CHAPTER SIXTEEN - COLT #2
“Oh, man.” Despite my power nap, my arms still ache like overcooked noodles.
But who isn’t up for a little downhill skiing in the dark?
Especially if it’s gonna save Baggage’s cute little butt from frostbite.
Which reminds me... “Where’s Hog? You better make sure he’s in on this rescue mission or he'll kick your alpha ass.”
I’m not really sure what’s going on between Birdie and Hog, but after he took her a smoothie, I heard his rumbling voice through the floorboards for like twenty minutes.
Fuck knows what they had to talk about for so long.
Sure, we exchanged a few words last night, but as far as I can tell she’s voluntarily mute, and until two weeks ago, Hog couldn’t pluck a conversational starter out of his hairy ass with a gun to his head.
But he smells better since she got here.
Fresher, maybe even happier, if such a thing is possible when you have the instincts of a Sasquatch.
“Hog’s already out there.” Axel gives me a curious look. “Can’t you feel him through the bond?”
No, actually, but I duck to lace up my boots so my pack alpha can’t see my face.
Come to think of it, the bond between me and Hog has been a lot more chill lately.
Which is strange, because with all the baggage-related excitement, it should be buzzing like a bunch of radioactive hornets.
I ponder that as I grab a beanie and a pair of thick gloves from the hallway closet.
Maybe it’s because I’m still in my dry drunk phase of sobriety and only the most intense signals are getting through.
Or maybe it’s just another sign that the Lawson Pack is fucked up beyond all repair.
Before we lost Charlie, I thought grief was meant to be selfish. I thought it cut you off from the world, like some shitty cocoon of despair. But because of our mate bonds, I felt both my packmates’ pain, too. Some nights it got so bad, the only way to block it out was to drink myself stupid.
Or stupider, depending on the day and my blood alcohol reading.
I shove those memories in my back pocket and grab a scarf off the hook, wrapping it enough times around my neck to cut into my circulation. “Then let’s go shred this mountain, boss.”
He just grunts, but he’s moving quickly now, and our pack bond is back to its usual murky state.
Once we’re both bundled up, we head into the garage and grab the skis.
When we’ve strapped on the ski boots, we do a quick check of our equipment.
A casualty blanket, a couple of flares, a mini snow shovel, and a backup compass with GPS go into my pack.
Axel has added a torch and sat phone to his gear, and he tosses me a pair of night vision goggles.
While I strap them on, he reaches under Hog’s workbench.
I hear the familiar rip of a Velcro sheath, and then he’s passing me my SIG M18.
It’s my primary personal firearm, similar to what I carry in the field, because our pack follows the policy of practice what you play.
Of course, Axel hasn’t let me play since I traded my liver for a bottle of bottom-shelf rum.
“So, that’s where you’ve been hiding her,” I coo. “Come to papa, sweet butt.”
Axel rolls his eyes at me. “Just don’t shoot your dick off.”
I ignore him, because the fact that he’s rearming me at all is a big deal. I know he locked up the weapons because of me, although he’s always been safety first when it comes to guns. I tuck the SIG in my pocket holster and hold his gaze. “I won’t screw up, boss.”
He’s too polite to point out that it would be a new experience for both of us.
We carry the skis and gear outside and click our boots into the bindings. We both glance instinctively at the sky, but I’ve been monitoring the weather - for obvious reasons - and the next heavy snowfall isn’t expected for a couple of days.
But that doesn’t stop my heart from racing as we head away from the cabin.
The cold pinches my cheeks, and I try not to picture Baggage out here, stumbling around in the dark.
She has the truck, but the road is swallowed by snow less than a mile from the house.
Maybe she made it all the way down, but if she didn’t, would she stay with the vehicle or try to walk her way out?
I can’t help thinking of the body I ran my hands over only a few hours ago.
The jut of her ribs and the ripple of scars.
She’s got survival skills, obviously, but going up against a mountain in winter is a whole different beast.
Please let her be eating chunky monkey somewhere safe and warm.
I usually enjoy night skiing. The blanket of snow glows a soft blue in the dark, undulating away from me like white-capped waves.
Tree branches cast long, shifting shadows in my path and stars peek through gaps in the high canopy, like ice crystals flung into the sky.
Thick snow muffles every sound, and if it wasn’t for the soft click of our boots and the huff of our breath on the frozen air, the whole world would feel suspended in the silence.
Like a snow globe left to settle on a shelf.
The moon peeks through the clouds every now and then, but we’re mostly relying on night vision and our headlamps.
Trees rush past in our narrow light beams, and other than the occasional turn, it’s all straight downhill.
Since we’re not breaking our own trail, for the most part we can maintain a fast, steady glide.
The woods feel calm and ancient.
But my pulse is vibrating under my skin, making my knees ache and sweat pop on my spine.
“Shit!” I huff as we round a bend and come to a stop next to our half-buried truck. The hood is wedged in tight, and the driver’s door is hanging open. I look around for signs of injury, while Axel ducks his head into the cab. When he pulls back, he has a piece of paper in his hand. “What’s that?”
He holds it out to me and I frown. It’s a magazine picture. A typical beach scene, with a pair of cute feet edging their way into the surf. It doesn’t mean anything to me and I shrug. “So what?”
“So maybe we know where she was headed.”
I look at the picture again, like there might be a clue I’ve missed, but he just shakes his head and folds it neatly into a square.
It goes into the inside pocket of his jacket and his shoulders straighten, his dominance leaking into the frosty air.
“You follow her tracks while I dig the truck out.” I look at him in surprise and he says, “You’re the better tracker.
If she’s wandered off the road, you’ll find her faster than me.
” It’s true, but I’m surprised to hear him admit it.
When it comes to fieldwork, our pack alpha is more of a lead-the-charge guy than logistical support.
“Soon as you find her, send up a flare. I’ll be right behind you. ”
I try not to think of all the reasons why I might need to break out a flare. “And then?”
He digs in my pack for the snow shovel, then nudges me towards her tracks, his face grim. “We get her off this fucking mountain.”