But I can’t. I can’t move. Above me, a single beam of light sweeps back and forth. I think I hear voices, but they’re so far away, I can’t make out what they’re saying.
Can they get to me? Even see me down here?
A shower of rocks hits the side of the car, and another window shatters. Those aren’t rocks. They’re bullets. I choke back a hoarse yelp, desperate to escape, but I can’t.
I’m going to die. In the middle of nowhere, cold, and alone, and Simon is going to get away with killing me. Along with so many more...
2
Wyatt
Murphy bounds up to me as I finish stacking another load of wood against the cellar wall. His desperate barks raise the hair on my arms and tighten my chest in an all too familiar way.
Fuck. I haven’t had a panic attack in months. Thought maybe I was over them—despite my former shrink warning me that wasn’t very likely.
Dropping to one knee, I wrap my arms around my dog and touch my forehead to his. The Belgian Malinois—a type of Shepherd and my best friend in this world—stills until I can breathe again. He knows me. Knows what I need. Knows how to stop an attack from consuming me for hours.
With a low whine, Murphy licks my neck, and the cold swipe of his tongue helps pull me back from the edge. “I’m okay, pal. Good boy.”
But he doesn’t relax. Just lets loose with another series of barks as he bounds between me and the cellar door. “What is it?”
He skids to a halt, closes his teeth around my shirt sleeve, and tugs.
“Okay, okay. I’ll follow you.” After he leads me out of the cellar and I latch the doors, he runs to the edge of the meadow west of the cabin, then back to me. “Hold on. We’re not going anywhere without our gear. Not today.”
The sun set a bit ago, and the temps are falling fast. It only takes me a minute to snag my heaviest flannel from the peg just inside the cabin door and shrug into it with a wince. This weather’s hell on my shoulder. But Murphy’s vest—complete with a small emergency kit—is a little more complicated. He stands perfectly still as I tighten the straps, but his whole body is practically vibrating.
It’s been months since he got excited about anything more than a family of rabbits searching for food, but whatever’s got him all worked up today? It’s serious.
“Hold up, Murph. Not taking any chances.” I haven’t seen another soul in almost two years—other than Old Man Parker at the General Store—but there are plenty of wild animals roaming this desolate area of the mountains, so I grab my field pack and sling my rifle over my shoulder before I lock the cabin door. It’d be just my luck we’d run smack into a bear.
Clouds, heavy and dark with snow, loom over the tall pines at the top of the cliff. A spring blizzard isn’t unheard of, but this time of year in the Cascades is usually nothing but wildflowers and snowmelt. This storm, however, is rumored to carry more than three feet of accumulation.
The only reason I care? In under an hour, it’s gonna start dumping, and I have no idea what Murphy’s all worked up about.
“Show me,” I say, giving Murphy permission to take off at a trot due west. Toward the storm.
Every five minutes or so, he stops and stares back at me. I’m not sure if he’s scanning me for signs I’m too tired to go on or making sure I’m still following. Or both. We’ve been to hell and back together, and outside of one or two men in Seattle, he’s the only other creature in this world I trust.
He yips and runs so far ahead, all I can do is follow his tracks. The snow starts falling, light flakes that hit my cheeks and melt instantly.
Shit. Where are you taking me, Murph?
Another mile and we’ll reach the highway. People. Cars. Noise. No one ever stops, though. Nothing here worth stopping for. Not according to any published map or GPS. When you want to disappear, it helps to have friends with unlimited technical resources at their disposal.
I come around a bend to find Murphy scrambling over the rocks, winding back and forth as he climbs. We’re halfway up the peak, and while this side of the mountain isn’t too dangerous, the other side is nothing but sheer rock with a large crevasse sinking three hundred feet straight down.
Dusk along with the snow bathes the world in an eerie, gray glow. And then I see it. Lights cutting through the trees.
Murphy starts barking like he’s just discovered the Holy Grail, and when I catch up to him, my jaw drops. A black SUV is pinned to the mountainside by a cedar tree. One that looks like it’s about five minutes—or an inch of snow—away from snapping and sending the vehicle plummeting into the rocky maw.
“Shit. Murphy, back.” As soon as I shout the order, the dog takes several bounding leaps behind me. “Hold.”
He sits up tall, and I set my rifle down next to him.
“It’s too dangerous for you, pal. Hold and wait.”
From this angle, I can’t see the driver. If they’re even still in there. Digging in my pack, I pull out a flashlight. Is that…blood dripping from the window? I creep closer. Yep. Crimson stains the newly fallen snow. Fresh, so whoever’s in there is still alive—or was very recently—and they haven’t been out here for long. Not in this cold.
