She made it maybe ten feet before he realized she’d run. But it was enough. She’d seen something on the way back and had just enough time to take hold of it and dive around the corner before he came after her.
An axe. Or a hatchet, actually. Whatever it was called. The name didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she had it and she wasn’t afraid to use it. While Sampson had quickly yanked Jamie Cortez’s body out into the arch, she’d make sure hers wasn’t so easy to clean up.
“You fuckingbitch.” He was breathing hard. Good. He wanted a fight? She’d give him a fight. “I’ll—”
The second he appeared, she swung, wide and hard. He stumbled back, snarled, came at her again, and she retaliated with another attack, sending him around the corner into darkness.
There came deep breathing—powerful as a bellows—then his clipped voice as he growled into the other end of the line she couldn’t hear. “No, dammit, I don’t have her. Tell him to—Shit!” He sounded insane now. “Hold the goddamn door open! Be right there.”
When he spoke again, it was quieter, more venomous. Just for her. “You wanna die in here? Fine. Freeze to death.” Was he moving away? His steps seemed to fade, but it was so hard to tell. Hard to hear with the way her ears rang, hard to concentrate with her own fury running through her veins. Oh God, please let him leave. She’d rather face the cold than his anger. His final words drifted back to her from the doorway into the arch. “You missed your ride, Angel. Plane’s going wheels up in two minutes, so I’m gonna scoot. You stay here and become a Popsicle. They’ll find you here in the spring, you stupid, stupid c—”
The door slammed, muffling his last words, then the lock slid into place.
She half collapsed and gasped for air, the hatchet tightly gripped in one hand. For a few seconds, she could do nothing but blink into the darkness, suspended at the unfamiliar crossroads of adrenaline, relief, and absolute soul-deep terror.
She wallowed there for maybe ten seconds. And then, because there was still breath in her body, she stood up again, tightened her hold on the hatchet, and went back to the door.
* * *
Coop watched helplessly as the second LC-130 Hercules sliced through the air, its departure as loud and final as the telltale whistle of an IED. What was that second plane all about?
The first flight was normal, right on schedule, picking up the summer folks. But the second?
And what the hell awaited him at the station right now?
When he finally got close enough to see what had happened, the place looked remarkably innocuous—ifhe ignored the black smudge hanging overhead like a cartoon storm cloud.
He pulled up, shut off the engine—beyond wary—and did a quick scan of the place. Nothing. No sign of life and no movement, aside from the dark, noxious-looking smoke billowing from what used to be the power plant arch.
Not once in his decade coming here had he wished for a weapon. Until now.
Shit, he didn’t want to get out of the plow. Getting out meant going on the offensive and he was in no way prepared for that. But he didn’t exactly have a choice. Coop reached under his seat and pulled out a toolbox, which he yanked open. A wrench. Not much, but better than nothing.
He threw open the door and listened. Sounds reached him in phases—the ticking of the plow’s engine a baseline. Layered atop its steady rhythm came the ominous crackling of fire. An occasional bang added an off-key treble to the mix. What was that—was someone hammering?
Heartbeat keeping time with the uncanny symphony, he jumped down, crouched, and waited, taking in every possible detail. There, to the side, the door to a metal storage shed blew open and slammed shut in the wind.
The thriving research station he’d left this morning had become a ghost town and he couldn’t figure out why. What had turned the power plant into a burnt-out crater? And where the hell was everyone?
Staying low, he made his way to the first building—the living quarters. To the door, then on an inhale that was more Hail Mary than oxygen intake, through it. It was still warm here, but dark. He reached out and flipped the switch. Nothing. Backup generator wasn’t working. With eyes wide-open, limbs heavy and flush with adrenaline, he grabbed a Maglite from the vestibule, threw open the inner door, and slid inside, poised against the wall. Watching.
Nothing.
He shone the light methodically from right to left, down and up. Aside from the deep shadows and absolute silence, everything looked as it should. Well, mostly.
A few rooms stood open, letting a dull, grayish light into the long hall.
Cautiously, he made his way to the first door and kicked it all the way open. A glance inside showed an unholy mess, which was 100 percent Jameson. The guy lived like a freaking hoarder from one of those shows. Must have a system, though, because when he needed something from his quarters, like magic he’d pop out with the item in his hand. A quick visual search didn’t reveal a radio or satellite phone or laptop.
He sucked in a breath and crossed the hall, opened the door, and looked into another room. This one was totally stripped, as if its occupant had moved out. That made sense, too, since he was pretty sure this one belonged to a couple summer folks who’d left today.
They’d have been on that plane.
Had everyone evacuated and left him behind? The wind picking up said bad weather could be on the way, which might very well have precipitated the flight’s early departure. Maybe with no power, the operations manager had called it, leaving the lone straggler to fend for himself.
That would be unlikely under normal circumstances, but given that the new manager, Bradley Sampson, had no experience at Pole, anything was possible. Jesus, it sure felt like he was alone here.
A search of the entire building showed more of the same—messy piles of belongings in some quarters, nothing in others. If they’d evacuated, then they’d done it fast, without grabbing anything personal.
