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“No. I think I’m better off up at his cabin. If he’s on the run, he won’t bring trouble to this town. He’ll want to go to ground, and if he’s picked up my message, he’ll be expecting me there. I came down to find out about Mason and get provisions.”
“We can get you set up. We’ll send extra rifles and ammo as well,” said Deke.
Carson was too distraught to eat, so he and Deke went into town to the general store where Deke’s mate loaded him up with way too much food, and Deke went equally overboard with guns, ammo and explosive devices. They loaded it onto a sled that the snowmobile could tow.
After changing back into the polar expedition suit, Carson swung his leg over the snowmobile. Deke handed him a backpack, helping him into it.
“There’s something in there to keep things warm. Annie packed you some strong black coffee as well as something to eat and a bottle of good whiskey for when you get home. Let us know you got up there safe and sound. There should be a shortwave radio hidden somewhere in the cabin. I’ll head out and try to find Mason, and I’ll keep in touch. Mason’s one of the best survivalists out there. Don’t count him out just yet.”
Carson nodded, not wanting to acknowledge his greatest fear. “Deke? If they’ve killed him, I want whoever is responsible to escape.”
He looked at Deke meaningfully. Deke gave a sharp nod. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Good enough.”
Carson started the snowmobile and began the long trek back.
* * *
Aleutian Range
Alaska Peninsula, Alaska
The snow had gotten deeper and icier. The sled with all the provisions had begun to act, if not like an anchor, then like a drag. Hiking through the Aleutian Range in Alaska in the winter was not Carson Payne’s idea of a good time, but halfway to the cabin, he realized he was going to have to ditch the snowmobile. The landing strip wasn’t far, so at least he could leave the vehicle there.
The range, known for its many active volcanoes, extended from the southwest of Anchorage to the tip of the Alaska Peninsula. It was fucking cold. Even for a snow leopard, it was fucking cold. Why couldn’t he have been born a cheetah or a jaguar? They lived in hot, sunny climates. But no, he had to be born a snow leopard—the white, icy shit was literally a part of his species’ name. It didn’t help that his twin brother, Mason, had loved all things snowy and cold.
Bitching about the cold wasn’t going to help anything. He trudged back to Mason’s cabin in the mountains, sticking as close to the tree line as he could in case he had to duck for cover. The sled wasn’t making things easier. It was loaded down with enough supplies to get him, or them, if Mason ever showed up, through the winter. He’d need to hunt and fish for protein, but he had everything else he’d need. Almost, anyway; Carson regretted not getting the extra case of dark roast coffee.
The sound of the distinctive single engine prop of a de HavillandBeaver shattered the silence of the surrounding mountains. Only, there was something wrong with it—the engine was coughing and sputtering. Carson stopped and held his hand up to shield his eyes, searching the skies for it. As he located it high above him, dread furled low in his gut; smoke streamed behind the plane. The plane was falling steadily through the sky, which it would have if the engine had conked out.
He had no idea where the pilot was headed, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Carson shrugged, trying to turn his back on the impending emergency. It wasn’t any of his business; and after all, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong is what had gotten him into this mess. He took a few more steps, then stopped. Shit! He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it.
Securing his supplies to the sled, he located a branch stout enough to hold the weight and threw his line up and over the branch. Why did they always make that look so easy in television and movies? It wasn’t. The first two attempts missed, and the line fell back down, smacking him in the face. Sighing, he threw the line for the third time, thinking if it didn’t work, he would take it as a sign from the universe that he should forget about the poor schmuck of a pilot, leave him to his fate, and continue on his way.
Unfortunately, the end of the line sailed over the branch and returned to him, hitting him in the face again anyway. Carson couldn’t decide whether to swear or sigh, so did neither. Instead, he grasped the line and began hauling the sled up into the air. He was damned if some bear would come traipsing along and commandeer his food. Hand over hand, he hauled the heavy load so it was suspended out of reach from even a large bear standing on its hind legs or hanging off a branch or the tree itself trying to get it. Once he had the sled at the proper height, he wrapped the line around the tree several times and then secured it with a figure-eight knot.
Grabbing the small bag he’d taken off the sled, Carson removed his clothes and then shifted from man to snow leopard. He shook himself from nose to tail. Not only was he warmer in his altered form, but he could also cover the distance faster between his current position and where he calculated the plane had crashed. Even if no one survived, which was the most likely scenario, there might be things to salvage from the plane and anything it had been carrying.
Carson bounded off in the direction of the crash, carrying the bag with the clothing he would need to change into after he shifted back. It wasn’t ideal, but it was also something he hadn’t planned to do. The terrain was rough—a lot of rock and shale, and most of that covered in snow, ice or a combination thereof.
The smoke trail was fading, but he had a good fix on where it would lead. There were a number of rivers and lakes that formed a maze of water features. Some of them, a good bush pilot might be able to land on in an emergency. A cold-water landing wasn’t ideal, but it beat the hell out of slamming into the side of a volcano.
He crested the incline of a mountain and looked down to see the pilot had managed to make it to water but hadn’t landed on the pontoons. The nose of the aircraft was submerged, the tail raised up and the pontoons pointing down. If the pilot had survived, he didn’t have long. Carson charged down the slope of the mountain, letting its steep incline aid in his speed. At the edge of the lake, he dropped his bag and plunged into the icy water.
Even his thick, two-layered coat didn’t provide enough insulation to keep the cold from him completely. He swam with as much speed as he could to get to the plane. There was a distinct buzzing in his head like a bunch of mosquitos had taken up residence there. The cold of the water must be affecting him more than he thought.
He crawled up from the icy water onto the highest end of the pontoon, wedging his paw into the crunched and wrinkled passenger door to gain access to the cabin of the plane. There were no passengers, and the pilot was pitched forward against the console. No way he had survived the crash. No way.
Carson was just turning around, trying not to jostle the unsteady plane, sending it to the bottom of the lake before he could get out, when the dead pilot moaned.Shit! He couldn’t have waited until I was halfway back to shore and couldn’t hear him?
He looked around and spotted a floating sled, which he knew many pilots kept on board to ferry supplies from a dock to their plane. Carson pulled it down and left it sitting on the pontoon at its highest point, balanced precariously. Carefully he made his way forward. With each step, the plane seemed to angle further into the water, groaning with the strain of staying afloat.
Deciding he was running out of time, Carson slashed through the pilot’s safety belts with his lethal claws. He grabbed the back of the pilot’s parka where the hood was attached to the main part of the coat. He jerked him up and over, through the back of the seats, backing away as quickly as he could as the plane seemed to give up the ghost and began sliding down into the icy depths.
Slipping the rope handle around his body, he began to swim powerfully toward the shore. He was just able to get the pilot on the float and the float away from the plane before the vortex created by its sinking would have pulled them both under. He dragged himself and the pilot out onto the rocky shore, exhausted from the effort. The plane gave a final groan as it slipped beneath the surface of the water.
The mosquitos in his head had gone from just buzzing to stinging or biting or whatever it was those nasty little critters did. He shook his head and let out the loud yowl that passed for a roar in snow leopards. The pilot moaned again and managed to knock the hood of the parka away from his face. Only it wasn’t ahimat all. It was most definitely aher—a very beautiful her. A her he had seen in his dreams time and time again.
