Page 41 of Cold and Bitter Snow

Chapter 13

Conor

Conor wished he’d chosen to wear anything other than his bright yellow ski jacket. But taking it off wasn’t going to help much—his black jumper wasn’t exactly going to offer any camouflage. It’d also make noise, which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

He was lucky that the kidnapper had his back turned on him. Instead of heading straight to the lift with his burden, as Conor had expected, he’d put the woman down again and was staring intently at the screen of his smartphone as if it could somehow help translate the white ocean around him.

What’s he looking at?

Maybe he’s not sure where to go.

Conor crept up slowly, glad for his training which had taught him to move silently in all kinds of terrain.

The bodyguard seemed to sense him at the last moment. Before the man could turn around, Conor launched himself at him, using his weight and momentum to push the man off his feet and away from the young woman’s body lying on the snow.

They landed hard. The bodyguard jumped up fast, snarling. Conor saw in the man’s eyes that he meant to rush in and strike him down but it was evident by the way the man moved that he wasn’t used to fighting in the snow.

Showtime.

Conor moved in, raising his hiking boots above the snow line to avoid making the same mistake. He hadn’t been in a fight in years but he’d kept his body strong with other kinds of exercise and his muscles remembered what to do.

Conor grabbed the man’s coat and pulled him close, driving his right fist into the man’s face. The bodyguard turned his face at the last instant, protecting his nose, but it was still a solid hit. The bodyguard reared back violently, ripping the coat. Conor was left holding a strip of black material in his hand.

The wind howled around them.

Without giving the man time to recover Conor moved in again. The way the bodyguard raised his hands to protect his face and his middle told Conor he was a skilled fighter. He needed to end the fight before the other man learned how to move in this terrain.

Where’s Siena? Why isn’t the alarm ringing already?

He feigned a punch with his left fist and used his right to throw an uppercut punch. The bodyguard flew up and landed on his back in the snow, releasing a pained oomph that was music to Conor’s ears.

Conor moved in over him, straddling the man with a knee on either side of his body. The bodyguard got a lucky punch in that grazed Conor’s left shoulder. The pain was blinding and immediate. Conor saw stars—an entire constellation.

Just a lucky hit. Don’t let him know you’re hurt.

He forced himself to breathe through the pain. Luckily his arm still worked. He used it to hold the man down while he brought his other fist down like a hammer towards the man’s neck. It didn’t put him out, as Conor had expected, but the man’s arms fell to his side and he flailed his head like a fish.

Tough son-of-a-bitch.

Conor rammed his right arm onto the man’s throat, pushing hard, ready to end this. Suddenly he heard a sound behind him.

“Let him go, Conor,” the voice said.

Conor smiled, recognizing the voice. He turned his head.

“Raoul, what—”

The smile froze on Conor’s lips as he caught sight of Raoul. The man walked easily in the snow but his body leaned to the right slightly, weighted by the purple burden draped along his shoulder.

Siena.

The corner of Conor’s mouth went up. “What the hell—“ he snarled.

Raoul’s eyes were cold pieces of coal on his face. “Stop trying to figure it out, big guy. Get up and move away from him, or I swear I will end her life right now.”

It was the most words Conor had ever heard Raoul speak in one go. Conor looked down and saw a gun appear on Raoul’s hand. It looked like a Glock.

17 rounds. 17 fucking rounds.