Bradford stepped closer, unzipping Rachel’s coat. The “pregnant belly” shifted and folded in on itself—nylon straps, Velcro seams, and beneath it, a false padding concealing compact weapons against her torso.
Oliveknewthat belly didn’t look right earlier . . . she hadn’t been imagining things.
Her pulse hammered. “You’re with them—the organization Michael turned on. The Winterlight Consortium.”
Rachel’s eyes glittered. “You could say that. We were supposed to extract him quietly and take him back to headquarters. But things have been complicated with the snowstorm and everything else going on.”
Olive’s mind still raced. “How did you even know to find him here?”
Rachel smirked. “We have our ways.”
What did that mean?
From the other room, the voices had dropped. The silence that followed was sharp—unnatural.
A moment later, Jason called, “Olive?”
Rachel’s finger twitched on the trigger. “Call him off.”
Olive’s throat went dry, but she forced calm into her voice. “I’ll be right back. Just one minute. I’m?—”
“I don’t know what you’re about to say, but don’t finish that sentence,” Rachel snapped. “Not another word.”
Olive froze. The possibility she could send Jason a clue about what was going on died on the spot.
Her mind raced through possibilities of what might happen next, none of them good. Rachel and Bradford had done this before. They didn’t even appear nervous.
And that made everything even harder.
A chair scraped across the floor in the great room.
Then Jason called, “Olive?” again.
“He sounds worried,” Bradford muttered. “That’s going to be a problem. Reassure him that you’re okay.”
“I said I’m fine,” Olive called to Jason, forcing the words through a dry throat. “Everything’s okay?—”
“Too late.” Bradford’s tone was almost casual as he slipped a small, metal device from his coat pocket—a square cylinder with a blinking red light.
Olive’s breath caught. “What is that?”
“Insurance.” He pressed the button.
A blinding flash filled the air.
The explosion hit a split second later, like thunder inside the walls. The sound cracked through the lodge, followed by shouts, yells, and crashes.
Smoke poured into the room, acrid and choking. Olive’s ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning out everything else.
She stumbled back, eyes burning. Shadows moved in the haze—Rachel, Bradford, the glint of metal.
“What did you do?” she gasped.
“Bought us some time,” Bradford muttered, his tone ice-cold. “Gotta keep everyone on their toes.”
He grabbed Olive’s arm.
She tried to twist free, but his grip tightened. Beside her, Rachel still held her gun, pressed at her ribs.
