He opened his mouth to tell her they didn’t have time to waste and immediately closed it again. The woman had gone through a hell of a lot in the past—what? Fourteen, fifteen hours? She’d witnessed a murder, fought off the killer with a hatchet, and then prepared for an unexpected expedition that most people wouldn’t survive.
Even Coop—the man who’d never met a conversation he couldn’t turn awkward—could tell that he needed to tread lightly right now.
“You okay?”
She sent him a startled look, with a high, humorless half laugh, and bit off a piece of protein bar. After a few slow chews, she nodded. “Yeah.”
A glance at the GPS unit told him that it was about 4:30 a.m. Over twelve hours since he’d returned to find Burke-Ruhe deserted. A lot had changed since then.
As soon as Angel finished, he put out a hand, palm up. The move must’ve shocked her because she stared at it for a few seconds before putting hers on top.
“You’ve got this, okay?” he whispered, surprised by the emotion he couldn’t seem to swallow down.
“Thank you. For everything.” She put her fingers through his and squeezed, her hold surprisingly strong, even through the multiple layers of gloves. “Andwe’vegot this.”
Right. They were a team now.
After a final squeeze, he opened the door and dropped to the ground, straight into a cutting, ferocious wind. By the time he’d fought his way to the other door, it was too late to give her a hand down.
He hesitated, taking in her unrecognizable form. Between her coat and neck gaiter, ski mask, goggles, hat, and gloves, with her fur-lined hood covering her head, she could be anyone. It made it easier, thinking of her as an anonymous trekking partner.
“Stay behind me!” he yelled to be heard through the low howl. “Follow my tracks.” Even standing still like this, the wind snatched his voice and blew it away. He leaned closer, spoke louder, straight into her ear. “If I go too fast, let me know. You need a break for water or…” He cleared his throat. “Yell.”
At her nod, they quickly harnessed up, stepped into their skis, grabbed their poles, and took off, lugging probably three hundred pounds between them.
It was slow going, towing this much weight against the wind. But he’d humped enough gear to know his body could handle it. He glanced behind at regular intervals to see that Angel was struggling. He slowed, she caught up, then lagged again. He slowed more. At some point, the sky cleared, but the wind picked up, its assault a barrage of sharp, cold little splinters.
After a couple hours on the ice, it was obvious that they’d have to cover more ground than this. By his estimation, they had enough food for three weeks. At their current rate, the trip would take a month, barring unforeseen meteorological events. Of course, consuming food would lighten the load, but their bodies would weaken as they went. There’d be blisters and frostbite and other issues, not to mention the real possibility of injury.
“Ford… Ford…Coop!” Angel’s voice barely carried through the screaming gale. He stopped and turned to see her bent over a pole, body heaving with every breath. “Need a break.”
He took off his skis and tromped over to help her do the same. They’d been at it for two hours and gone less than a mile. Not even a dent in the two hundred fifty or so miles left between them and the Russian station.
He kept an eye on the sky while they shared a silent snack. Well,theywere silent. The wind howled as if protesting their alien presence. As if even their ski tracks sullied its pristine domain.
“The wind’s so…” Angel didn’t finish. Possibly because just being heard out here was a chore. Or maybe she didn’t have the words to describe how hard it was blowing.
“Need a rest?” They had to put more miles between them and Burke-Ruhe. Just in case. But an injury this early in the game would mean failure.
“No. Thank you.” She stood up from where she’d been sitting on the sled, grabbed the lead, and hooked it to her harness, then snapped herself into her skis. “Let’s go!”
He blinked, stunned again by her strength—of body or will or both, he wasn’t sure. And then, because he didn’t have time to sit around thinking about how wrong he’d been all this time, he got into his own skis and set off.
At some point, the wind calmed, leaving almost total silence, aside from the slip-slide of skis and the closed-in waft of breath through fleece.
He quickly settled back into the zone, glancing at the sky and then over his shoulder every hundred paces or so. Angel forged on, as stoically stubborn as anyone he’d ever met. For three more hours they continued, their painfully slow pace only picking up slightly.
Breakfast was a snack, lunch a quick pit stop. Food, hydration, a few minutes’ rest. They barely exchanged five words.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
After a couple more hours, he slowed, turned to see her leaning heavily on her poles, and came to a complete stop.
When he handed her the ice axe and cookpot with a curt, “Fill this,” he expected ribbing or a complaint at his lack of nicety. He got nothing. Not a look, a significant pause, or an annoyed huff. She just nodded and tromped over to a brittle-looking section of ice, where she went to work.
As fast as he could make his heavy muscles go, he pitched the tent and put up the snowfly—the tarp-like outer layer that would provide them with extra protection against wind and ice.
