Chapter 9
nine
As their snowcat rumbled across the ice behind Rue’s, Elliot fixated on the bundled figure signaling them forward with two glowing orange wands, and a bad feeling knotted his gut.
This wasn’t part of the brief. No summer crew had been mentioned in any of the expedition documents he’d reviewed, and he’d reviewed them all twice—because that’s what he did.
He planned. He anticipated. He eliminated surprises before they had a chance to kill his people.
And yet here was a surprise, standing in the middle of the ice, waving them in.
His gaze slid to the back of Dr. Noah Braddock’s head. The geologist hadn’t reacted at all to the unexpected welcome committee. Almost like he’d been expecting this.
What the fuck was really going on here?
Elliot’s mind ticked through the worst-case scenarios, all possible moves and countermoves unfolding like a chess game in his head. Every instinct he had clanged with warning.
When their snowcat lurched into the cavernous bay of Thwaites Station, he cataloged the space automatically: three exits besides the main door, shelving units that could provide cover, tools that could be repurposed as weapons, cameras—too many cameras for a station this size.
Surveillance meant secrets. Secrets meant danger.
He felt the prickle along the back of his neck as the bay door clanged shut. Trapped. Contained. His instincts screamed to abort, to turn Rue around before it was too late. But she was already climbing down from the first snowcat, every line of her body radiating confidence.
But he knew her better than he knew just about anyone, and under all that bravado was tension. She knew something was wrong, too.
“Everyone out.” Noah’s voice was clipped as he killed the engine.
Elliot was first out of the vehicle, positioning himself between Rue and the three strangers who approached from the far side of the bay. Two men and a woman—all wearing thick parkas with no visible insignia or identification. Curious.
“Welcome to Thwaites,” the taller man said, his voice matching the South African accent they’d heard over the radio.
He set aside the signal wands and pulled down his face covering, revealing dark skin, dark eyes, and a thick, wiry beard peppered with gray.
“Jacobus Khoza. Everyone calls me Koos. I handle operations, and if you break something, I’m the guy to fix it. So don’t break anything.”
The second man stepped forward. Thin and gaunt with permanent shadows under his eyes as if he never slept, he looked almost vampiric. “Dr. Emerson Moretti. Hydrologist.” His voice was as dry and brittle as old paper.
The woman beside him made no move to approach and instead crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Her short hair was dyed a dark green that stood out starkly against the muted colors of the station. “Jess Temple. Comms,” she said flatly. “If you need to talk to the outside world, I’m your girl.”
Dr. Moretti cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you’re Ms. Bristow?” he addressed Rue, ignoring Elliot completely.
“That’s right,” Rue confirmed, extending a gloved hand. “Expedition leader. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. As far as I knew, the summer crew finished up last week, and there wasn’t going to be an over-winter crew here this year.”
“Plans changed,” Moretti said, and he didn’t look happy about the change. “A winter crew is coming, and someone had to stay behind to hand the station over.”
“And we drew the short straws,” Jess added, brushing her green hair back from her face.
“Speak for yourselves.” Koos grinned, his teeth bright white against his dark skin. “I volunteered.”
“Well, the more the merrier,” Rue said cheerfully.
If she was thrown by having three unexpected people on her expedition, it didn’t show in her smile or her voice.
She motioned to the rest of them. “This is my team. Dr. Simon Keene and his PhD students, Tyler and Mia. Dr. Irina Volkova, our expedition’s doctor. And Dr. Noah Braddock, geologist?—”
“Just Noah,” Braddock corrected.
Rue did show a flash of surprise at that, but she hid it fast. Elliot only saw it because he knew her, knew every expression, every twitch of her mouth. He’d spent so much time studying her over the last few years, he should have a PhD in Rue Bristow.
“And this is my fiancé, Elliot Wilde,” Rue finished, reaching for his hand.
Elliot laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently and wishing they weren’t both still wearing their gloves. Yes, it was for show, but also just because he really wanted to touch her.
“I could use some assistance,” Camille called from the doorway of the snowcat, where she hovered like she didn’t know how to get out of it.
Jesus, had she been sitting in there this whole time, expecting someone to roll out the red carpet for her?
“Who’s the princess?” Koos asked, jerking a thumb in her direction.
“Camille Middleton,” Rue answered, carefully neutral. “One of our primary investors. She wanted to see the operation firsthand.”
Elliot watched Koos’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “An investor? Down here?” The man’s grin widened, but something sharp glinted in his eyes. “Well, that’s a first. Usually, the money people prefer to stay where it’s warm.”
“I like to be thorough,” Camille said, finally extracting herself from the snowcat with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. She wobbled on shaky legs, nearly toppling over when her boot caught on the door frame. “Someone help me with these bags.”
Elliot moved forward without thinking, his mother’s voice in his head reminding him to be a gentleman even when every part of him wanted to let Camille topple. He grabbed Camille’s elbow to steady her, then reached for the designer luggage she was gesturing at dramatically.
“Thank you, darling,” she purred.
He bit back a response that would have violated at least three separate sections of the WSW code of conduct. Instead, he nodded tightly and hauled the ridiculously heavy bag from the snowcat. What the hell had she packed? The entire contents of Bergdorf Goodman?
“Koos will give you a tour and show you all to your quarters,” Dr. Moretti said, his voice weirdly flat and lifeless.
“They’re cozy,” Koos said with a wink.
Rue caught Elliot’s eye across the bay, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. He knew exactly what she was thinking. Cozy was code for cramped as hell, which meant they’d be sharing a very small space for the next three weeks.
That wasn’t a problem. He’d shared quarters with operatives before. He was a professional.
Except none of those operatives had been Rue Bristow, with her honey-gold hair and mischievous eyes and tendency to push every single one of his buttons just to see what would happen.
Fuck.
“Come, come,” Koos said and led them into a narrow corridor lined with exposed pipes and electrical conduits.
The walls were painted industrial white, scuffed and dented from years of use.
Someone, at some point, had tried to brighten the corridor with murals of flowers, but the paint had faded and chipped.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh, clinical brightness that made Elliot’s eyes water after the muted grays of the Antarctic landscape.
The air inside was warm—almost stifling after the brutal cold outside—and carried the smell of diesel fuel, coffee, and something vaguely antiseptic.
Elliot catalogued the layout as they walked: fire extinguishers mounted every twenty feet, emergency lighting strips along the floor, and those same security cameras tucked into every corner. Why so many cameras?
“This is Lab B through here,” Koos was saying, gesturing to a heavy door locked with biometric scanners. “It’s off-limits. We’ve been sharing the station with some Russian researchers, and they’re paranoid as hell about their work.”
Elliot’s internal alarms started clanging again.
Biometric locks on a research lab? Russians who weren’t mentioned in any briefing materials?
He caught Rue’s eye and saw his own suspicion reflected back at him.
They both turned to look at Irina Volkova.
Could she—or someone else in the Volkov family—be involved with the Russians’ research?
Was that why she’d volunteered for this?
“Russians?” Dr. Keene asked, his voice bright with interest. “How fascinating! What kind of research are they conducting?”
“Ice core analysis, I think,” Koos replied with a shrug that seemed too casual. “Above my pay grade.”
They passed through a common area that looked like it had been decorated for a luau—according to Koos, the decorations were leftover from the party to celebrate the summer crew’s last night on the white continent.
“I assume there’s adequate WiFi?” Camille asked, examining her surroundings with thinly veiled distaste. “And please tell me there’s a decent wine selection. I brought several bottles, but they’ll need proper storage.”
“We’re not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, ma’am,” Koos replied good-naturedly.
“WiFi’s patchy at best. And we have a fridge for your booze.
” He motioned to the battered stainless steel fridge that had to be nearly as old as Elliot.
“Though I’d recommend rationing any alcohol you have for the winter season. ”
“Winter season?” Camille’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched. “We’re here for the summer session. Only three weeks.”
“Late summer,” Koos corrected. “Season’s changing. Storms come faster now, and we’ll start seeing some actual nighttime hours here soon. Three weeks can turn into four or five real quick this time of year.”
Camille seemed unbothered by the news, but Elliot filed it away. Storms and shortened daylight hours meant more risk if they needed to make a quick exit.