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My backpack lies several feet away. It contains a first-aid kit, but it doesn’t have the things I need. Not for this.
He needs blood and a surgical kit.
He needs a fucking surgeon.
In a fit of anger and helplessness, I scream out into the night. I scream so loud and for so long my throat bleeds.
Useless.
Glancing around, I search for any sign of safety or rescue. But I already know there’s nothing. Just the inhospitable landscape, the unforgiving storm, and the faraway lights of Hoss.
Two miles away.
Might as well be on another continent.
I can’t carry him that distance, and jostling him will only worsen the blood loss.
His breathing grows shallower, his complexion paler. With every precious second, I watch the life drain from his body.
My hands slick with blood, I press harder against the wound, hoping for a miracle.
I need his brothers. Hell, I’d give anything to see Denver emerge from the shadows right now.
But no amount of noise will reach Hoss.
Unless…
My gaze falls on the backpack.
The gun.
Unbuckling his belt one-handed, I tug it free, wrap it around his upper thigh, and cinch it tight. When the blood flow slows, I scramble for the pack. From inside, I remove the handgun, check for ammo, point it at the sky, and fire.
Once.
Twice.
Three shots ricochet across the tundra. If the sounds reach the cabin, they’ll run outside.
I grab the flare gun next. The bright orange, single-shot pistol is only in my pack on Denver’s orders. After scolding me for running in the dark, he demanded I carry it and explained how to use it.
Shoot the flare straight overhead. It makes the signal visible longer and pinpoints your position.
Thank fuck I listened.
Crawling back to Kody, I reapply pressure to his wound and aim the flare gun above my head.
Time stretches into an agonizing eternity as I wait, the cold seeping into my bones, and the fear gnawing at my soul.
Has there been enough time for someone to run outside?
What if no one heard my gunshots?
I’ll fucking drag him back to the cabin myself.
The pulse beneath my fingers weakens, his life slipping away.
I squeeze the trigger and send a flickering red fireball into the northern lights.
Then I hook my arms beneath his broad shoulders, dig in my boots, and heave, determined to haul him to Hoss.
49
Leonid
—
Pacing between the cabin and the workshop, I pull up the hood of my coat and stuff my hands in the pockets.
I swear I heard something minutes ago, but the moment I rushed outside…nothing.
The temperature is plummeting by the second. Just another winter in Hoss. But for Frankie? It’s too cold. She shouldn’t be out there.
With each glare I fling at the fluttering northern lights, I grow more anxious, more unsettled. My impatience simmers.
Where are they? What’s taking so long?
As I start to turn away, a brilliant streak of red blazes across the sky like a shooting star.
My breath catches as my eyes follow the vivid trail.
Not a star.
A fucking flare.
I beat a path to the cabin, bound up the stairs, and burst through the entryway, bellowing, “Flare!”
Then I sprint back to the workshop.
My breath plumes with the thunder of my heart as I slog through the snow, my mind racing ten steps ahead.
The snow machine performs better than the dirt bike in this weather, and now that I have it working again, it’s my best option. But as I skid into the garage and see the sled hitched to it, panic rises.
Black, chalky residue coats the heavy-duty cart. Wolf must’ve used it to haul coal from the hills while I was gone.
Should I take the time to unhitch it? At high speeds, it could break off. It’ll slow me down. But what if I need it?
Fuck it.
By the time I drag the machine and its sled outside and crank the engine, Denver is halfway across the yard. Carrying a rifle and wearing nothing but boxers and slippers, he looks like a psycho.
Fitting.
“How far away?” He tosses the firearm at me and a bag of ammo.
“Two or three miles south.” I point in the direction of the flare and strap the gun across my back. “If I don’t return—”
“I’ll find you.” He smacks my shoulder. “Go.”
I hit the gas and fly across the powdery terrain. As snow batters my face and rips the hood off my head, I duck low and open the throttle.
The fastest I’ve taken this thing is 100 mph. Tonight, I’m breaking that record.
Within minutes, I reach 120 mph. 135 mph. The vehicle takes to the air, sailing over snowdrifts and embankments and slamming back down with jarring force, rattling my teeth.
I increase the speed, scanning the icy landscape, and a moment later, I see it. Up ahead, a child-sized silhouette emerges on the horizon.
My stomach leaps to my throat as I slow.
White puffy coat. Black leggings. Red hair.
