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The slices of pain keep me grimacing, but pride and anger help me gather back my composure. “No one’s gonna buy that story, Don,” I sneer. “You won’t find my son! They’ll find out who did this to me. Clayton Hartley will never let you get away with this.”
“I’ll make time to deal with that cunt Hartley, don’t worry about that.”
“You’ll leave traces. Even your feet are doing it at the moment.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll clean up after myself. Oh, actually, this part of Alaska is due for some rain, I heard.”
He nods at the distant clouds as if inviting me to let the dire situation sink in. A moment later, he drags me to a tree and then takes out a length of rope.
“You’ll stay here for a day or two. Some animals might decide to have a taste of you. Perhaps a bear or a wolf. They might not finish you off in one go, though.” Don snatches my wrists. “If you’re lucky, you might still be alive when I bring Raffi to join you.”
“You won’t get away with this!” I gyrate, but Don overpowers me without even breaking a sweat.
He barely ties one of my wrists when a distant whir disturbs the air—and it’s not wind or thunder.
“You hear that?” he gloats. “That’s my ride!”
He runs away from me, standing on a small patch of clearing—the only clearing on this clifftop. He looks up at the sky, waving for someone to notice.
Don spins around, losing sight of the aircraft.
It gradually sounds closer, but the sky is empty.
Out of nowhere, a helicopter raises in front of us—as if the canyon just lifts it up from the bottom.
Don’s joyful face turns outrageous. He takes cover next to me as a couple of bullets land next to his feet.
“Fuck this!” He cuts the half-done bound on my wrist and uses me as a shield.
The chopper flies closer, its nose turning, revealing its wide-open side.
That’s my man—focused, resolute, and battle ready. No doubt, the HartTracker has led him to me. Precisely, hishearthas led him to me.
Don is clutching my hands behind my back, covering every inch of him with my body. “You want her, Clayton?” he yells. “Get your ass over here and claim her like a man!”
“Clayton! Just shoot!” I yell.
Cornered, Don starts firing back as he retreats closer to the edge. The pilot maneuvers the chopper away.
“Fuck!” The gun in his hand stops firing—he’s run out of ammo.
Don is never graceful in defeat, but this time—as the chopper makes a turn toward us—he puts his all-or-nothing decision on display.
Still hopeless in his clutch, I feel my feet lifting off the ground.
Between the chopper blades whirring, Don screaming below me, and Clayton’s desperate yells from the air—and my own cry—I find myself in no one’s grip.
And at the mercy of gravity.
35
CLAYTON
“Isabelle! Nooo!”
My bullet hits Fletcher’s neck—one millisecond too late.
It severs his spinal cord—two fucking milliseconds too late!
