She opened the case, memory of how to use the weapon clicking.Thank you,Dad.Then she pulled out the gun, stood up, shaking.
“Get off him!” She pointed the gun at Thornwood.
He didn’t even glance at her.
She pulled the trigger. The shot barked into the air, its echo shredding the cold. “The next one goes in your back.” Shoot—did she really say that? She took a breath. “I mean it!”
Wilder still thrashed, but less so. Thornwood turned back to him.
She pulled the trigger.
Instinct, but she saw herself do it, more as an out-of-body experience than full-on thought.
The shot hit Thornwood in the shoulder, and he roared back, turning, falling into the snow.
Wilder rolled, scrambled up, and ran.
Ran.
Away.
As inleft her.
Then Thornwood found his feet and rounded. Oh, no—no—
He took off toward her.
Another shot, not from her, clipped him again, this time across his thigh.
“Run, girl, run!” Mack, still on the ground, but he held Thornwood’s Glock. He must have found it in the debris.
She looked at Thornwood, now halted, then the forest and—
Ran.
Just left poor Mack on the beach with Thornwood.
She fled into the forest as another shot breached the air. She slowed, breathing hard. She should get back to Mack, help him—
Until she’d spotted Thornwood thundering after her.
She’d turned and ran with everything inside her.
Now, she hadn’t a clue how far she’d gone, she listened for the bear of a man on her tail.
Nothing but the moan of the wind, the trees creaking.
Only then did she realize she’d dropped the gun.
And now, wait—barking. The sound slivered through her, shook her bones.Wolves?
She got up, looking for the sun. What had Mack said—five miles northeast? That meant the sun was behind her, right? Or did the sun behave differently here in Alaska?
Hopefully not, because she took off, the sun at her back, what little of it she could see. Memories of that movie with Liam Neeson flickered through her brain, the one where the wolves surrounded him, where he fought them off with fire.
She had no fire. No backpack. Snow crammed into her short Pradas, and her legs had turned to ice. Easy prey.
The barking followed her.God—please.
