Chapter 3 - The Cabin in the Drift
Nathan pulled on heavy arctic gear, strapped a medical trauma kit across his chest, and grabbed the keys to his modified, heavy-duty tracked snow utility vehicle parked in the heated garage.
“Rosa,” Nathan said, placing his hands on his elderly housekeeper’s shoulders. “The medical unit will be here in twenty minutes. Keep those heating pads on the babies. Monitor Lily’s airway. If Marcus Kane comes anywhere near this gate, press the silent alarm. The glass is bulletproof, but keep the doors deadbolted.”
“May God protect you, Dr. Pierce,” Rosa whispered, wiping her eyes. “Go get your sister.”
Nathan roared out of the garage into the screaming white abyss.
The storm was a wall of pure ice. The wind rocked the three-ton snow vehicle violently as it crawled up the winding mountain trails toward Miller Lake. Visibility was zero; Nathan relied entirely on the vehicle’s thermal radar and GPS mapping system.
Every second felt like an eternity. He pictured Sarah lying on cold linoleum, bleeding from a head wound, surrounded by snow blowing through an open door.
Hold on, Sarah, he prayed silently, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Please, God, just give me ten minutes. Just ten minutes.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the radar flagged a faint structure tucked against the dark silhouette of the pine forest.
The old Miller Lake cabin.
The front door was hanging open, swinging wildly on its iron hinges, banging rhythmically against the exterior wall in the gale-force wind. Drifts of snow had already piled up inside the entryway.
Nathan slammed the vehicle into park, grabbed his heavy tactical flashlight and trauma bag, and charged through the knee-deep snow toward the house.
“Sarah!” he shouted, stepping into the freezing kitchen.
The sight inside made his stomach twist.
The cabin was ransacked. Furniture was overturned, drawers were pulled out, and clothes were scattered across the floor. Near the center island, a massive pool of dark, congealed blood had stained the white tile. Broken glass from a bourbon bottle sparkled in the beam of his flashlight.
But there was no body.
“Sarah!” Nathan called out, his voice cracking with panic.
A faint, metallic clatter echoed from the far corner of the room, near the pantry.
Nathan drew his heavy tactical knife from his belt and moved cautiously toward the sound. He kicked open the pantry door, sweeping his light across the floor.
There, crumpled in a tight ball beneath a collapsed wooden shelf, was Sarah.
She was covered in a heavy wool rug she had dragged over herself. Her face was deathly pale, covered in dark soot and dried blood from a massive laceration along her hairline. Her left arm hung at an impossible angle—broken.
“Sarah!” Nathan dropped his weapon, falling to his knees beside her.
He touched her neck. Her pulse was threadbare, erratic, and ice-cold. She was breathing in shallow, raspy hitches.
“Nathan…?” she whispered, her eyes barely opening. The pupils were unequal—a classic sign of severe intracranial bleeding. “Am I… am I dreaming?”
“No, sweetie. It’s me. It’s Nathan,” he wept openly, wrapping his heavy insulated jacket around her frozen frame. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“The kids…” she gasped, her hands weakly clawing at his sweater. “Lily… Marcus took his gun… he saw her footprints in the snow… he went after them…”
Nathan’s heart stopped.
Marcus hadn't fled the mountain. He was on foot, following Lily’s trail through the snow toward the glass mansion.
Suddenly, the beam of a high-powered flashlight cut through the dark kitchen windows from outside. Heavy, crunching footsteps approached the porch.
May you like
“Sarah!” a harsh, drunken voice roared over the wind. “I know you’re in there, you useless bitch! Where did she take those kids?! Where is my trust fund paper?!”
Marcus Kane was at the front door.
