Chapter 13
SOMETHING DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT. Even after Dawson shut off the bath faucet and turned on the shower. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, but he wasn’t a child anymore.
Still, as he stood in the spray, his feet warm in the receding bathwater, he could admit to needing the heat to rewarm his bones.
He’d been perilously close to hypothermia, probably.
As he let the water warm him, her words sat in his brain. “He said he was on his way to get us . . .”
Except, how could Moose be on his way to the cabin when he was supposed to be getting Wren?
Or maybe she hadn’t talked to Moose, but to Dodge, Echo’s husband, who ran one of the other rescue choppers in the area.
He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist. The heat sank into his bones, and he’d stopped shivering, although a cold nip still hung in the air, seeping through the bottom of the door.
She’d said she’d left clothes for him outside. He opened the door, found them.
The fire still flickered in the hearth, but a chill hung in the room, the blizzard a little louder. The wind must be whipping up with the night. And maybe the steam had overwarmed him.
He grabbed the clothes, put them on. She’d forgotten socks, but maybe he’d root around in Sully’s gear and ask forgiveness later.
A flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, and he ran his hands through his hair to slick it back. Stared at his whiskered mug in the mirror. Such a catch. He shook his head. What was he doing?
How did you ask a megasuccessful pop singer to ditch it all and join your life in the last frontier?
“Something that gets in your blood, you can’t escape it.”
You didn’t.
You followed her to New York City.
He braced his hands on the sink edges, considered himself. He didn’t see himself as a New York cop.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe this was his chance to start over. He could become a detective—
Barking sounded, distant, as if outside. He frowned and opened the door, stepped out of the bathroom.
The front door hung open, the wind casting snow into the room. The barking came from the darkened yard.
“Keely?” He glanced into the bedroom but didn’t see her, then ducked into the office.
Empty.
He walked to the front door. “Caspian! Come!”
The dog stood in the ring of light in the yard, looking out as if . . .
His gut clenched. No—wait—“Keely?”
He went to the porch. Stared out into the night.
On the front steps, footsteps matted the snow, more than one set—oh no, no—“Keely!”
His feet turned to ice, and he raced back inside, grabbed boots and shoved them on, then a jacket, and hustled back out to the yard.
Snow machine treads churned up the yard. Two sets. He ran down one track, into the darkness, and spotted Caspian, who’d run out ahead of him, standing at the river’s edge, barking into the night.
No, no—The world started to spin, his chest webbed, his breathing cutting out. He caught up with the dog, and in the distance—way down the riverbank—he spotted headlights, disappearing, then winking out.
“Keely!” Now his knees did buckle.
Caspian practically threw himself on top of him, licking his face, barking.
“I know—” He put a hand to his mouth and fought the urge to be sick. How—
Except, maybe they’d followed him from the cache cabin. It only made sense—he knew someone had been there, and certainly someone had shot at him.
He should have listened to his gut.
Caspian kept barking, all the way until he climbed to his knees. Then Caspian pushed against him and forced Dawson to put a hand on him.
The action centered him, just for a moment, brought him back to himself. Cleared his head. Okay, then . . .
“Let’s get help.” He stood and fought the wind and snow back to the lodge, Caspian running out ahead of him.
He barreled up the porch, then into the house, and by the time Dawson had followed, stood at the sofa, where her knit sweater lay, sniffing at it.
He rounded back to the door, barking.
“I know. I know!”
Dawson headed to the office and pulled up the radio. Turned it on and switched the frequency to the one he’d used at the cache cabin. “Echo, come in. This is . . .” He looked at the call sign on the base. “This is AL7brP. Come in, Mayday, Mayday.”
Static. He tried again.
A male voice answered. “AL7SKY, I read you loud and clear. Who is this and what is your Mayday?”
“It’s Dawson Mulligan. I’m at the Bowie Outpost, and I think . . .” What? Please let him not sound crazy. “I think my girlfriend has been kidnapped.”
So much in that sentence, but he let it sit.
“Come again, AL7brP. Kidnapped?”
“Yeah. Listen, Moose was supposed to fly into Woodcrest and get a little girl, but my, um, girlfriend, Keely, called him, and he said he was coming here. But I don’t think so—”
“That’s a negative. Moose is enroute in my Beaver for the community.”
His Beaver. “Dodge?” Moose’s Air One Rescue team had a branch in Copper Mountain, run by local bush pilot Dodge Kingston. So, yes, that made sense.
“Yeah, Daws, it’s me. Moose left about an hour ago, maybe more, for Woodcrest. Took my heavy plane, in hopes the weight helped. The wind had died, for the moment, but it’s slated to pick back up—”
“I need . . .” What? A plane? A chopper? A SWAT team? “Listen. I think one of the Sorros brothers—maybe more than one—grabbed her. I think he was on a plane with her that went down before the blizzard and has been hunting her since.” Although why would he take her instead of simply killing her?
That question sat in his gut and gnawed.
“They grabbed her, and they had snow machines.”
“Which means they can’t get far, not in this storm,” Dodge said.
Right. “I think they were camped out at the cache cabin on the edge of Bowie land. Maybe they took her there.”
“All right, listen. If they’re smart, they’ll hunker down while the last of this storm blows out. You do the same. I’ll be in at first light to pick you up.”
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the mic. “Dodge—”
“Dawson. We can’t land a plane on Sully’s land—it’s too forested, and the riverbank isn’t wide enough. But, if you hang tight, I can get my chopper in. First light. I’ll do everything I can to get there.”
Dawson ran a hand over his forehead. “Maybe I should go after her.”
“You won’t be any good to her dead.”
Caspian came over, set his muzzle on Dawson’s knee.
He put a hand on the dog’s soft fur, clenched his jaw.
His heart said go. His gut agreed with Dodge.
“Fine. First light. AL7brP out.” He set down the handheld, rubbed his hands on his jeans. Then got up.
Dodge gave his final “AL7SKY, clear,” and the line cleared.
His knee ached, his gut churned, and he just barely stopped himself from punching Sully’s office wall.
He headed to the kitchen, stared at the soup, still simmering.
How could you let this happen, God?
The thought punched him, and his throat burned. But really—“When is it enough? I get it—I do. I get it. Life happens. But—c’mon.” He shook his head, then turned off the heat.
Stared at the flickering fire in the hearth.
No. No way could he wait all night—
He headed toward Sully’s room for socks.
“AL7brP, this is AL7SKY, over.” The sound came from the handheld, and he turned and hustled to the office, picked up the ham.
“AL7SKY, this is AL7brP. I received your call. What’s up?”
“Echo and I took a look at the weather. There’s a higher pressure system over the area right now. It’s clearing the clouds in your area. I can make it, if we hurry. I’m on my way.”
Dawson sank into the chair. “Thank you.”
A female voice came on the line. Echo. “Button up—it’s going to get cold, Dawson. I’ll call Deke and let the sheriff’s office know what’s going on. These Sorros brothers are bad news.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure how they found us.”
“If they’re working with the local militia group that was shut down last summer, there were camps located all over this area.
Drug manufacturing and trafficking, as well as human trafficking.
Heavily armed. I’ve run into them a few times, accidentally, when I’ve been out mushing, or tracking for the forest service.
And summer wildfire teams have bumped into them too.
There could still be some groups operating.
If she really was taken by the Sorros brothers, then you’ll need more than you to find her. ”
Caspian had again come over, settled his muzzle on his lap. Whined, as if in solidarity. Again, he put his hand on the dog’s head, more for himself, maybe.
He drew in a breath, then, “Can you call Flynn?”
“She’s already in Copper Mountain. Drove up a couple days ago to be with her sister, according to my mom.”
Echo’s mom, the OB-GYN. “How’s Kennedy?”
“She had an ectopic pregnancy. Lost a lot of blood and, of course, had emergency surgery.”
That accounted for the blood.
“If Sully hadn’t gotten her out in time, she would have died. She’s still in critical condition, I think.”
He could call himself a jerk for still wanting to call Flynn and ask for help. “What about London?” He hadn’t seen the Air One Rescue chopper pilot slash former spy recently, but—
“I think she’s still in Anchorage, with Shep.”
Seemed right that Moose would have someone on duty at HQ while he was stranded in Copper Mountain.
Dawson needed a team. Deke, yes, but he worked with a skeleton crew of youngsters—
What about Vic? The question simply flashed into his brain, bold and scorching.
Vic had been a cop, in seedy underworld Chicago. And he didn’t need to betray Keely to ask for Vic’s help.
“Dawson.” Echo’s voice broke through the static again. “Why was she taken by the Sorros brothers? Like you said, if they wanted to eliminate her, then why not kill her?”
Maybe it was just the ham static, making her words brutal. But the question slid in between his ribs, turned. Stole his breath.
“They need her.” His gut gave the answer, but it seeded in his bones, felt right. “For some reason, they need her.”
“For what?”
He shook his head. “Ransom? She’s . . .” And that had to be it. “She’s pretty wealthy.”