She dived flat again, heart pounding.
Someone was shooting at them from the forest. Wind gusted, and smoke parted, giving her a glimpse of the container building. Angie’s heart stalled again as her brain struggled to understand what she was seeing.
A face.
In the small window. A white face.
Surrounded by a wild tangle of hair.
Hands, palms forward, bashing wildly at the glass. A woman. Her mouth open wide in a silent scream.
There’s a woman trapped in the container!
A line of flames sparked suddenly to life, racing from the cabin toward the container. Fire whooshed up along the front of the container, igniting the bramble tangles, flames leaping quickly to the dead scrub atop the container mound. Angie’s body exploded with adrenaline. Another bullet hit the ground near her hip. Her brain raced. She carefully turned her head in the slush to look at Holgersen. Her old partner lay motionless just beyond her reach, his pistol near her hand.
Another whoosh of flames gushed out of the shed as something else inside exploded. A fresh cloud of black smoke boiled into the air, momentarily screening Angie from whoever was shooting at them from the trees.
Triage. Fucking triage,she thought. She had a woman alive in that container threatened by fire. A fallen partner—arrow right through his neck. Motionless. Not breathing. She’d been trained for this. Your partner goes down, you take what you can to help yourself, and you save those you still can. She reached for his sidearm.
While still covered by the screen of churning black smoke, Angie raced in a crouch toward the container, heart jackhammering. She reached the converted dwelling and pressed herself against the metal side that was not burning. Gun clutched in close near her sternum, she assessed the scene. She tried to stay focused with combat breathing. Four counts as she drew breath in, four counts as she exhaled.
The glass panes of the cabin windows shattered outward in a burst of air and fire. The shed storing the natural gas would go soon, too. She needed to reach that woman and get out of here before that happened.
Angie edged toward the container door. It was locked with a dead bolt from the outside. She struggled with the metal bolt as flames along the front of the container nipped closer, heat intense. Her hand slipped on the cold wet metal. She picked up a rock, bashed the bolt across. Angie yanked open the door.
Smoke was accumulating inside the container. Angie went in, coughing, firearm ready. She had no idea what to expect—friend or foe.
Shock slammed her as she caught sight of the woman. Terrified, she was backed up against the far wall. Angie couldn’t tell how old she was. Young. A teen, maybe, or in her twenties. Emaciated, barefoot, she wore a dirty shift dress, and her hair was a wild tangle around her head. Flames crackled outside. It was getting hot in the container.
Angie took in her surroundings fast. The interior was furnished with a bed. Bedding. A tiny kitchenette. Some books on a shelf. A small table with a chair. On the table lay a sheaf of crinkled pages crisscrossed with tiny cursive writing. A pen lay next to the papers. A second door to her right led to what Angie imagined was some kind of bathroom.
She held up her left hand, palm out, gun still at the ready in her right. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said, coughing, moving toward the woman. “Is there anyone else in here?”
The woman shook her head, pressing herself tighter against the wall.
“It’s okay,” Angie said, taking another step closer to the female. Like a trapped animal, the woman sank down the wall and cowered on the floor.
“Sweetheart,” she said as she reached the woman. “It’s all right. We’re here to help. We need to get you out of here before the fire gets in, okay?”
Angie reached for her arm, took hold. The woman didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. She was trembling like a leaf. Tears smeared dirt tracks down her face. Angie gripped her arm firmly. “Come, stand up. My name is Angie. I’m here to help you, okay? We’re going to leave. But fast. When we get outside, we run. You let me guide you to my car.”
The female started to cry. Another whoosh sent a cloud of black smoke filtering into the interior. It was seeping in through the air vents and a pipe that led up into the roof.
“What’s your name, hon?”
She shook her head wildly.
“No name?”
Again, a wild shake of the head.
“Okay, come.” Angie gripped her skinny arm and led her to the door, but the woman lunged suddenly at the table as they went past. She snatched up the papers from the table, stuffed them down the front of her dress. Angie firmed her grip on the woman’s arm and yanked her closer. “No time. Move.”
Angie ushered the female to the door and peered out. Smoke roiled, and flames crackled everywhere. The only consolation was that the smoke curtained them from the forest along the property boundary from where the shots had come. She stepped out, dragging the woman with her. The woman’s bare feet sank into the slush. Angie held her arm tightly and began to run, tugging the female behind her. Coughing, they reached the Crosstrek.
Thank God, Holgersen had left the keys inside. Angie bundled the woman into the passenger seat while scanning the surroundings, worried the attackers might have come round to this side or that there might be someone else on this end. They’d seen tracks from at least two vehicles.
A crack sounded behind her. A bullet pinged into the car. Angie swore and dived into the driver’s seat. Slamming the door, she fired the ignition and swung the car around in a hard reverse turn. She gunned the gas, fishtailing in snow and mud as she aimed for the narrow dirt track that led back to the logging road. The road—if one could call it that—would lead them on a long and treacherous route back down the valley to the highway. Angie doubted they’d make it that far before whoever was shooting at them caught up.
