White Fire

64

Half a mile away, on the lower, eastern slope of the cirque, a metal door opened at the entrance to a mine tu

It was her. Just as he’d expected. He knew she had to come out sometime — and what a perfect target she made. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he had all the time in the world to set up his shot.

The sniper, crouched in the doorway of an old mining shack, unshouldered his Winchester 94, worked the lever to insert a round into the chamber, then braced the weapon against his shoulder, sighting through the scope. While it was dark, there was still just enough ambient light in the sky to place the crosshairs on her dark, slumped form. The girl looked like she was in pretty bad shape already: hair singed, face and clothes black with smoke. He believed at least one of his earlier shots had hit home. As he’d pursued her through the tu

The sniper did not understand why she was up here, why the snowcat had raced by on its way up the mountain, or why the pump building had burned. He didn’t need to know. Whatever crazy shit she was involved in was none of his business. Montebello had given him an assignment and paid him well to do it — extremely well, in fact. His instructions had been simple: scare the girl named Corrie Swanson out of town. If she didn’t leave, kill her. The architect hadn’t told him anything more, and he didn’t want to know anything more.

The shot through the car window hadn’t done it. Decapitating the mutt hadn’t done it — although he recalled the scene with a certain fondness. He was proud of the tableau he’d arranged, the note in the dead dog’s mouth — and he was disappointed and surprised it hadn’t scared her off. She had proven to be one feisty bitch. But she didn’t look so feisty now, slumped against the timber, half dead.

The moment had come. He’d been following her almost continuously now for thirty-six hours, waiting for an opportunity. As an expert hunter, he knew the value of patience. He had not had a good shot either in town or at the hotel. But when she had gone to The Heights, stolen a snowmobile, and taken it up the mountain on whatever insane errand she was on, the opportunity was placed in his hands, like a gift. He had borrowed another snowmobile and followed her. True, she had proven unusually resourceful — that business with the rattlesnakes back in the tu

And now, here she was. And in a good location, away from the activity around and above, where the pump building had burned and where the snowcat was parked. Someone had fired shots, which, it seemed, had in turn triggered an avalanche. From his hiding place, through the magnification of the scope, he watched the frantic digging and the discovery of the body. Something crazy-big was going down — drugs, he figured. But it had nothing to do with him, and the sooner he killed the target and got his ass out of there, the better.

Easing out his breath, finger on the trigger, he aimed at the slumped girl. The crosshairs steadied, his finger tightened. Finally, the time had come. He’d take her out, climb on his snowmobile parked behind the shack, and go collect his pay. One shot, one kill…

Suddenly the rifle was knocked brutally from behind, and it went off, discharging the round into the snow.

“What the—?” The sniper grasped the rifle, tried to rise, and as he did so felt something cold and hard pressed against his temple. The muzzle of a pistol.

“So much as blink, motherfucker, and I’ll make a snow angel with your brains.”

A woman’s voice — full of authority and seriousness.

A hand reached out, seized his rifle by the barrel. “Let go.”

He let go the rifle and she flung it out into the deep snow.

“All your other weapons — toss them into the snow. Now.”

He hesitated. He still had a handgun and knife, and if he forced her to search him there might be an opportunity…

The blow against the side of his head was so hard it knocked him to the ground. He lay dazed on the wooden floor for a moment, wondering why the heck he was lying here and who this woman was standing over him. Then it all started to come back as she bent over him, searched him roughly, removed the knife and pistol, and threw them far out into the snow as well.

“Who…who the fuck are you?” he asked.

The answer came with another stu

“My name,” she said crisply, “is Captain Stacy Bowdree, USAF, and I am the very worst thing that’s happened to you in your entire shitty life.”

65

Corrie Swanson saw the tall, handsome figure of Stacy Bowdree emerge out of the swirling snow, leading a man with his hands tied together and his shaggy head bowed. She dimly wondered if it was all a dream. Of course it was a dream. Stacy would never be up here.

As Stacy stopped before her, Corrie managed to say, “Hello, dream.”

Stacy looked aghast. “My God. What happened to you?”

Corrie tried to think back on all that had happened, and couldn’t quite bring it into focus. The more she tried to remember, the stranger everything became. “Are you for real?”

“You’re damn right!” Stacy bent forward, examined Corrie closely, her blue eyes full of concern. “What are you doing with these handcuffs fastened to your wrist? And your hair is burned. Jesus, were you in that fire?”

Corrie tried to form the words. “A man…tried to kill me in the tu

“Yeah. This is him.” Stacy shoved the man facedown into the snow before Corrie and put her booted foot on his neck. Corrie noticed the .45 in Stacy’s hand. She tried to focus on the man lying on the ground but her eyes were swimming.

“This is the guy hired to kill you,” Stacy went on. “I caught him just as he was about to pull the trigger. He won’t tell me his name, so I’m calling him Dirtbag.”

“How? How…?” It all seemed so confusing.

“Listen. We’ve got to get you to a hospital and Dirtbag to the police chief. There’s a snowcat about half a mile away, near the burnt pump building.”

Pump building. “Burn…He tried to burn me alive.”

“Who? Dirtbag here?”

“No…Ted. I had my bump key…picked the cuffs…just in time…”

“You’re not making much sense,” Stacy said. “Let me help you up. Can you walk?”

“Ankle’s broken. Lost…a finger.”

“Shit. Let’s take a look at you.”

She could feel Stacy examining her, gently touching her ankle, asking questions and probing for injuries. She felt comforted. A few minutes later Stacy’s face came back in focus, close to her own. “Okay, you’ve got a few second-degree burns. And you’re right: your ankle’s broken and a little finger’s gone. That’s bad enough, but luckily it seems to be all. Thank God you were bundled up in winter clothes, otherwise you’d be a lot more burned than you are.”