How many left now? Two? Just Ben and Sampson?
She pictured more, pouring in like the bad guys in a martial arts movie. One after another, a never-ending stream of professional killers.
Her eyes flicked up. No way could she identify whoever it was from here, but the shadow moved, raised an arm.
Memories slammed her in an endless loop—Sampson pointing the gun at Alex’s head. Alex falling. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Time stalled, went syrupy slow.
Ford put a finger to his lips, meant for her, but she had to tell him about the man behind him. Ben, limping from where she’d hurt him. In sickening slow-motion, he lifted his handgun.
“Behind you, Ford!”
Ford reached for something at his waist and in a flash, spun away from her, the ice axe appearing in his hands, small but deadly. Before she could blink, he’d sent it flying through the air to catch Ben in the head. Ben fell faster than the bright crimson mist of his own blood. It tinkled onto the ice a millisecond after the thump of his body.
Four down.
More death. She should feel bad. She should feel…something?
Someone coughed—the sound strangely vulnerable amidst all this violence. Slow as an oil slick, the shadow spread beside her. The closer it got, the more certain she was that it washim. Sampson.
“Go!” Ford yelled, just as a shot thundered from overhead and Ford spun back, hit the wall, and slid slowly down, leaving a Technicolor streak behind him.
“Nooooo!” The scream tore from her insides.
Like an angel from hell, the dark-clad figure leapt to the ice beside Ford, and before he could react, delivered a hard kick to his stomach. Another. Another. Ford curled in on himself, but Sampson didn’t stop.
Angel’s vision narrowed, muscles tensed. She’d kill him.
“Ang—Angel! Get…out…” Sampson grabbed Ford by the coat, hauled him up, and hit him in the face. Over and over again.
She had to stop him. She had to—
“I’ve got the virus!” the words were out.
Sampson lifted his head and went very, very still, watching her with predatory interest.
The only movement was the slow rise and fall of Ford’s chest. He was limp.
“Come and get it, you prick.” She took off.
A look over her shoulder showed him dropping Ford to the ground like a sack of potatoes. With Terminator-like inexorability, Sampson came after her, steps starting slow and measured before picking up speed, until she had no choice but to run like hell.
Or stumble, limp, hop, lean, and slide. It wasn’t fast enough. She put her foot down, screamed at the explosion of pain, and pushed through, all so he would follow her, so he’d leave Ford alone.
Into the cave.
“Hear that, Coop—or is it Ford now? Your girl’s giving me the virus. Ain’t that sweet?” Sampson was so close she could almost taste his sad parody of a sigh. “You’re walking funny. You in pain, Angel?” Sampson chuckled low, his slow pace insulting when she was working so hard to move.
He wouldn’t win. She wouldn’t let him, dammit.
Just before turning into the long, low cave, she eyed the thinnest of the ice columns.
Don’t lean on them, Ford had told her. With a rage-fueled burst of strength, she shoved at it. Nothing. But a second push made the thing teeter. She tripped back as it collapsed, like a tree going down.
“I can help with—Bitch!”
She didn’t wait to hear more before forging into the tunnel, where Ford had jammed the yellow sled in vertically.
