AVALANCHE RUN (Sawtooth Peak Rescue #2)

Chapter 1

Declan

The crown fracture ran four hundred yards across the south face of Galena Peak,

a clean, jagged fracture line four feet deep in the wind-loaded slab. Below it,

forty thousand tons of hard-packed snow had sheared off the granite bedrock,

thundering three thousand vertical feet down the main couloir before fanning out

into a massive debris field of blue ice blocks and pulverized powder. Declan

stood in the open doorway of the Bell 412, his hand locked around the overhead

steel frame as Gabriel banked the heavy helicopter into the runout zone.

"Beacon signal acquired!" Declan yelled into his headset mic, his Mammut

Barryvox transceiver flashing a bright red directional arrow and a digital

distance readout of forty-two meters. "Gabriel, set the skids down on the

leeward bench! Jude, grab the oxygen kit and the spinal board!"

Gabriel brought the aircraft into a hard flared landing, the skids packing down

two feet of fresh surface powder. Declan jumped into the snow before the

collective fully dropped, his heavy mountaineering boots sinking to mid-thigh.

He switched his transceiver from transmit to search mode, holding the unit flat

in his palm as he sprinted across the uneven mounds of avalanche debris.

The digital distance dropped in rapid increments: twenty-four meters, twelve

meters, four meters.

At one point two meters, the transceiver sounded a continuous high-pitched tone.

Declan dropped to both knees, whipped his three-hundred-centimeter carbon-fiber

probe from his side sleeve, and snapped the tension cord until the internal

steel cable locked the sections into a rigid rod. He drove the probe into the

hard snow in a tight spiral grid.

On the third strike, the tip struck something firm and yielding beneath four

feet of packed slab.

"Strike!" Declan roared, dropping the probe in place as a visual marker. "Depth

one point two meters! Start the shovel line!"

Declan unclipped his heavy Voilé avalanche shovel with its hardened aluminum

blade, stepped downhill of the probe, and began cutting blocks of dense snow

with furious, rhythmic power. He threw sixty pounds of compressed snow over his

shoulder with every stroke, his shoulders burning as he carved an angled trench

toward the strike mark. Within ninety seconds, his blade struck the neon yellow

sleeve of a professional freeride ski jacket.

Declan discarded the shovel and used his gloved hands to clear the dense snow

from around the victim’s head and chest.

The skier lay face down in a pocket of compressed powder, his high-end carbon

helmet cracked down the left temple and his mirrored goggles shoved crooked

across his forehead. Declan slid his hands under the man’s shoulders and rolled

him onto his back with a heavy, controlled pull, clearing the mouth and nose of

packed ice.

The man let out a ragged, choking gasp of cold air, coughing violently as oxygen

hit his lungs.

Declan looked down at the face framed by the broken helmet. It was Sawyer Brand.

Declan recognized the sharp, high cheekbones, the dirty-blond hair matted with

sweat and melting frost, and the reckless smirk that usually plastered the

covers of extreme sports magazines across the country. Right now, there was no

smirk. Brand’s skin was pale grey, his lips blue from early cyanosis, and his

left arm hung limp at a grotesque, unnatural angle from an anterior shoulder

dislocation.

Jude Miller dropped into the snow trench beside Declan, immediately pressing a

heated oxygen mask over Brand’s mouth while his fingers found the carotid pulse.

"Pulse is rapid, eighty-eight beats per minute," Jude reported, his voice crisp

and professional. "Pupils are sluggish but equal. The left shoulder is out of

the socket and he has significant blunt chest trauma, but his airway is clear."

Sawyer’s hazel eyes fluttered open, squinting through the blinding glare of the

snow toward Declan’s towering frame. Sawyer tried to lift his head, his teeth

chattering uncontrollably as he managed a weak, raspy whisper through the oxygen

mask. "Did you... catch the line I took off the drop?"

Declan’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together with an audible snap. A

wave of pure, boiling rage tore through his chest. Men had died in these

mountains trying to save idiots who treated five-thousand-foot avalanche paths

like a private amusement park.

Declan leaned down, grabbing the collar of Sawyer’s torn yellow jacket in a

tight, unyielding fist, bringing his face six inches from Sawyer’s bruised

features.

"You triggered a class-four slide in a closed conservation zone, you reckless

bastard," Declan growled, his voice vibrating with low, lethal fury. "You are

lucky you are breathing. If you ever drop into my drainage without clearance

again, I will leave you under the snow."

Sawyer stared back at him, his gaze dazed from shock and pain, but a spark of

pure, unrepentant defiance flared in his hazel eyes before his head rolled back

against the snow, knocked out cold by the agony in his dislocated shoulder.

"Backboard is ready," Jude said, placing a firm hand on Declan’s forearm to

break his grip. "Let's package him, Declan. We need to reduce that shoulder

before the muscle spasms lock the joint."

Declan released the jacket collar, his chest heaving with cold air, and helped

Jude strap the pro skier onto the rigid board with rough, efficient precision.