The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  What about Ryan? In all the commotion, she’d forgotten what she and the Duke were discussing before. Ryan had searched the name Mae Edwards online. He hadn’t gotten any of the results he was looking for, and Heather doubted that even he knew what he was looking for, but he was probably in danger. Both she and the Duke had run several in-depth searches of any Mae Edwards who could have caused such commotion, and they found nothing. Whoever this Mae girl was, she was a person of interest, and they wanted to keep her hidden. They were probably very interested in anyone else who knew about her.

  If she didn’t escape and warn Ryan, Heather was afraid that something bad might happen to him as well. Heather didn’t know why she felt a responsibility to him. Aside from the Lit Dragon games, she wouldn’t know anything about Ryan. She had no personal interest in him other than that he was about to fall victim to a faceless group of shadows. There was something wrong with that, and it made her feel sick that a group could kill people and make them disappear without consequence.

  Heather thought of the reporter who’d disappeared the day before, Paul Freemont—she caught her breath. Had only a day passed? It seemed like so much longer, but that same guilt for not getting him to safety rode her hard. She wondered where he was, and if he was still alive—

  No! She couldn’t think about that now. If her plan had worked with him, he would have crossed several rooftops to a building not under surveillance and would have escaped that way. Instead, he’d gotten himself trapped between two buildings, and they’d caught him. Heather knew that her building connected with a row of apartment buildings. If she could get to the roof, it was an option. Of course, the goons out in the hallway would have to leave in order for her to get out of the trash chute.

  She listened carefully to voices. Who were they talking to? A dog began yapping, and she recognized the sound immediately. It was Mrs. Hardy, her plucky old neighbor, and her annoying little yapper, Puffles. Mrs. Hardy was nice enough, but the dog was enough to drive anyone insane.

  Heather heard the door slam, and the footsteps resume again, toward the stair case. There was a burst of static, something said over the radio that she couldn’t make out, and then the footsteps got fainter. As they descended the stairs, she tried to count how many pairs of boots she heard. The sounds of their footsteps were muffled, but she closed her eyes and focused.

  She heard three pairs of footsteps. Heather was sure of it. There’d been three soldiers in her apartment, and now they were all moving down the staircase, hoping to pin their target between them and their buddies watching the exits. Three had come up, and three were going down—but not for long. As soon as they figured out she hadn’t gone down, they would be back.

  She had to get to the roof, and she didn’t have much time. A few minutes at most.

  Heather pressed against the walls, pushing her body up through the chute, grunting softly with the strain. Her backpack containing the mobile hard drives was looped in the crook of her elbow, and she pulled it along behind her. It took several long seconds of straining and pushing before she was able to get hold of the sides of the rectangular opening of the chute. She grasped the edge of the opening, feeling the sheet metal dig into her skin, but pulled herself up and out of the chute. She crawled out into the tiny closet head first, and sighed with relief when she was completely free.

  Heather stood and calmed her breathing, relishing the better smelling air outside of the trash chute. When her heart had stopped thudding, and she was able to breath quietly through her nose, she leaned close to the door and listened for any sounds in the hallway beyond. She took the doorknob in her hand, but forced herself to count ten seconds before she slowly twisted the knob.

  She pushed the door open very slowly, and very quietly. Heather took a deep breath and peeked around the door into the empty hallway. She felt a pang of sadness when she saw the broken door to her apartment at the end of the hallway. She loved that apartment—it was her first home after leaving her parents’ home, and she’d been there for four years now. She was sad to leave it, but knew she couldn’t stay. The fact that people had been in her apartment, trying to kill her, made her skin crawl. The whole building had taken on a menacing and empty feel for her, and she had to get out. One of the fluorescent light bulbs on the ceiling flickered, making the emptiness of the long hallway that much creepier.

  She stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind her, wincing at the click that sounded to her much louder than it probably was. Heather froze, listening for any indication that the soldiers had heard the click and were coming back to finish her off. After several seconds of silence, she started back down the hall.

  The third soldier stepped through the broken door of her apartment. He looked up at her and they both froze, staring at one another in surprise that lasted only a few seconds. The mask that had covered his face in her apartment was pushed down around his neck, like a black scarf, and his night vision goggles also hung. Blood was smeared on the side of his face and mouth, and his face was swollen from where she’d kicked him, but he grinned nonetheless, showing his teeth. Slowly, almost casually, he raised his rifle and pointed the barrel in her direction. He started walking toward her, one eye closed and the other sighting her through the large scope on top of the gun.

  Heather wanted to turn and dive back down the trash chute, but she knew it would be useless. Even if she made it into the closet that housed the chute without being shot in the back, even if she survived the fall, the exterior teams of soldiers would know exactly where to look for her. It would be over in seconds. It was the same problem with the staircase. She would never make it, and even if she did, her escape would be short lived.

  It was over. In those few seconds that it had taken the soldier to step out of her apartment and start down the hallway toward her, she realized that her life was over. Like the Duke, she was going to die.

  I’m going to die.

  It wasn’t a wave of sadness and fear that passed over her with that realization, but a feeling of regret and growing anger. She knew nothing about this man who was going to kill her, yet he would kill her for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They killed the Duke because he knew too much about nothing. But killed wasn’t the right word, was it? They executed the Duke.

  The anger seemed to rise in her like a flame. Who were these people, and what gave them the right to execute people and make them disappear? How did they get away with this? By whose power and authority was this being done?

  The anger burned, and she regretted that she would not be the one to expose Il Contionum and take them down. The fear that had been clearly evident on her face just seconds before had been replaced by a sneer. She would not allow this killer the satisfaction of her fear.

  “Ms. Gardner, is it?” he said, his voice low and gritty. “You surprised me back there, in your apartment. You embarrassed me in front of my men.”

  “Did I?” she said, but her voice cracked.

  “You were warned. Who?” he asked, smiling and showing his blood-stained teeth. She took no small amount of pleasure in knowing that she’d caused him to bleed.

  “Why do you care?” she asked, holding out her hands. “You’ve got me.”

  “I don’t like leaks,” he said. “And you’re a leak. Your buddy in Utah was a leak, but we took care of him. Was he the one?”

  She didn’t say anything, just seethed with anger as she watched him approach. They couldn’t get away with this, but Heather knew there was nothing she could do to stop it. He shrugged at her silence.

  “Doesn’t much matter. If there is another leak, we’ll fix it.”

  “You mean murder. You’ll murder another innocent person.”

  “Murder and innocence,” he said, “depend on your perspective. We fix leaks to protect the greater good.”

  “You kill.”

  The soldier’s smile faltered, but only briefly. He shrugged again and said, “We kill.”

  “And why haven�
��t you killed me?” she demanded. Tears of frustration streaked her cheeks. She had watched them enter the Duke’s apartment and shoot him without any hesitation at all. She was sure that if they’d still been in her apartment, she would have been killed on sight. So why the delay? What was he waiting for?

  “Where are the hard drives for your computer?” The soldier was less than ten feet away from where she stood, and he nodded toward her bag. “They in your bag?”

  Ah, so that was it. The goons were not only ordered to kill her and the Duke, but they must have also been ordered to collect any digital trace of their work. They had killed the Duke because his equipment was right there in front of him. Here, they must have figured out that she’d either taken some of her drives or hidden them.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, but feigned a slight smile.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He tightened his grip on his rifle. “What’s in your bag?”

  “Shoot me and find out,” she said, but she knew he wouldn’t shoot. She figured that he was afraid the bullet might somehow damage the drives, and they wouldn’t be able to verify the contents. But if that was the reason he wasn’t pulling the trigger, why not shoot her in the head? It’d be quicker, and the shot wouldn’t damage the drives.

  Maybe the mess? A broken apartment door was one thing, splattered brains on the walls and carpet of an apartment building escalated the situation drastically. But the sight of black fatigue-clad soldiers running around an apartment building screamed of a situation that had already escalated. What was he waiting for, then?

  Unless—and the thought was such a reach that she almost dismissed it all together—unless their orders were to keep her alive. To find out what she knew about Il Contionum and who else might be in on it. Their reach was impressive. Finding out about her and the Duke must have taken some serious legwork, considering their meticulous efforts to stay anonymous. But their reach wasn’t infinite, which is why they needed her alive. They needed to know how much she knew.

  They weren’t going to kill her.

  “You know you’re going to die, right?” he said, as if to contradict her very thought. “There is no way out of here. Teams of my men are outside, waiting for you to show your face. Waiting to take you down. They know what you are, I know what you are, and you are going to die tonight.”

  “So kill me.”

  Instead of backing away from the soldier, she took a deep breath, allowing the rush of oxygen in her body to calm her nerves. She stepped toward him, staring directly into his eyes. He tensed, raising the barrel of the gun until it was pointed at her face. Heather tensed her muscles, waiting for the shot she knew was coming. She saw his finger pull on the trigger and knew that she’d been wrong.

  Heather closed her eyes, waiting for the darkness to come, and thought about riding the waves of data. She had just enough time to think about how sad it was that she wasn’t thinking about a close friend or loved one, or picturing a beautiful scene to accompany her into death. No, it was the data that made her truly happy.

  She heard a metallic click as a door was opened, and then chaos exploded in the hallway. Heather opened her eyes in time to see a flash of movement toward the soldier right as he pulled the trigger, sending a stream of bullets above her head and into the ceiling. Heather ducked away from the shots and saw Mrs. Hardy swing a cast iron pan at the soldier’s head. The heavy metal connected with the man’s face with a dull crunch, blood spurted, and the soldier dropped to the floor in a limp heap.

  Mrs. Hardy, her crazy white hair going in all directions, raised the pan above her head and brought it down again, using the total force her old body could muster, and hit him again in the head, letting out a tiny, high-pitched grunt from the effort. Heather winced at the sound of the thud as the metal struck his head, but felt nothing for the man who had been about to kill her.

  “Darn Russians,” Mrs. Hardy said, out of breath. “They come in here like they own the place.”

  “I don’t think they’re Russian,” Heather said, as politely as possible.

  “And that’s where you’re wrong, dear,” Mrs. Hardy said, deadly serious. “It’s always the Russians.”

  “Well, thank you.” Heather had to suppress a giggle. She regretted not having had a conversation longer than perfunctory greetings with this lady, who seemed delightful. Heather gave her a hug, surprised at how tiny and frail the old woman’s body felt.

  “I suspect you need to run, dear. I saw two more of these Russian maniacs a little while ago, and you won’t want to be around when this guy wakes up.”

  Mrs. Hardy absently kicked the unconscious man in the ribs.

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve already called the police, and if the Russians try so much as a step through my door, well, let’s just say I won’t be using my Dutch skillet.”

  Mrs. Hardy grabbed Heather’s arm and squeezed.

  “Now run, dear. Get away as fast as you can.”

  And Heather ran.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Heather quietly opened the heavy metal door a few inches and felt a burst of frigid wind. Staying low, she peered out onto the roof of her apartment building and tried to spot any soldiers who'd been positioned there to block her escape. The two soldiers in the hallway had said that the entire building was covered, so she could only assume that there was at least one soldier on the roof.

  But so far, the roof was empty. Heather forced herself to slowly focus on all the shapes and shadows she could make out in the darkness. She spotted air conditioning units, vents, and other equipment for the building, and drifts of snow piled against the equipment, but nothing else. She took a deep breath, and opened the door just enough to slip outside. She moved away from the door, and the wind slammed it shut. She winced at the sound and looked around, but still did not see anyone.

  Heather spotted some large equipment about halfway between her and the edge of the roof, large enough for her to hide behind. She looked around again and started running.

  Gravel and ice crunched beneath her shoes, and she moved low and quick over the roof. Snow was piled high around the edges of the rumbling equipment. As she approached, her foot slipped on a patch of ice, and she almost tumbled. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure someone would have heard it but for the sounds of the equipment.

  Heather reached the equipment and ducked behind it. Her lungs ached from the cold, and it took several seconds for her to catch her breath and calm her nerves enough to peer over the top. Staying as low as she could, she glanced quickly at the expanse of roof that had not been visible from her vantage point at the doorway.

  She saw no one, and she studied the shadows to try and make out the form of someone else hiding there or keeping watch.

  No one.

  Heather sighed and felt a tiny burst of exhilaration. For the first time since escaping her apartment, she thought that she just might make it out alive. All she needed to do was get off the roof and away from these people, and she could go into hiding. They had tracked her online, something she did not think was possible even an hour before, but that was an oversight that would never happen again. As soon as she was back online, she would make sure that there was no way anyone could track her again. The more she thought about it, the more angry she became. How had they found her? She was not the best at what she did, but she was pretty close. They, the Contionum, had bested her and were now trying to kill her. But why? And more importantly, who? Heather promised herself that as soon as she was reconnected to the internet, her gloves were coming off. They were going down. She just had to get off the roof and away from the soldiers trying to kill her.

  And she was almost there. Almost off the roof and away.

  Heather took a deep breath and realized that her hands were trembling. All she had to do was run to the next building, jump the parapet wall, and then climb off the roof. Then away.

  I can do this, she thoug
ht. Easy peasy.

  The image of the Duke being killed flashed again in her mind, and she reminded herself to keep some perspective. They were hunting her and would surely kill her as soon as they caught her. They must have realized that she was now more of a threat alive than dead, and they would kill her without any hesitation, like they'd done with the Duke.

  The thought of the Duke being killed in front of her, execution style, sent a fresh batch of chills down her spine. It also hardened her resolve. They had killed the Duke, and they were trying to kill her. The anger churned, pushing away the fear and panic she felt. They had killed her friend, and she would bring them down if it was the last thing she did.

  But you have to move, she told herself, you have to get off the roof. She had no doubt that the soldiers would be looking on the roof for her soon.

  Heather glanced around the edge of the equipment and saw that the coast was still clear. Above, the clouds rolled silently through the dark sky, blotting out the stars and moon. She held her breath for several seconds, blocking the sounds of the city below and listening for any sign that she wasn't alone.

  Now or never, she thought, readying herself. Heather took a deep breath, as if she were about to plunge into freezing water, and then darted out onto the open roof.

  She hadn't taken more than a few steps before she saw the soldier at the edge of the roof. He'd been pacing just beyond her field of vision, and just as she spotted him, he was turning in her direction. She gasped and skidded to a stop. The soldier had been looking over the edge of the building, but the sound made him look in her direction, and she froze as they made eye contact for a split second.