"Then we get to it," I say. "We boost the signal. We call Rhys. We get a boat."
"It's five miles on snowshoes," Nash says. "Through their territory."
"It's better than dying in this kitchen," I say.
Nash is silent for a long moment. He looks at the boarded window. He looks at his bandaged leg. He looks at me.
"You really want to go back out there?"
"I want to survive," I say. "And to do that, we have to stop acting like prey."
Nash reaches out and takes my hand. His grip is iron-hard.
"Okay," he says. "We go at first light. We hunt the hunters."
"And then?" I ask.
"And then," Nash says, "I'm going to call my brothers. And I'm going to tell Reid to point the Kingfisher up the coast and not spare the throttle."
Chapter Twenty-Six
NASH
I'm standingin the kitchen, drinking cold coffee, watching Aris tape a magazine around her forearm.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Improvised armor," she says, wrapping a layer of duct tape around a copy of National Geographic. "I read about it. If a dog bites, or a wolf, the teeth slide off the glossy paper. It protects the arteries."
She holds up her arm, tapping the taped-up magazine. "Plus, it's the 'Predators of the Serengeti' issue. I feel like that adds a layer of irony."
I stare at her. She's wearing every layer of wool she owns, her hair is braided back tight, she has a rifle leaning against her hip, and she's making jokes about irony while preparing to walk into a wolf den.
A week ago, she was wincing every time her boots rubbed a new blister.
"You," I say, shaking my head, "are terrifying."
"I'm adapting," she corrects. She tosses me a roll of tape and a copy of Field & Stream. "Your turn. Left arm. That's your fend-off arm."
I tape the magazine to my arm. It feels ridiculous. It feels smart.
"Leg first," Aris says, pointing at the chair. She peels the bandage back, checks her stitching, and wraps it tight enough to make me hiss. "Sutures are holding. Tell me the second that changes."
"Okay," I say, checking the shotgun for the tenth time. "Here's the play. We go out the back. We move fast to the tree line. We don't run; we walk with purpose. Running triggers the chase instinct."
"Walk with purpose," she repeats. "Got it. Like I'm late for a faculty meeting."
"Exactly. We head for the ridge. It's five miles. The snow is deep, but the crust should hold us this early in the morning."
"And the wolves?"
"They'll follow," I say honestly. "They'll flank us. They'll try to separate us. But they won't attack as long as we stay together and look dangerous."
"We look very dangerous," she says, patting her magazine-arm. "We look like ecoterrorists."
I laugh. It's a dry, cracked sound, but it feels good.
"Ready?"
