would be seven figures.”

The man seemed to consider this. “And we would operate on what? The honor system?”

“Please.”

“All right, let’s go.”

“Back to the door?”

“Yes.”

Ken turned away and started back across the veranda, his feet growing cold, snow having slid down into his boots. He felt a swell of pride at having walked out here and saved himself and Sean.

He said, “I’ll even tell you where everyone is in—”

At first, he thought the man had pushed him, that he wasn’t moving fast enough, and he tried to improve his pace, but something bloomed inside his right lung—a rod of molten pain—and he went down, kneeling in snow up to his neck, watching the man in white clean his blood off a piece of metal by running the blade between his gloved thumb and forefinger.

“I already know exactly where they are, Ken,” he said, proceeding on toward the door. “But many thanks.”

Ken stood up, accomplished three staggering steps in the snow.

The man in white had almost reached the door, but he stopped and glanced back, saw Ken standing there.

Ken heard the man sigh, watched him shake his head in annoyance.

He was coming back now, and two steps from Ken, he pulled the knife out of a hidden sheath stitched into his snow pants.

Ken reached out, put his hand on the man’s right shoulder to stop himself from falling, and, as if in accommodation, the man grasped Ken’s right shoulder and shoved the KA-BAR Marine Hunter eight times into his stomach.

Kalyn came to Suzanne and knelt in her blood, felt the guilt knocking, knew better than to let it take root. Any distraction could be fatal. She pulled out her radio.

“Suzanne’s gone,” she said. “So we know at least one of them has made it into the lodge.” As she slipped the radio back into her pocket, a pack of shadows leaped through the open window into the south-wing alcove and disappeared up the stairwell.

A scream emanated from the lobby.

Kalyn grabbed her radio again, said, “Sean? Ken?”

Will’s voice crackled: “You hear that?”

“Just sit tight. Stay where you—”

“No, I’m gonna check it out.”

Rachael said, “You aren’t leaving me here alone.”

“I didn’t say I was. Let’s try to go without the flashlight, though. Might as well not advertise our position.” He helped his wife to her feet and they progressed toward the specks of light in the lobby, dragging their hands along the wall, using it for a guide.

Jonas emerged from the stairwell onto the fourth floor. The corridor was empty, so he spent a moment unloading the shotgun, then dropping it on the floor. At the far end, lantern light shone from the lobby. He figured he’d claim a secure position and snipe from above.

He started down the corridor. The Beretta felt good in his gloved hands, but he didn’t like passing all these doors, kept expecting one of them to swing open.

As far as he was concerned, the Alphas could fuck themselves. He wasn’t putting his life in danger just to make sure he didn’t kill the FBI agent or William Innis. They were storming this lodge in total darkness, no idea what they were walking into. Shit happened in this type of situation, and if someone jumped out of a corner, buenos fucking noches.

He heard screams somewhere in the lodge—definitely a man’s.

The corridor suddenly filled with the noise of incoming footsteps. Jonas spun around, glanced back at the alcove, which was washed out in green light, the details obliterated by the flood of moonbeams. He knelt down, pulled off his goggles. The darkness was streaked with red, exploding with phantom light. His eyes struggled to adjust. He got the goggles back on just in time to see five wolves running toward him.

He squeezed off a burst. The one in front yelped and fell. The others leaped over their compatriot, still coming, unfazed, undeterred.

Two bursts. Another went down. Fuck. The slide locked back, three still coming.

He wasn’t accustomed to automatic weapons—pull the trigger too hard, your magazine’s spent in the blink of an eye. The Alphas had warned them about this. He ejected the clip, was going for another when the wolves reached him.

Jonas was a big man, 250 pounds, six three. He reminded himself of that and stood, bracing for impact, thinking, I’ll just snap some necks. Not like I haven’t done that shit before.

The two in front rammed into him at the same time, the force far beyond anything he’d expected, his head smashing hard into the floor.

He saw pricks of painful light. He was on his back, the Beretta gone, one wolf tearing into his right arm, the other two going for his face.

One of the wolves tore the goggles away. Teeth ripped through the parka around his neck, the down airborne like a shredded pillow. And it occurred to him, They’re going for your throat.

Their slobber was warm, their breath foul. He tried to sit up, but they had both of his arms now, and a giant white wolf that seemed to glow in the dark was straddling him, teeth bared, inches above his face yet hesitating, as if to savor this moment. At some level, outside the fear and the pain, Jonas recognized its sadistic patience, the pleasure-delay, and he thought, This fucker’s a real killer. Doing this shit for fun.