He steered her away from thick snow onto rocky ground that threatened to break her ankle at the speed they were running.
“Here.” He motioned to where a massive pine had come down against a rock face—the trunk rested at an angle, the space underneath a narrow triangle of shadow. Snow had drifted against it, half-sealing it.
Dark and cramped. No room for two.
“Wait—”
“Talk later.” He pushed her in, hands on her waist, guiding her under the trunk into the dark. Her back hit cold rock. Frozen earth and rotting bark hit her nose.
“Don’t move.” And then he was gone.
What?
She stood pressed between wet wood and icy rock. Had he abandoned her? She wouldn’t blame him.
The bark scraped the side of her face, rough and resin-sticky even in the cold. The trapped air under the trunk was colder than the open snow and every breath stung high behind her eyes.
He was gone long enough for panic to start sounding reasonable. When he finally returned, she hated the surge of relief that made her dizzy at the sight of him. He dumped his pack beside her boots and backed in after her.
“Where did you?—”
“I doubled back and cut a false trail toward the rocks. Otherwise, our footprints would lead them right to us.”
His body sealed the opening. Between her and the night. Between her and whatever was coming, as if it was instinct. The thought lodged deep beneath her ribs.
The helicopter was close now, the vibration rising through the ground under her feet.
His breathing was controlled. His back expanded against her chest with each inhale. Her own breathing was ragged, too fast and too loud.
His hand reached back and found hers in the dark. “Slow your breathing.”
She should have yanked her hand free. Instead, she tried to match her breathing to his because he was right—panic would get them killed.
Inhale with him. Exhale with him.
She matched him because she wanted to live, not because she trusted him. Her pulse slowed anyway, her body reaching for his rhythm even after she stopped trying.
The smell of his jacket. And beneath it, the man. Her forehead was against his back. She didn’t remember putting it there.
The helicopter passed overhead. The rotors faded to a dull thump and then grew louder again—circling back. It landed.Somewhere close. She sensed change in the air—the downdraft shaking the trees, the engine winding down.
Men’s shouts. Boots crunching on snow. Two, maybe three sets. Fragmented Russian carrying on the wind. She caught tone but no words. Pav’s body was rigid against hers. Every muscle locked. His hand was still around hers and his grip hardened.
The voices moved closer, faded, then drew closer again. They were sweeping the area around the crash site, fanning out. How far would they come? How thorough were they?
A voice barked a command. Footsteps tramped in the snow.
Pav’s thumb moved across her knuckles. Barely perceptible. The footsteps passed. Ten feet away, maybe fifteen. Their hunters were discussing. Back and forth, the tones shifting—one voice frustrated, another calm, giving orders.
Then a word she understood.
Dogs.
Her heart stuttered.
The voices faded, and the helicopter engine started—rotors building. The helicopter lifted, the sound receding into the storm until there was nothing.
Silence. Snow whispering against the fallen trunk. Neither of them moved.
