Chapter 12
Nika
My truck pitches to the side with no warning.
All the uphill momentum disappears in the slip of a tread, and I seesaw backward. My stomach lurches into my throat, my spine rigid with fear. I’m too scared to peer into the mirrors once I realize how close I am to the edge of the road and the sheer drop just past the guardrail.
A rail that doesn’t look so reassuring now that I’m sliding straight at it.
In the city, the snow and rain was camouflage. Up here in the mountains, sheets of rain freeze into deadly strips of ice covered by a white blanket.
I ease off the gas, turning the steering wheel carefully until the tread catches again. The backward slide slows, then stops, reverting to an uphill climb.
I can finally breathe again.
In the distance, an orange light flashes, obscured by the thick fog of snow and windblown ice.
My rushed exhale fogs the windshield. The heater can’t keep up with the steep temperature drop, the hot air barely preventing frost from covering the windshield.
As I get closer to the orange light, I make out the words of a DOT sign with two warnings flashing over and over.
REDUCE SPEED. CHAINS REQUIRED.
While I have chains in the bed of my truck, I don’t reduce my speed or stop to put them on. For all I know, Max could be right behind me.
Every second matters.
My back end breaks loose again.
Clearly the weather doesn’t give a shit about what I want. If I’m not careful, the mountain will kill me before Max ever gets the chance.
I’m not an idiot, though. At least, I’m trying not to be after all my other screwups today.
Before I can go any higher, I need chains.
The shoulder materializes on my right, barely visible through the snow. The one safe place to pull over and do this. Gravel crunches under the tires until I stop, leaving the engine to idle and the windshield wipers to beat a frantic defense against the winter storm.
I sit here for three seconds, pondering.
I’m still in my black cocktail dress, and although I don’t have time to change, I’ve got to get the chains out of the back and attach them to each tire.
I’m going to freeze my ass off, maybe even get frostbite on my fingers.
I peer into the rearview mirror and glimpse nothing but darkness, snow, and the empty road.
For now.
After snatching my coat from the backseat, I push open the door, the wind whipping through my stockings as I stumble out. Shuddering, I quickly zip up the jacket. I should have planned better.
Though hypothermia might be a preferable death to whatever Max has in store for me.
Snow quickly accumulates on my hair and shoulders. My heels sink into the gravel and slush piled on the side of the road.
I walk on the balls of my feet and cling to the side of the truck to reach the back. The wind kicks up, rocking the vehicle on its suspension and blowing into the slit of my skirt, freezing me even faster.
I open the tailgate, and the bag full of snow chains rattles and thunks. The rough, woven handles bite into my chilled hands as I pull the bag free.
Starting with the rear tires seems simplest, so I squat down, tucking the skirt of my dress under my legs to hold it in place and hopefully stop the wind from gushing through.
The chains are heavy, hooked, and have been rattling around in the truck bed for the better part of a year. It takes several long minutes to untangle them. By then, my mind is so numb from the cold that I have to pull out the manual to remember how to start.
The instructions flutter in the wind, so I pin them down with rocks before squinting at them in the red glow from my taillights.
Step one, lay the chains flat on the ground in front of the tire.
Flat? On this ground?
This is going to suck.
I drop to my knees in the slush. Gray water soaks through my dress and coat, weighing the fabric down and adding to my misery. Working the hooks, I slowly roll the chains out. Next, I try to mimic the instructions by forming a straight line in front of the tire I’m working on.
With that done, I struggle to my feet, my toes throbbing from the cold. I hobble forward to the driver’s side front tire with another set of chains.
By the time I reach the last tire, my feet have gone numb. That’s both a blessing and a curse. Walking no longer hurts, but staying upright in these heels demands more concentration than I have to offer.
Now to drive over the chains.
Back inside the car, I shuck off the soaked coat, and for a few minutes, I relish in the rush of warmth and the returning blood flow. As soon as enough sensation comes back to my feet, I put the vehicle in drive.
Estimating how far I need to go before shifting the vehicle into park again, I inch forward.
After that, I spare a couple more precious moments to soak up more heat. Exhaustion weighs on my shoulders as I recline against the headrest and sigh.
When I refocus, two pinpricks of light appear in the rearview mirror.
They’re still miles back, with several switchbacks between us. It’s difficult to distinguish exactly how many through the falling flurries.
No one else is this insane. No one else would be on this road, in this storm, at this hour.
No one but…Max.
Fear pierces through the icy numbness that’s taken my body captive.
He’s coming.
Did I really think a little dicey weather would stop him?
Hurry. Faster. Go, go, go.
Throwing the door open, I stumble out.
The chains on my side are under the tires.
I grab the loose ends, working on pulling them up and over. The metal is rigid with cold and packed with ice, snow, and gravel. With trembling hands, I rush to poke the debris out of the way.
As I do, I struggle to control my breathing. If I start panicking, I’ll die.
My skin sticks to the metal for half a second before I pry myself free, leaving behind warmth and probably a layer of skin. Shaking the chains, I manage to loosen most of the impediments. I heave the chain up and over, pulling it taut across the top of the tire.
I grab the latch on the other side, my fingers trembling as I try to hook the chain together.
It slips, and both sides fall once more.
“Come on.” I hold my hands to my mouth, blowing on them until they can flex more easily.
This time, I get it.
One tire finished.
Only three more.
Pushing off the truck, I wipe my hands on my skirt and scramble to the next tire before glancing over my shoulder. I don’t spy headlights in the distance, but since the road curves back and forth, he could be right behind me, for all I know.
I managed to fight him off before, but now I’m tired, frozen, and sluggish. If he reaches me before I secure the rest of the chains, I’ll be completely at his nonexistent mercy.
The second chain proves more difficult. My hands operate on muscle memory and willpower alone. Because I can barely feel the metal, I can’t tell if I’m gripping hard enough or too hard. The chain keeps slipping from my grasp and falling back into the slush.
Lights flash over my head, then disappear again.
Shit.
Quickening my pace, I drape the chain, pull it over, and secure the latch.
Almost done.
I shake the links free, loosen the hooks, pull the chain around the last tire, and latch. My vision blurs at the edges, whether from the snow sticking to my cold skin and lashes or from tears of terror, I can’t tell.
Click.
The last latch catches and holds.
I’m certain I’m forgetting a step, but I can’t wait any longer. Staggering to my feet, I thrust myself back in the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind me.
The interior is only marginally warmer than outside. My breath comes in ragged gasps, fogging the windshield. My hands are white and red in patches, the skin tight and painful. I can barely feel my feet inside the heels.
Throwing the vehicle into drive, I do my best to apply slow, steady pressure to the gas pedal.
The engine whines, and the chains bite into the ice before the truck lurches forward with an uneven jerk that snaps my head back.
Tires finally line up, grabbing traction in a way they haven’t since I started climbing.
I didn’t have time to tighten the chains properly. With each revolution, they rattle slightly, metal slapping against the tire wells. But it’s good enough for now.
It has to be.
I can stop later and fix it once I warm up, once I’m safe, once I have the advantage of time and distance.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, I watch the oncoming headlights grow.
Max is closing the gap, so close that I can almost make out his vehicle through the snow. If he has four-wheel drive or put chains on before coming after me…
Keeping an eye on the road ahead and behind, I watch as he reaches the spot where I initially parked.
Max’s headlights snap to the side as he spins, the truck bed whipping around.
Which will happen to me, too, if I don’t pay attention to how I’m driving.
I clutch the wheel, forcing myself to focus on the road and not the disaster unfolding behind me. My own truck fishtails once, then twice. Easing off the gas just slightly, I let the chains do their work.
Unable to help myself, I peek back one more time.
The white light has vanished, replaced by amber red taillights.
Max did a full one-eighty, his vehicle pointed down the mountain. He either stops now, puts on chains, or he dies chasing me on regular tires.
The thought brings a rush of an emotion that’s not quite satisfaction, not quite relief.
A mental image of Max spinning off the road and tumbling down the cliff should appeal to me.
Instead, that visual leaves me hollow.
Practically, I want him dead. Emotionally, I want him dead.
But I also want to kill him myself, not rely on chance to remove him from the world.
Still, I can’t predict the future or change fate. If he’s hardheaded enough to keep after me, he’ll either crash and die, or he’ll end up in Poulsbo, the next town over.
Because he can’t find my sanctuary if he’s not tracking me directly to it.
There are three more turns, one blind, before reaching my road.
And our unmarked private drive’s easy to miss.
The snow’s piling fast enough to cover my tire tracks.
Without the assistance of my taillights, without seeing exactly where I go, he’s just guessing.
Wasting time in a worsening storm.
With only ten feet of visibility, I’m forced to crawl so I don’t overdrive my own lights.
The chains thunk-thunk-thunk beneath me, the rhythm steady and reassuring. Only ten miles to go, and three of those are downhill.
My sanctuary waits to welcome me home. Concrete and steel hidden behind a wood facade with enough supplies to last two people for four months if necessary. On top of that, Dimitri’s security system rivals that of a government facility’s.
I’ll be safe. Warm. After that, I’ll have plenty of time to search the duffel bag and finally get my hands on my mother’s locket.
Then I can deal with the fact that I ran when I was so close to getting everything I believed I wanted.
The thought twists my gut. I don’t run. Haven’t since the island.
But tonight, I did so again.
It was tactical, a strategic retreat. There’s no shame in extracting yourself because you recognize you’re outmatched.
Except the retreat reeks of defeat rather than strategy.
Max
My truck sits nose down in the ditch, the front bumper already buried in two feet of snow. Heavy flakes come down fast. Soon, the storm will become a whiteout.
Steam rises from the crumpled hood where my vehicle hit a tree, mixing with the blizzard until I can barely see five feet in front of me. I stand on the shoulder, watching Nika’s taillights disappear around the next switchback.
Survival 101. Prepare for the worst, pray that never happens, and use your backup plan without hesitation if necessary.
I trudge to the back of the truck, unlock the hard cover, and reach for the bag I hoped to never need.
I unzip the duffel and start pulling out winter gear.
Parka rated to negative forty. Insulated pants.
Mountaineering boots with aggressive tread.
Gaiters. Gloves with both a liner and a shell.
Balaclava. Goggles. Headlamp with spare batteries.
Emergency bivvy. Water. High-calorie food bars. Fire-starting kit. First aid.
I strip off the ruined suit jacket, shivering in the cold wind, and tug on the layers.
Once that’s done, the pack and the remainder of my gear go on my back, where I distribute the weight properly across my hips and shoulders. Heavy, but manageable. I’ve humped more significant loads through worse conditions.
My gun goes in a chest holster, accessible yet protected from the elements.
The storm worsens, the snow falling so thick that I can barely see the tree line twenty yards off the road. The temperature must be in the teens, feeling even harsher with the windchill. This kind of chill kills unprepared people in hours.
Good thing I’m not unprepared.
I scan the landscape. Cliff faces flank both sides of the road, slopes disappearing into cloud and snow. Even the evergreens bend and groan under the accumulation. If they start to snap or dump hundreds of pounds of snow on me while I’m wading through them, I’m screwed.
Because I have no reason to follow the road. Not anymore.
I’ve already identified the ridgeline to the northeast.
On the drive up, I clocked three peaks in a distinctive formation, the middle one slightly lower than the neighboring summits.
I’d recognize them anywhere. After Roman watched the video Nika sent us weeks ago, he never wanted to see it again, and I couldn’t really blame him. Hearing his daughter say such words had to break his heart, especially since the last time he had heard her speak to him was as a loving young child.
And now she’s a twisted, demented psychopath determined to destroy everything he deems precious.
So I sent the clip to our IT whiz, Emil, who found metadata with GPS coordinates in the file. I scoured a satellite view of the location and clocked those three mountaintops located in the Cascade Range, about forty miles northeast of Seattle.
We did our homework and discovered Nika filmed the video at her home base.
So I brought the gear and came ready to slog through snow-packed mountains and valleys. Now I just need to do some basic orienteering.
She might believe she’s won. That the distance, terrain, and winter storm will protect her. But she doesn’t know me.
I’m not a man who gives up or retreats.
I’m the cold heart at the center of the Kozlov empire, the violence that enables everything else. I’m the thing Roman points at problems that need to disappear.
And right now, I’m pointed at her.