Chapter 8 Axel
AXEL
Almost home—the lights of Anchorage looked close enough to touch, glowing against the arch of darkness.
In a few hours Axel would be with Flynn, maybe talking her into breakfast before she had to work, maybe finding the right moment to show her the ring he’d been carrying like borrowed time.
He hung onto the seat bars of the snowmobile, the hum of the engine turning him nearly deaf after two hours of driving, careening through drifts and fighting through too deep snow. The road ribboned out somewhere to their left, but they’d yet to find it.
Still, south. They just had to head south.
Some thirty feet behind them, Shep and London kept up, their light cutting through the darkness. Whatever their one-on-one in the barn had been about, they’d seemed to put it behind them, London holding on tight to Shep the few glimpses Axel had gotten of them.
They were the kind of happy ending Axel wanted. Together in adventure. Together in life.
Please, please get us home.
The snowmobile engine coughed beneath him. A wet sound that made his stomach clench. Moose felt it too—his shoulders went rigid as he throttled down, the machine shuddering.
“Come on,” Moose muttered, his voice barely audible through the helmet radio. “Not now.”
No, no—
But the engine was already dying. That distinctive sputter of a fuel system running dry.
Shoot. Old machines—they ate up fuel too fast.
They coasted to a stop in a valley between two hills, surrounded by pristine snow that stretched to the horizon like an endless white carpet. The silence descended, sudden and complete except for the ticking of cooling metal and the distant whisper of wind through sparse Arctic willow.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Moose yanked off his helmet. He got off the machine and—and hurled the helmet into the snow.
What?
His brother’s breath formed white puffs in the subzero air. Ice crystals clung to his dark beard, and his face flushed red from wind exposure. “We’re still ten miles out.”
Axel swung his leg over the machine. Pulled out his handheld radio, ice crystals already forming on the metal surface.
The cold bit through his insulated gloves, making his fingers clumsy on the controls.
Around them, the landscape stretched empty and hostile—rolling hills covered in snow that reflected the fading aurora borealis like a mirror.
“Echo, this is Axel. We’ve got a problem.”
Static crackled back, then Echo’s voice, thin but clear. “Go ahead, Axel.”
“Fuel situation. We’re stranded about a half mile from the highway.” He checked the GPS coordinates on his watch, squinting at the small screen through the condensation forming on the inside of his visor. “Maybe ten miles south of the city.”
“Copy that. Let me see what I can—”
“Axel.” Shep’s voice cut through the radio chatter. He and London had pulled up beside them, their snowmobile idling but showing the same signs of fuel starvation. “We’re running on fumes too.”
Shep shut off their engine. Mountain silence pressed in around them. No wind. No traffic noise. Just the vast emptiness of Alaska wilderness at five in the morning. The aurora borealis was fading overhead, green curtains dissolving into the approaching dawn.
“So we walk.” Moose was already stripping gear from the snowmobile, his movements sharp and aggressive. He yanked the emergency pack free with enough force to send snow flying, then slammed shut the center console. “Half mile to the highway, flag down a ride.”
“In this weather?” London’s breath steamed as she spoke, her cheeks already showing the pink flush of wind burn. She pulled her scarf down, revealing lips that were starting to turn blue at the edges. “It’s twenty below, and there’s not going to be much traffic at this hour.”
The cold was seeping through their gear now that they weren’t moving, through the thermal wear and even into Axel’s boots.
Sweat from the ride formed a thin layer of chill against his thermal layer.
The silence of the wilderness pressed in around them—no traffic noise, no civilization, just the vast emptiness that could kill you if you made the wrong choice.
Axel’s radio crackled again. “Axel, this is Echo. I’ve got Deke Starr on the line. He’s got some news.”
Something in her tone made Axel’s chest tighten. “Patch him through.”
“Axel?” Deke’s voice was grim. “Where are you folks?”
“Stranded about ten miles north of Anchorage. Why?”
A pause, then, “There’s been a shooting in the city. Officer down. Heard it on my scanner about twenty minutes ago.”
The words hit Axel like a physical blow. What—?
His hand moved to his pocket where the ring box pressed against his chest. “Which officer?” His voice came out rough.
“Don’t know. Just heard officer down, shots fired, requesting medical assistance.”
Moose had stopped packing. Was staring at Axel. “Flynn?”
He asked. Closed his eyes as he waited.
Finally, “Shasta put in a call to dispatch. Axel—it’s a detective on the scene. That’s all we know.”
Now his knees did buckle. He sat hard on the seat of the snow machine. Flynn had been at the hospital with Tillie and Dawson. If there was a shooting, if she’d responded...
“We need to get to that highway. Now.” Moose shouldered his pack, the weight of emergency supplies making him lean forward. He set off through the snow without waiting for agreement, his legs punching through the crust with each step.
They abandoned the snowmobiles where they sat.
Fuel gauges reading empty. Started the half-mile trek through knee-deep powder toward the snowy ribbon of asphalt visible in the distance.
The landscape around them possessed a lethal beauty—rolling hills dotted with stunted spruce trees, their branches heavy with snow that sparkled like diamonds in the fading aurora.
The cold bit through their winter gear, his face mask was already stiff with frozen condensation. His boots crunched through the snow crust, sending up small puffs of powder that caught the light.
“How long to walk half a mile in this?” Shep asked, his voice muffled by his face covering.
“Thirty minutes if we push it,” London replied, already breathing hard from the exertion. “Longer if we hit any soft spots.”
Axel refused to do the math.
The highway stretched before them. A thin line of civilization cutting through the wilderness.
They had to summit the tall drifts that edged the road, but at five in the morning on Christmas Eve, it was empty in both directions—no headlights, no taillights, just endless asphalt disappearing into the darkness.
A plow had come by, maybe a couple hours ago, scraped it down, salted, but snow frosted.
“So, do we wait for a ride?” Shep asked, pulling his collar higher against the wind that had started to pick up, sending snow devils spinning across the road surface.
“No. We hike until someone comes.” Moose had started trekking on the narrow shoulder.
Axel tried his radio again. Ice had formed on the antenna, and maybe the storm interfered because he only got static.
He lowered the radio. Watched his breath form clouds that froze and fell, clogging the air before crystalizing into the wind.
He turned and followed Moose, Anchorage looking too far away. But, when Moose picked up his pace to a jog, so did he. Good idea.
Headlights cut through the darkness, moving toward them from the north. Axel stepped into the road, waving his arms while Moose stepped into the road.
“Please don’t be some lunatic,” London muttered, but she too turned, waved her arms.
The truck—a big Ford F-250 with a camper shell—began to slow. Snow spraying from its tires as the driver applied the brakes on the icy surface.
The truck rolled to a stop. The passenger window rolled down and Axel ran up to the truck.
“Hey—”
“Hey yourself. Are you guys crazy?” The guy at the wheel wore a wool hat, a dark grizzle on his chin and a smile. “Seriously—what is the Air One team doing out here at five am?”
“Could ask you the same thing Jericho,” Axel said, and reached for the door.
“Nope. I ride shotgun,” said Moose, coming up behind Axel. “Hey Jer.” He opened the door, like no big deal.
Not a miracle that they’d been rescued at just the right time from an old buddy from Copper Mountain.
Whateves.
“We need a ride to Anchorage. Emergency.”
Jericho didn’t ask for details. Just jerked his thumb toward the back of the truck. “Orlando’s back there, but he’s friendly.”
Shep had opened the back and Axel climbed into the truck bed under the camper shell.
He found a large dog sprawled across a pile of sleeping bags and camping gear.
Orlando was magnificent—easily eighty pounds of Bernese Mountain Dog and Poodle mix, with the distinctive tri-color markings of his mountain dog heritage but the intelligent, alert expression and slightly wavy coat that spoke of his poodle lineage.
His massive head came up as they entered, brown eyes bright and curious, tail thumping once against a duffel bag in greeting.
“Hey pal, I hope you’re warm.” Axel scooted in next to him, and let the dog put his head on his lap.
“This is cozy,” Shep said, wedging himself between London and a stack of camping gear, his voice already showing the strain of trying to stay warm.
“Better than walking.”
London curled up next to Shep as Jericho took off.
Sort of felt like he’d gone from brutal to torture.
The space was cramped and cold and the metal truck bed conducted the subzero temperature through their winter gear like an ice cube.
Frost formed on the windows as their breath mixed with the enclosed air.
Still, Jericho outfitted his truck for wilderness expeditions—sleeping bags, camp stoves, emergency gear, and what looked like avalanche rescue equipment secured against the sides.
Jericho’s voice carried back from the cab through the sliding rear window. “Should I be driving like my hair’s on fire?”
“Hospital,” Moose said. “Fast as you can manage without putting us in a ditch.”
He lifted the radio. “Echo, this is Axel. Any word on casualties?”
No response.
He leaned his head back, his eyes closing.
His hand going to his chest.
Please, God, let Flynn be alive.
“Don’t.” London’s voice, cutting through his spiral. “Don’t go where I think you’re going in your head. Not until we know for sure.”
The truck hit a pothole. It jarred everyone against the metal sides with enough force to rattle their teeth. Orlando lifted his massive head again, then shifted position to rest his muzzle on Axel’s knee, brown eyes full of canine sympathy. His hand found the dog’s fur, warm in the frigid space.
“Even the dog knows you’re losing it,” Shep said, but his voice was gentle.
Yeah, well. He looked away, toward the front windshield where the lights of Anchorage grew brighter. The dashboard clock read 5:47 AM, and ice was building up on the truck’s windshield faster than the defroster could clear it. Maybe he should have stayed home.
Axel closed his eyes. Leaned back against the cold metal of the truck bed, feeling the vibration of the engine through his spine.
The engagement ring pressed against his ribs through his jacket, but he forced himself not to check on it again.
Orlando seemed to sense his distress and shifted closer, the dog’s solid warmth a small comfort in the frozen space.
Around them, the wilderness rolled past in the pre-dawn darkness—endless snow, scattered stands of spruce, and the occasional glimpse of mountains outlined against the star-filled sky.
Beautiful and deadly, like everything in Alaska.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Jericho called back. “Hang tight.”
Axel’s heartbeat filled his ears, and he could smell the metallic scent of fear-sweat under his winter gear. The copper tang of adrenaline lay on his tongue.
Twenty minutes to find out if his future was still waiting for him.
Or if it had bled out on some Anchorage street while he was playing hero in the wilderness.