Ice Hunt

He raced down the stream toward the fallen hunter. The man, though down, struggled to free his rifle behind him. It was a race, but the cha

He was too late.

The rifle came around and pointed at his chest.

In midair, Matt jerked his body aside and swung his damaged weapon like a club. He felt metal strike metal as the gunman’s rifle exploded. Flaming pain seared Matt’s shoulder.

He cried out…then his weight hit the other. It was like striking a brick wall. The man outweighed Matt by a good thirty pounds. But the impact knocked the assailant’s rifle away. It skittered across the rocks and into the stream.

Matt rolled off the guy and kicked his foot around to smash into the man’s face. But the attacker was already dodging aside. He seemed unfazed by the chest wound. In fact, there was no blood.

Kevlar vest, Matt thought.

The other crouched an arm’s length away, his face a mask of fury. One hand fingered the hole in his camouflage.

Still hurts like a son of a bitch, though, doesn’t it, asshole?

A flash of silver and a dagger appeared in the man’s other hand. The bastard was a friggin’ Swiss Army knife of weapons.

Matt lifted his rifle, holding it like a fencing sword. His shoulder burned, but he ignored the pain. He turned one side to the man, keeping his silhouette small against the dagger.

Eyes bright with bloodlust, the assassin smiled, feral. Perfect white teeth. Whoever the man worked for, they had a good dental plan.

With no warning, the man lunged at him, dagger held low, professional, skilled. His other arm was raised to parry Matt’s rifle.

Matt danced back two steps. His free hand rested on his hip, on his belt. He yanked free the holstered can of pepper spray and thumbed the safety cap off. He swung it around and sprayed. Meant to ward off bears, the spray had a shooting distance of twenty feet.

It struck his steel-eyed attacker full in the face.

The effect was the same as if he had shot a ca

The assailant fell to his knees, head thrown back, dagger forgotten. A stu

Matt stood back. The bear spray was ten times more potent than that used in law enforcement, a combination of pepper and tear gas. It was meant to drop grizzlies, not just common thugs. Already the man’s eyelids blistered. Blinded by the pain, he flipped around, wild, like a marlin landed on a fishing boat deck. But there was purpose to his thrashing. He fought toward the icy stream. His body racked and vomit spilled over the rocks, choking. He collapsed yards from the stream, moaning, curled in on himself.

Matt simply walked over and collected the man’s dagger. He considered slicing the man’s throat, but he was not feeling generous today. The fellow was no further threat. There was a fair chance he would even die from the spray. And if not, he’d be disfigured and disabled for life. Matt felt no remorse. He remembered Brent Cumming, his friend’s neck broken as his Cessna crashed.

Matt turned away while checking his own wound. The rifle shot had grazed his shoulder, more a burn than a wound.

Distantly, the grumble of the motorcycle had throttled down. Had the rider heard his partner’s wail? Did he know it was his friend? Or was he wondering if it was their quarry?

Matt checked the stream for the other rifle, but the current had swept it away. He dared not tarry. He trusted the other pursuer would eventually come to search for his partner. Matt did not plan on being here. He’d trek back to camp, collect his dogs, horse, and the reporter — then he was heading to the only place he knew in the area. Invited or not, welcome or not, they would have to take him in.

He listened as the cycle growled more fiercely again. Of course, out there was one last snag to this plan. Matt crossed the scarp, away from the other pursuer. His camp was two miles away, but at least it was on this side of the rockfall. It would take a bit of time for the rider to find his partner, circle around, and chase them. By then, Matt pla

With this goal in mind, Matt crossed back into the thicker woods and jogged down toward his camp. His wet clothes hung like sacks of cement on him, but after a few minutes, the exertion helped warm his limbs and staved off the threat of hypothermia. Once he reached camp, he could change into dry things.

As he continued down, a light snowfall drifted from the clouds overhead. The flakes were thick, heavy, heralding a more abundant fall to come. After ten minutes, this promise began to be fulfilled. The snow obscured the spruce forest, making it hard to see much past a few yards. But Matt knew these woods. He reached the ice-rimmed river on the valley floor and followed it downstream to his campsite. He found the horse trail.

The first to greet him was Bane. The dog all but tackled him as he slogged down the last of the trail.

“Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too.” He thumped the dog’s side and followed the way back to camp.

He found Mariah munching on some green reeds. The other dogs ran up, but there was no sign of the reporter. “Craig?”

From behind a bush, the reporter stood up. He bore a small hand ax in both fists. The relief on his face was etched in every corner. “I…I didn’t know what happened? I heard the gunfire…the scream…”

“It wasn’t me.” Matt crossed and collected the ax. “But we’re not out of the proverbial woods yet.”

Across the valley, the whining growl of the lone motorcycle persisted. Matt stared into the dark, snowy woods. No, they certainly weren’t out yet.

“What are we going to do?” Craig also listened to the motorcycle. The sound had already grown louder. The reporter’s eyes drifted to his shattered rifle.

Matt had forgotten he was even carrying it. “Broken,” he muttered. He turned back to camp and began to rummage through his supplies, quickly picking out what they would need for this midnight run. They would have to travel light.

“Do you have another gun?” Craig asked. “Or can we outrun the motorcycle on the horse?”

Matt shook his head, answering both questions.

“Then what are we going to do?”

He found what he was looking for. He added it to his bag. At least this wasn’t broken.

“What about the other motorcycle?” Craig’s voice edged toward panic.

Matt straightened. “Don’t worry. There’s an old Alaskan saying.”

“What’s that?”

“Up here, only the strong survive…but sometimes even they’re killed.”

His words clearly offered no consolation to the Seattle reporter.

Stefan Yurgen wore nightvision goggles, allowing him to see in the dark without the motorcycle’s lights, but the snowstorm kept his vision to no more than ten meters. The snow fell thickly, a green fog through the scopes.

He kept his snow-and-ice bike steady, grinding and carving up the switchback trail. The snow might block his view, but it allowed him to follow his prey easily. The fresh snow clearly marked their trail. He counted one horse, four dogs. Both men were riding. Occasionally, one man hopped off and led the horse afoot across some trickier terrain, then remounted.

He watched for any sign of the pair splitting, but no prints led away from the main trail.

Good. He wanted them together.

Under the frozen goggles, a permanent scowl etched his features. Mikal had been his younger brother. An hour ago, he had found his brother’s tortured body beside a small stream, nearly comatose from pain, his face a bloody wreck. He’d had no choice. He had orders to follow. It had still torn him to pull the trigger, but at least the agony had ended for Mikal.