Weak with fatigue and hunger, and stiff from his lack of movement, Aker picked up the flashlight and trained it on the dog, then in the direction of the noises. The bear was still in pursuit of Gearbox, who was himself surprisingly fast and able on snowshoes. If Aker had any chance to get away, it was now.

The bear might have been wounded by the gunshot, but, if so, it had only made it more angry.

Aker looked down at the wounded dog again and found himself unable to leave it there to bleed out and die.

He bent down, hoisted the dog over his shoulders, and, holding the animal’s legs around his neck, made his way through the close-set rocks, knowing the terrain would discourage the bear from following. All the bear wanted was some sleep.

In a moment, the snow would get too deep for just his boots. Twenty yards from the cave, he realized he had no snowshoes, but he was not about to turn back. The bear would return at some point, the drugs contributing to its bad temper. For now, he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the cave as possible.

He heard the sound of a snowmobile’s engine turn over. Again, and then it caught and roared like a motorcycle. He switched off his flashlight, not wanting to reveal his location. The headlight from the snowmobile swept through the woods and illuminated the side of the hill. Aker stood stone still.

The snowmobile made a half circle and then accelerated into the darkness, its engine’s high-pitched whine receding along with it.

63

WALT CAME UPON THE SNOWMOBILE TRACK AT NEARLY THE same instant he heard the single report of a powerful rifle. Adrenaline charged his system the way only gunfire can. His hand went to his pistol as he moved in the direction of the sound.

A pair of lights flared in his goggles. A good distance away. He could not put together what was going on but hoped Brandon was not the target of that report. His fears were settled by Brandon ’s voice in his ear.

“Your twenty?” Brandon ’s voice said.

“On a snowmobile track, still north of the cabin. The gunfire was several hundred yards northeast of me. I’ve got a possible heat signature from the snowmobile. Hold your position.”

“Yeah…”

Walt knew that tone.

“Your twenty?”

“I didn’t exactly hold position. I should be closing in on the cabin shortly.”

“Those were orders.”

“I wasn’t going to hang you out to dry, Sheriff. Besides, I had to shut down any chance of a getaway. We reviewed all this stuff.”

“That was prior to the trip wire.”

“It is what it is. Was that shot thrown at you?”

“Doubtful.”

“Not at me.”

“Hear this, Deputy: HOLD YOUR POSITION! I’ll get back to you.”

“Out.”

Walt saw a second, hotter flare of light through the goggles, and, when coupled immediately with the sound of a snowmobile starting, he understood what had to be done. He jumped off the track, threw his pack on the ground, and unclipped the eighty-foot climbing rope from it. The rope was gray with a red twist, which required him to bury it after tossing a decent length across the track. He moved fluidly and efficiently, living for such moments, for he was briefly free of all else; no thought entered his mind that didn’t directly have to do with stopping the snowmobile. It was its own weird kind of ballet, police work; a combination of efficiency and purpose. Walt secured the bulk end of the climbing rope to a tree, punched the slack rope down into the soft snow as he crossed the track, and reached the other side charged with excitement.

The engine sound told him the snowmobile was quickly approaching. He would have one chance. He took a full wrap around the thick tree trunk with the loose end of the climbing rope. Drew in the slack to where the rope barely lifted out of the snow impression, a few feet from the tree trunk.

The snowmobile’s headlight glanced the surrounding branches, as if setting them all afire. Walt could barely breathe. His mouth had gone dry, his eyes stung. He carefully lifted the night vision goggles so the headlight wouldn’t blind him. It took several seconds for his vision to adjust, and, in those several seconds, the snowmobile raced closer.

There was little time to think this through; he’d acted on instinct alone.

He made one last adjustment to the loop of rope around the tree. He’d rather catch the driver than the vehicle.

The white light filtered down through the branches and onto the dull bark of the tree trunks as the whine of the two-cylinder engine grew progressively louder.

There it was: weaving through the forested obstacle course, a single, blinding headlight.

Walt couldn’t make out the driver or the snowmobile, only its penetrating bright light. And then it was upon him. All at once, as if it had jumped a hundred feet ahead.

He waited… waited… then pulled hard on the trailing end of rope, hand over hand.

The rope popped out and lifted from where he’d buried it in the snow and formed a taut, slanting line leading from the opposite tree, across the track and directly to Walt.

It struck the snowmobile’s Plexiglas screen, was lifted higher by the contact, and caught the driver in the throat. The snowmobile shot out into the woods as its driver did a full backflip, landing on his head. He punched through the track’s packed snow, buried up to the middle of his chest.

Walt drew his weapon and hurried to the man. He pulled him from the snow, only to find his neck broken, his head at an unnatural angle. More surprising was the quantity of sticky blood. It wasn’t until Walt found his flashlight that he saw the lacerations-cougar? bear?-across the man’s shoulder and chest. Deep gashes, the flesh of his chest ripped from his ribs. How he’d managed to drive a snowmobile in that condition not only impressed Walt but warned him: Coats and his posse were tough.

Walt caught up to the snowmobile. Inspected it. Righted it. Dug it out of a snowbank and used its engine to help lift it back to the track. He climbed on.

Called out on his radio so Brandon could hear. “I’m on the snowmobile. Please copy: I’m riding the snowmobile into the compound.” He waited for the acknowledgment.

Waited some more.

“ Brandon? Copy?… Brandon?”

No reply.

“Alpha,” Walt called out over the airwaves.

“Alpha,” came a male voice he identified as Andy Cargill.

“Give me five minutes. If I haven’t checked in, contact Beta and Delta and begin your advance on the compound.”

The team leader acknowledged.

Now all that stood between Walt and the compound were a few hundred yards of snow.

64

BRANDON PICKED UP A WHITE GLOW OF A HEAT SIGNATURE in his goggles and ducked behind a tree. Human, not elk or deer. Close: fifty yards or less. The shape was coming straight for him, moving with a surprising quickness given the deep snow.

Brandon quietly slipped the M4 assault rifle in front of him. He set the trigger to fire in three-round bursts and touched his chest subconsciously to remind himself the vest was in place. His heart sped out of control, and, while he was hungry for a firefight, he was also terrified.

“Aker!” a male voice cried out from across the field.

Brandon couldn’t believe the man had called out.

“I’ve got the wrong end of a thirty-aught-six aimed at that tree you’re hiding behind.”

The sheriff’s voice interrupted, and Brandon yanked out the earpiece.

“I know you’re there, and you know you’re there, so why don’t you come out and show yourself? I’d really rather not shoot you, but I will if I have to. We’ve got food and water, and the cabin’s warm. I know you’re there and I know what you want. So what do you say?”

Mark Aker had escaped. It was the only explanation. The information so surprised Brandon that he gasped, then tried to process what the hell was going on.