10. Santi
Santi
The wooden floorboards vibrate beneath the soles of my boots.
Two-stroke engines scream over the howling wind.
High RPMs tearing through the blinding whiteout of the blizzard.
The mechanical roar crawls up the structural supports of the cabin, shaking the dust from the rafters, rattling the barricaded windows.
The first wave was bait. A sloppy, uncoordinated distraction meant to drain our ammunition and force us to reveal our defensive angles.
The first assault team is here.
For two decades, I existed in deliberate silence. I watched my family bleed and rage. I remained the silent watcher
Not tonight.
The ice has not vanished — it has simply stopped fighting the heat pressing against it from the inside. What replaces it is not violence. It is certainty. The most dangerous thing I have ever felt. She is mine. I will put a round through every skull on this mountain to keep her breathing.
I grab Reese by the shoulders. I shove her behind the massive stone hearth. The heavy stonework is thick enough to absorb small-arms fire.
"Do not move," I command. My voice is a jagged, unrecognizable register. "Keep the weapon aimed at the front door. If anything comes through that wood that isn't me or the costa extraction team, you empty the magazine into their chest."
She nods. Her eyes are wide but remarkably steady. No tears. No hysterics. Just that fierce, unsentimental will to survive that brought me back from the dead.
I turn away from her. I check my spare magazine. One left. Hollow points.
The snowmobiles cut their engines. The absence of engines is worse than the roar. Boots crunch on the frozen crust of the snow. They are surrounding the cabin. A tactical spread.
I move to the loft ladder. I climb it in three seconds, silent as a breath, my boots finding the rungs by sheer muscle memory.
The loft has a small, circular ventilation window facing the eastern tree line.
I smash the frosted glass out with the steel butt of my Glock.
The blizzard screams into the upper room, bringing the vicious bite of ice and the scent of pine.
I scan the perimeter. Shadows moving through the chaotic whiteout.
Five men. Heavily armed. Moving in a tight wedge formation toward the front porch barricade.
I line up the sights. I do not hesitate. I do not offer warnings or quarter.
I pull the trigger.
The first man drops instantly, a dark spray marking the snow behind him.
The others scatter, shouting over the howling wind, raising their automatic rifles blindly toward the cabin.
Bullets chew through the log walls below me, splintering wood and sending deadly shrapnel into the main room.
I shift my angle. Double tap. The second man folds over, clutching his torn throat, sinking into the snowdrift.
Three left. They dive for cover behind the massive, snow-covered boulders flanking the porch steps.
I cannot shoot them from here. The angle is useless.
I descend the ladder, dropping the last five feet to the floor in a silent crouch. The fabric is still cold from the storm. Between the blizzard, the snow, and the broken sightlines, it gives me one more layer of cover. . I move to the back door.
I pry the makeshift planks loose, working fast and silent.
The nails groan free. I set the planks aside, close enough to grab if I make it back.
I lift the iron bar. The wind rips the door out of my grip, but I catch it, slipping out into the freezing night.
The cold is a weapon. I use it. I let the blizzard break my outline and mask my movement. I let it mask my approach.
I flank them. I become the shadow they cannot track. Moving through the waist-deep snow requires brutal exertion, but adrenaline keeps me moving. I circle the perimeter of the cabin, staying low, letting the howling wind cover the sound of my movement.
I come up behind the eastern boulder. Two men are huddled together, fumbling to reload their weapons with freezing fingers.
I step out of the storm.
I fire twice. Point-blank. They do not even have time to scream. Their bodies slump forward, burying their faces in the snow.
The last man turns. He raises his assault rifle, his eyes wide with sudden terror.
I am faster. I am always faster. I close the distance, knock the rifle aside, and drive my knife up under his jaw. He gasps, hot blood bubbling past his lips and spilling over my gloved hand. I twist the serrated blade, severing the artery, dragging him down into the snow.
The silence returns. Only the relentless howl of the wind remains.
I stand in the slaughter. The blood steams in the sub-zero air, a metallic copper tang mixing with the pine.
My breathing is steady. My pulse is a slow, heavy, rhythmic drum. I wipe the blade clean on the dead man's jacket, sheath it at my hip, and check their pockets. A radio bearing the Bellanti family crest. Scum. Vermin. They came to this ground. They threatened what is mine.
I turn back to the cabin.
I step through the back door and slam it shut, dropping the iron bar with a resounding clang.
I brace the planks back across the frame and drive the nails in fast, sealing what I can before the cold eats through the room.
The sudden, cloying warmth of the fire hits my frozen skin, thawing the ice in my beard.
I drop my empty magazines on the floorboards.
The metallic clatter echoes in the quiet room.
Reese steps out from behind the stone hearth.
She is covered in soot and wood dust. She is gripping the Glock with both hands, the barrel aimed safely at the floor. Her chest heaves with rapid breaths.
The sharp, familiar scent of survival.
The scent hits my lungs. It overrides the smell of cordite and blood. It is the only thing I need to breathe. The only thing tethering me to this earth.
The killing is over. The next thing I need is to put my hands on her. The bloodlust folds into something rougher: a desperate need to claim life after dealing death, an obsessive necessity to prove that she is safe. That she is here. That she is mine.
I stalk toward her. The distance closes in three long strides.
I take the Glock from her hands, clear the chamber by feel, and set it on the radio desk within reach.
I grab her hips. I lift her off the floor.
She gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, her thighs locking tight against my sides. I drive her backward, pinning her hard against the solid timber wall beside the radio desk. The impact shakes the logs.
"Santi." Her voice is breathless. A raw, ragged sound that bypasses my brain and strikes directly at my groin.
"Reese." The word tears out of me, harsh.
I crash my mouth down onto hers.
It is a fierce, starving clash of teeth and tongues.
I taste the adrenaline on her, the sharp tang of fear and survival.
I kiss her like a starving man, my tongue pushing past her lips, sweeping her mouth, taking it.
She kisses me back with equal ferocity, her hands tangling in my silver-streaked hair, pulling me closer, anchoring me.
My hands tear at her clothes. I am ruthless.
I grip the zipper of her winter jacket and rip it down.
I shove it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
I grab the hem of her wool sweater and her thermal shirt, yanking them up over her head in one violent motion.
She raises her arms to let me strip her, exposing her gorgeous breasts encased in a simple cotton bra.
I am still wearing my gear. My jacket is wet with snow, my hands stained with the blood of the men I just slaughtered.
I step back for half a second. Just long enough to rip my own jacket off, tossing it aside. I pull my sweater over my head. My chest is bare, the pale skin pulled tight over muscle. The cold air hits the sweat on my torso.
I step flush into her again, my bare chest sealing against the heat of her breasts. The contrast of my cold skin against her flushed heat makes her shiver.
I push the straps of her bra off her shoulders and drag the cups down, freeing her breasts.
They spill out, full, the nipples already tight and pebbled from the cold air and the arousal thrumming between us.
I cup them in my hands, squeezing the soft, pliant flesh, kneading them with a steady rhythm.
"Reese," the word tears out of me against her mouth. "Fucking perfect."
I dip my head and take one tight nipple into my mouth.
I suck hard, dragging my teeth over the sensitive peak.
Reese cries out, arching her back off the wall, pushing her chest deeper into my mouth.
Her hands grip my bare shoulders, her nails biting into my skin.
I switch to the other breast, laving the nipple with a broad stroke of my tongue before biting down gently, making her gasp and writhe against me.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
I grab the waistband of her thermal leggings and her underwear, pulling them down her thighs. She steps out of them, kicking the boots and fabric aside. She is naked from the waist down, the firelight casting golden light over the lush, curvy swell of her hips and the soft mound of her sex.
I grab her thighs and spread her legs wider. It makes my cock throb violently against the zipper of my pants, a painful, aching pressure that demands release.
I bury my face in her pussy.
The slick wetness, the searing heat. She tastes like salt and desire. I eat her with ruthless dedication. My tongue parts her slick folds, finding the swollen clit hiding at the top. I drag my tongue over the sensitive bud, pressing hard, applying a steady, relentless friction.
Reese gasps my name, her fingers tangling desperately in my hair. "Santi—oh god, Santi!"