The line goes quiet. The joking tone vanishes.
"Wolves?" Reid's voice is sharp now. "Are you and the girl safe?"
"We're secure for the moment. But we can't get out on the sled. We need heavy transport."
"I'm on my way," Reid says instantly. "I'm about twenty miles down the strait, running a supply line to the village. I can be there in an hour. But the coves are icing up, Nash. I'll have to break skim ice."
"Just get here," I say. "Bring Rhys if you can."
"Rhys is already with me," Reid says. "He's currently yelling at me about fuel consumption. We're coming, Nash. Hang tight. Kingfisher out."
I lower the radio. I look at Aris.
"They're coming," I say. "An hour."
She tips her head back, exhausted and beautiful. "An hour. We can do an hour."
She stands up and walks to the edge of the ridge, looking down at the wolves waiting below.
"Hey!" she yells at them. Her voice carries down the empty canyon. "You hear that? The cavalry is coming! And they're bringing a very big boat!"
The wolves look up. The black Beta tilts his head.
Then, he stands up. He lets out a short bark.
And the pack starts to climb.
"Nash," Aris says, stepping back from the edge. "They're coming up."
I rack the shotgun.
"Let them come," I say. "We have the high ground. We have the ammo. And in sixty minutes, we have a ride."
I stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder.
"Ready to be an anchor?" she asks.
"Ready," I say. "Let's hold the line."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ARIS
The differencebetween a theory and a fact is usually about three years of peer review and a lot of paperwork.
But sometimes, the difference is just a heartbeat.
We're pinned down behind a rock outcropping on the spine of the ridge. The wind is screaming over the peak, whipping snow into a frenzy that stings my eyes. Below us, the wolf pack is moving up the slope.
They aren't charging blindly. They're using the terrain. They weave through the scrub brush, disappearing into hollows and reappearing ten feet higher. They are liquid shadow against the white snow.
"Range?" Nash asks. He's braced against the rock, the shotgun shouldered.
"One hundred yards," I say, sighting through the scope of the .300 Win Mag. "They're closing fast. They know we're isolated."
"They don't know about the boat," Nash reminds me. "We just have to buy time. Twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes is a long time in a firefight," I mutter.
