The forest is an obstacle course of bramble and deadfall. Less moonlight reflecting off the snow. For several minutes, the only sound comes from my labored breaths. The squeak and thud of my footfalls. The pound of fear in my brain. Despite the physical activity, I’m cold, my hands and feet aching.
I spot the tracks an instant before I run over them. I stop, fear skittering through me. They lead northeast, deeper into the woods. Same direction I need to go. Whose are they?
“Burkholder!” comes a whispered voice.
I startle, my heart slamming against my ribs. Gina stands a few yards away. She’s bent at the hip, hand on her knee, breaths puffing out in front of her.
“You hit?” I whisper.
“Spent.” Shaking her head, she straightens, struggles to catch her breath. “Everyone okay?”
“Yep,” I say. “What happened?”
“Mercer came out of the house with a shotgun. I ran.” Still trying to catch her breath. “There’s a pay phone through the woods. We have to—”
“I know where it is. Come on.”
We break into an awkward, snow-hampered run. Breaths hissing, Gina struggles to keep up. I’m aware of the leather bag flapping against my hip. The muzzle-loader in my arms, unwieldy and heavy. It occurs to me the men will see our tracks. I consider stopping to take another shot, but there’s no time. Best to keep going, call for help. Make a stand when we reach the freezer shanty.
We’ve covered half a mile when Gina goes down. I stop, reach for her. She clambers to her feet. In that instant of silence, I discern the pop and snap of breaking brush behind us. I glance over my shoulder, see the shifting of shadows through the trees. Bertrand. So close I can hear the rustle of clothes, the wheeze of heavy breathing.
For an instant, panic grips me. But I know these woods. I know where I am now. Minutes from Ithaca Road. I make eye contact with Gina, motion left.
We fly down a hill. Dodging trees. Moving fast. At the base, we fight our way through a drift. Holding the muzzle-loader high, I plow through snow that comes up to my hips. Gina cursing behind me. I don’t wait for her. Another hundred yards and we burst into a clearing. Ithaca Road dead ahead. I glance left, spot the silhouette of the shanty fifty feet away.
I power through the ditch, hit the snow-packed road, sprint to the structure. I reach the building. Tear around the corner. Yank open the door. Cavelike darkness inside. Transferring the muzzle-loader to my left hand, I slap my free hand against the wall, seeking the switch.
Light rains down. Gina, wild-eyed and pale, enters, slams the door behind her. A dozen freezers line the wall ahead, motors buzzing. A desk and chair to my left. Sink on the right. The place smells of cold air and stale meat.
“Lock the door,” I tell her. “Call 911.”
Kneeling, I set the butt of the muzzle-loader on the floor, lift the leather bag from around my neck. I reach inside, grapple for the powder horn and ticking.
Gina is midway to the door when it swings open. Ken Mercer rushes inside, Glock in his hand. Eyes wild and seeking. Face red and slicked with sweat.
“Throw down that rifle!” he screams.
Without looking at him, I continue to pour powder into the muzzle-loader. Spilling too much. Hands shaking. Pulse in the red zone.
Grinding his teeth, he strides to me, kicks the flintlock from my grasp. The rifle skitters across the room and strikes the wall. “Get your fucking hands up or I will shoot you dead!” he shouts.
I raise my hands to shoulder height. A fist of fear unfurls in my gut as I get to my feet.
Mercer jabs the Glock at me. “Get against the wall and do not move.”
I do as I’m told. Vaguely, I’m aware of Gina on my right, moving toward him. I toss her a don’t-do-anything-stupid look, but she doesn’t seem to notice and pays me no heed.
Mercer isn’t fazed by her closeness. Even though she’s as big a threat as me. He doesn’t move away from her. Nor does he shift the gun to her. In fact, he barely spares her a glance as she crosses to him. Every ounce of his energy is focused on me. The Glock in his hand steady. Finger on the trigger.
I get an odd quiver in my chest. My heart plummets when Gina sets her hand on his arm. Even before she speaks, I know I’ve been had. That she lied to me. To Tomasetti. To Adam. To all of us.
“Gina.” I don’t even realize I’m going to speak until I hear her name. Disbelief echoes in my voice. “What are you doing?” Only after the words are out does the full extent of my naiveté strike me.
Bertrand and Mercer think I took some cash.
The memory of her words rings hard in my ears. The realization that I’ve been a fool hits me like a rude slap.
“I appreciate everything you did for me, Kate,” she says. “I mean that. But this is my only chance. I’ve got to take it. I’m not going to prison.”
“The money,” I say. “You’ve had it the entire time.”
“I’m sorry I lied to you.” She looks at Mercer, the whisper of a smile on her mouth. “But it’ll get us out of the country.”
The sense of betrayal crushes me. A dump truck of lead raining down on top of me. I stare at her, trying to get my mind around the breadth and width of it. How could I have been so blind?
“Cuff her.” Mercer tugs zip ties from his coat, tosses them to Gina. “Hurry up.”
She catches the ties with the hand of her uninjured arm and starts toward me.
“Check her for weapons,” Mercer says. “We need to get out of here before Bertrand shows up.”
She starts toward me, her eyes level on mine. “Give me the .38.”
“It’s not too late to end this,” I tell her.
“The gun, Kate.” She doesn’t wait. Leaning close, she reaches around me, slides the .38 from my pocket.
Across the room, Mercer crosses to the pay phone, picks up the handset, and yanks the armored cord from its nest, rendering it useless.
Gina snaps open the cylinder, shakes out the spent cartridges. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.” Her gaze flicks from me to Mercer and back to me. “Play it cool and you get to walk away,” she says in a low voice. “Marry Tomasetti. Have a bunch of kids. Live happily ever after.”
“Does Bertrand know about you two?” I ask.
One side of her mouth curves. “He knows what he’s been fed.”
She loops the tie around my left wrist, draws it tight, reaches for my right hand. In the next instant, the door explodes inward. In my peripheral vision I see Mercer spin, the stainless-steel phone cord still in his hand. Gina swivels, steps back.
Bertrand enters, boots heavy on the floor. Snow on his coat. The Glock in his hand. Even from twelve feet away, I feel the tension pouring off him.
His eyes sweep from Gina and me, landing on Mercer. I see thoughts ticking in his brain. Suspicion in his eyes. Something niggles at the back of my own mind. Something important I overlooked.
“What the hell is this?” Bertrand says.
“She’s going to take us to the cash,” Mercer says.
Bertrand doesn’t move. He shifts the gun to Gina. “Where is it?”
“Pull that trigger and you won’t see a dime,” she tells him.
Dark amusement plays at the corners of Bertrand’s mouth. The pistol tracks to me. Level with my chest. His finger inside the guard.