And it felt so good it scared him.
Chapter 18
Day 2—246 Miles to Volkov Station—20 Days of Food Remaining
Ford had been up for an hour melting water and repacking what he could when he heard a faint buzz.
He’d spent so much of the past twenty-four hours actively listening for a sound just like this, scouring the sky for signs of aerial approach, that he was half convinced it was a false alarm. An auditory hallucination.
He squinted up, saw nothing, aside from the sun glaring down from pristine blue.
He’d just decided to wake Angel up when he heard it again, clearer this time, as if the wind had snatched the sound from the air and delivered it right here by some ventriloquist trick. Fighting a deep sense of disorientation, he spun, his eyes flicking around until he found it.
There.
When he squinted, a bright red smudge solidified in the sky, heading in the direction of Burke-Ruhe. One of the small Twin Otter airplanes that were commonly used for transport throughout the continent, he’d bet. It shouldn’t be here.
Just the sight of that colorful speck tore him in half. First, the burst of excitement—They’re here! Evacuation!—followed immediately by the deep, frightening certainty that no one was coming to save them. Those assholes had returned for the core samples.
Anyone’s guess what they’d do when they didn’t find them.
Time to get a move on.
* * *
Day 2—Burke-Ruhe Research Station, South Pole
Sampson stomped the ice from his boots and slammed the door with such gusto it shook the ancillary building. “Nothing.”
Clive blinked, working hard to keep the irritation from his face. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“If you’d come with us, Doc, you’d know exactly what I mean.”
Was this a joke? The gorilla couldn’t possibly think that Clive planned to get involved in this man’s bloodbath. He had no intention of searching for the ice core samples that Sampson and his team had misplaced. No intention of partnering with this man on anything aside from what was strictly necessary in order to carry out his trials.
“I trust you to do your job, Mr. Sampson. Which is why I did not accompany you to the supply arch.” That and the fact that he couldn’t stand being underground. Or under ice, as the case may be.
“Well, Doc, to sum it up for you, your ice cores are gone.”
“Impossible.”
“Actually, I’d say it’s entirely possible.” Sampson flashed one absurdly incongruous dimple. “Looks like our friend Cooper took off with them.”
Clive almost laughed. “Where on earth would he go?” There was nothing for miles around. Like the Facility they’d prepared for their experiments, Burke-Ruhe was as isolated as an island in the middle of the Pacific. “You removed or destroyed all fuel sources, correct? Machinery? Communications? You can’t possibly be telling me he took off into this wilderness on his own? With just those core samples for company?”
“I think that’s exactly what he did.” The door opened again to reveal two more men, whose overlarge presences filled the room to bursting. They pulled off their ski masks and exchanged looks with Sampson, who turned back to Clive with a smirk. “And I don’t think he’s alone.”
“Who could possibly have accompanied—” Clive blinked and swallowed the burn hitting the back of his throat. Unconsciously, he reached for his roll of antacids. He had cases of them back at the Facility, but suddenly he feared those wouldn’t be nearly enough. “Oh.” The woman.
If they made it out somehow, with his virus…things would not go well. For him, or for anyone here, in fact.
Sampson’s blond brows rose and fell while he adjusted his crotch. Clive looked away. This was who the director had chosen to head up logistics? The person meant to be Clive’s right-hand man? Insulting.
And a little worrisome. Because far from the precise, surgical operation Clive had hoped for, everything about this man and his cronies screamed blunt force.
“You have done a thorough search.” He didn’t quite phrase it as a question, but the doubt was there.
“Yeah, Doc. No new bodies. No blood. Cores are gone, tunnel’s empty, bitch is MIA. Looks like they took a snow plow.” He popped a mint and grinned. “Guess it’s time to go hunting.”
Clive hadn’t thought he could get colder than he’d been a moment before, but of course he was proven wrong. “Hunting?” The word was barely audible.
“Gotta get the cores back. Boss said.” Sampson reached for his sat phone and checked the satellite schedule taped to the wall. “I’ll check in with her. Let her know we’ll need to launch a full-scale—”
“Oh no.” Clive hurried to interrupt. “I’ll update her on—”
“Director.” The shithead had already dialed. “Sampson here.” He turned his back to the room, giving Clive the sudden urge to slide that enormous knife from the man’s sheath and plant it in the back of his neck. “Looks like the big guy took off with the cook. Yeah. Cooper. Took the ice cores, too.” The ring of excitement in Sampson’s voice was absolutely nauseating.
While the man listened to whatever the director had to say, Clive worked hard to slow his breathing, willing himself to calm. It didn’t matter, after all, who headed up this search, as long as the virus made it back to the Facility. Where he was king, not these thugs.
He pictured the Harper Facility’s pristine, high-tech labs, equipped with everything needed for viral replication. It was all ready and waiting. The only thing missing were the infectious materials themselves.
He’d have the entire winter to conduct his trials in peace, and though he wasn’t exactly pleased with the methods, he had what most people only dreamed of—a group of subjects entirely at his disposal.
“Yeah. Got to head back to the Facility to gear up first. But don’t worry. We’ll get ’em, boss.” He watched the idiot talk to Katherine Henley Harper as if she were some college girl he’d met in a bar instead of one of the most powerful women in the world. Perhaps he didn’t realize. Clive tilted his head. Maybe the trick was that Sampson didn’t care.
Okay. He’d do the same. Not care. So, rather than focus on these militarized idiots and the frigid hellhole around them, he let images of the future soothe him—the villa in France, the East Village loft. With the bonus he’d been promised, he’d be flying first class for the rest of his life. Not too shabby for a kid from Detroit.
“The doc?” Serene now, Clive focused back in on Sampson’s conversation. “I’m afraid he’s stepped out for the moment, ma’am.” The man’s hard eyes flicked to Clive’s outstretched hand and then away. “I’ll tell him you wanted a word.”
Clive worked hard to maintain a placid exterior, while inside he was boiling. Was the asshole making a play for power? Was that it?
Why? What good could it possibly do him to make enemies when they were ostensibly on the same side? It wasn’t like he could carry out the trials. Was this just some stupid, macho posturing, or was there something deeper happening here?
A shiver went through him as he thought of the months he’d be spending locked up with these men in that facility.
He’d have to keep his distance, he decided. It wasn’t the loudest who held the power, or the strongest. It was the man who delivered.
While these mercenaries strutted around bullying everyone in their path, the service Clive provided would change everything.
So they’d have to coexist peacefully for the next several months. He could do that. He could do anything given enough motivation.
As Sampson hung up, Clive did his best to channel one of the man’s easy, Sunday-morning smiles and stood. “So, it’s a-hunting we shall go, then?”
“That’s right.” Sampson smiled. “You ready?”
Chapter 19
Day 2—246 Miles to Volkov
Station—20 Days of Food Remaining
“Get up, Angel. Gotta go.”
Something about Ford’s tone cleared the sleep from her mind with uncommon swiftness.
“Okay,” she mumbled, struggling out of the bag. “Up. Up. I’m up.” Half-out, she paused to squint around the now-familiar interior of the tent, one eye still closed, in search of whatever had him so agitated. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a plane.”
Adrenaline shot through her so fast she swayed. “Here?”
“Not far.”
“They see us?”
“Don’t think so.” He was throwing things into bags, packing sloppily when yesterday he’d warned her against just that. “Better leave.”
She nodded, grabbed the socks she’d hung above her head to dry the night before, and shoved her feet into them, then threw on her many layers.
“I’ve got the bedding.” He urged her toward the door, where she yanked on her boots. “You go out and eat. And here—drink this.”
She accepted a steaming cup of something, stumbled outside, and took a too-hot swig as she eyed the horizon, the freezing wind turning the cold bite of fear into something solid that slid in at the nape of her neck and worked its way down her spine. Her next sip was cold. Breathing hard, she searched the skyline. Where were they?
In what must have been record time, she helped Ford stow their stuff on the sleds and knocked back a couple of the fat bombs she’d put together at base—bite-size packs of butter and granola—glad to have something to eat in a hurry.
Strapping into the harness, she found those first few trudging steps held echoes of a weekend triple shift. Chafing in unexpected places, general aches and sharp, lancing pains. She’d deal with them later. Distance was what they needed now.
The initial push was like poking at a bruise over and over again or opening up a blister. Which was probably happening. All over her body.
Ignore it. Work through it. All it took was one hard press, the wind at her back—then another. Then another. The repeated swish-scrape of her skis felt as useless as treading water. Were they even moving?
Despite the blazing sun, she shivered. She had caught Ford’s jitters, convinced that her movements and protective wear muffled the thrum of an engine. Maybe they were being watched even now.
She turned to the side. Blank white nothing. Emptiness. Everywhere.
Swish-scrape. Swish-scrape. Swish-scrape.
Ford had his compass rigged out in front of him on a chest harness, ensuring that he never lost sight of their direction. And in this wide-open white-and-blue landscape, where dips and crags didn’t appear until she was right on them, where she could spin in circles for hours without spotting a single abnormality, he was her compass.
Swish-scrape. Swish-scrape. Swish-scrape.
With a jarring crunch, her ski jammed into a depression in the snow and she just barely kept herself from falling.
Better simmer down. She took a couple calming breaths, focused on the man in front of her, and took off again.
Unaware, Ford just plowed on, tall and unperturbed, making it look so easy. Straight as an arrow, his pace steady, his direction unerring. How the hell was he so unbothered by everything when she could barely see straight, barely push her leaden limbs on? Fueled by hot resentment, she mumbled a dark “jerk” and felt immediately guilty.
He was a good person. A good man, leading her to safety. A man who’d held her in the night and made her feel…
“Oh hell,” she said this time, because being dependent on anyone rankled. But liking him rankled even more. And then, because it felt stupidly good to just say it aloud, she whispered it on repeat over and over again until the words lost their meaning.
Her eyes stayed focused so hard on his tall, red-and-black form that she didn’t notice the change in the light until they stopped for lunch.
“Whoa.” She blinked at what looked like a low fog bank up ahead, where sky and ground blended into one big soup.
Something pressed into her hand—a bottle of warm water. “Take this.” Fingers as useless as sausages, she lowered her neck gaiter and shot him a quick smile of thanks before cupping the bottle in both palms and drinking. Wow, that felt good going down. After a few long swigs, she handed it back and pulled out a couple bags of food, handed him one, and ate.
Numbly, she stared at the sweeping mass before them, light tendrils curling toward them in inviting wisps that were lovely from a distance. Closer to the ground, it was opaque and ominous as a swirling vortex into hell. “That just appeared out of nowhere.”
Her eyes moved to Ford, who stood, head cocked. “Yep. Coming in fast.” He wasn’t looking at the storm.
Feeling heavy and slow, her movements off, somehow she followed the direction of his gaze and stiffened. “You hear the plane again?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head, and though she couldn’t see his eyes through his dark goggles, the tension was obvious in every line of his body. “Can’t explain it.”
The prickle at her neck turned to goose bumps so painful she had to rub her arms to get them down. “Okay. Well. At least the cloud cover’s good, right? For us, I mean?”
“Yeah. It would definitely ground ’em.”
Right. It would ground the flight. But what would it do to them, down here in the thick of it? Back at the station, it was against regulations to even go outside in some storms. Was this a Condition 1 or a Condition 2 storm approaching? She turned, wondering if Ford could tell, and stopped.
Though every inch of his face was covered, something about the way he stood told her that his next words would be bad—very bad.
“What is it?”
He pointed at the sky, where it took her a while to spot a tiny red dot, no bigger than a sunspot on an old photo. “They’re coming.”
“That’s bananas.” Whoever was in that plane was out of their mind. Couldn’t they see what they were flying into?
“Yeah.” He swung around to look at the quickly moving storm, then back at the plane again. Was it closer than before? “They want our virus. Badly.”
For the first time since they’d started this terrible trip, Angel almost wished they’d left the samples back at base. Almost, until that nightmarish image flashed back—that moment when Sampson had put his gun to Alex’s head, and the handful of seconds afterward, when disbelief morphed into gut-squeezing shock. It would never leave her. The whole thing—the feeling of it—had been imprinted into her brain, into every cell, every part of her being.
Her eyes flicked from one quickly approaching threat to the other. In one direction, the blizzard swept angrily toward them, in the other, the red dot grew larger, carrying men who would do absolutely anything to get their payload. “What are you thinking?” she asked, afraid she knew the answer.
“I’m thinking we’re screwed.”
“Right.” She nodded. They already knew that anyway.
Closer now, the wind whipped ice crystals into the air, like sugar spinning into cotton candy. Even through the whistling, she thought she heard the sound of an engine.
“What do we do now?”
He shoved his empty bag away and grabbed his ski poles, so she did the same.
“We run.” He turned and led her straight into the coming storm.
Chapter 20
This was the stupidest thing Coop had ever done.
Or maybe not. Maybe leaving the base took the cake. Or, if he was being brutally honest with himself—which he was, as usual—it was refusing that dance the other night.
If he’d known what they’d be up against, if he’d realized how close death hovered, well, yeah. Fuck it. Maybe he wouldn’t have worried about maintaining a safe distance. Maybe he’d have calculated the danger, accepted her offer, and risked
the burn.
Right now, as he fought, head down, shoulders up, through what had to be a Condition 2 storm, he wanted only one thing—and that was to be back in that warm, snug sleeping bag with Angel Smith in his arms.
He’d urged her to walk beside him, where he could see her, but even that was getting tough with the ice crystals pummeling them like tiny glass daggers. For five hours, they forged through the storm, making close to no headway and exhausting themselves in the process.
Even during their quick breaks, they’d exchanged no words—the hurricane-force gales carried all sound away—and not a look had passed between them, since they were goggled and suited and covered up to within an inch of their lives.
And even then, the ice got in. Through zippers and holes, anywhere clothing hadn’t been tucked quite right, the storm delved inside, as sharp and surgical as a blade.
As he skied, his attention was divided almost equally between the GPS unit, his compass, and the vague red shape of her. He’d developed a rhythm: five paces, a glance down, another five, a look back. He turned to look over his shoulder and found that her figure was smaller than before, so he slowed. When she didn’t immediately catch up, he stopped.
“You okay?” he yelled. A wasted effort. Instead, he tried for a thumbs-up. No response.
Shit.
He stepped out of his skis and tromped over just as she slumped over her poles. When he put a hand on her arm, she shook her head slowly, every line of her body sagging in defeat. Her black mask was coated in ice crystals, as his own must surely be.
She spoke and the tail end of whatever she said reached him—a long, low O, which could’ve been a No or a wordless moan. He tightened his hold and leaned in. This time, the wind circled them, leaving the space between them as eerily calm as the eye of a hurricane, and he heard it. Go, she said. Gooooo.
It lit a fuse under him, as combustible as whatever those assholes had used to blow up the power plant. And just like that, he wasn’t mad at the storm anymore, or at the men who’d put them in this position. He was mad at her. Enraged that she’d give up this easily after fighting so hard to survive the attack. How could she let him down like this when all they had was each other?
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