We’re instantly swallowed, losing the sky, the ground, and the trees to the swirling, chaotic vortex of white and black. The cold is immediate and absolute, a stripping cold that bypassesthe layers and goes for the marrow. It steals the air from my lungs before I can even inhale.
Boyd breaks the trail.
He plows through the waist-deep drifts with the grinding, inexorable force of a machine built for exactly this terrain. He leans into the wind, his body angled, his boots carving a path for me to follow. He doesn’t look back. He trusts me to hold on. He trusts me to keep up.
I keep my head down, burying my face in my scarf, focusing on his footsteps.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Every step strikes a battle. The snow sucks at my legs, heavy and wet, trying to drag me down. My lungs burn inhaling freezing air. My eyes water and freeze shut, eyelashes clumping with ice.
But I don’t let go of his belt. That strip of nylon remains the only thing tethering me to reality. If I let go, I disappear. I become just another ghost in the storm.
We reach the garage.
It feels like we’ve been walking for hours, crossing an arctic wasteland, but it’s only been fifty yards.
Boyd stops at the keypad. He shields it with his body, hunching over to protect the electronics from the wind. He punches in the code with stiff fingers.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The heavy steel door groans as the mechanism fights the ice, the motor whining in protest. Then, slowly, painfully, it begins to rise.
We stumble inside, out of the wind.
The silence of the garage hits suddenly and shockingly. The wind still howls outside, but here it’s muffled, distant. The air smells of concrete, diesel, and cold steel.
The truck sits in the center of the bay. The armored Ford F-250 Boyd staged here when he first set up the Glass House, a beast sleeping in its cave. Lifted. Equipped. Built for exactly this kind of exit.
“Get in.”
Boyd shoves me toward the passenger side.
I fumble with the handle, my fingers numb inside the gloves. I pull it open and climb up into the cab. Freezing inside, the leather seats acting as blocks of ice, but it’s shelter. A box against the chaos.
Boyd throws his gear into the back seat and climbs in behind the wheel. He slams the door, sealing us in. The sound lands final.
He sits there for a second, hands gripping the wheel, head bowed.
Tension lines his neck, his shoulders rigid. He isn’t resting. He’s running calculations. Scenarios. Trying to figure out how to get us out of a trap already sprung.
“Boyd, how bad is it?”
He looks up. In the darkness, his gaze is a dark void. “They’re closing the net. If they lock down the pass, we’re trapped. We become static targets.”
“Can we make it?”
He looks at me. He weighs the truth against the need for hope.
“We have to. There’s a charter waiting in Eagle. Sixty miles of hard driving.”
“You have a plane waiting?”
“I have a Plan B. Always. Strap in.”
He keys the ignition.
The diesel engine roars to life, a guttural growl vibrating through the truck’s frame. The dashboard lights up, casting agreen glow over his face. He checks the gauges. Oil pressure, fuel, and battery light up green.
