There was no time for finesse. He slipped his foot into the binding, clicked the other, and pushed off. The torc inside his boot dug into his leg, a hot, painful reminder. He pointed downhill toward a steep choked slope — snowmobiles weren’t as nimble there.
“Get him! Get the old man!” Mark shouted.
Gunfire cracked. One round kicked up snow off a stump a few feet from Tom’s skis. Tom hunched, tucked his body, and launched himself over the drop.
The slope fell away and he flew, picking up speed between gullies and stunted trees. The pursuers were in machines and had to take an easier, wider route. That would give Tom a head start, but only for so long.
He skied hard, carving to avoid standing trees, sending snow up in sheets. He could hear the snowmobiles now — the thunder of engines not far behind. He angled for a thicket known locally as Devil’s Hollow: a maze of blown‑down timber where heavy machines would bog and men on skis could slip through.
But the hollow was still two miles ahead across an open basin. Tom pushed his aching body. The torc had rubbed his leg raw; each stride seared. The sleds roared closer.
One of the snowmobiles dug into a thin ice pocket over a creek and flipped, throwing its riders into the water. A sickening crack and cursed shouts told Tom he’d taken one off the board. He didn’t look back.
Mark was an experienced driver. He tracked Tom along a wider line and closed the gap. At one point, Tom angled onto a frozen stream with thin ice patches. The lead rider didn’t make a mistake and sent his rig in after him. The sled hit thin ice and slithered, gassing and fishtailing, oblivious to the danger until it was too late. It sucked into the water with a terrible sound. Tom allowed himself a short grim smile. Two down.
Only Mark remained in the chase. He took a longer arc and cut across to intercept below the hollow. Tom saw the mouth of the forest ahead — the last chance to vanish among tangled roots and fallen trunks.
He hit the runout at full speed and, knowing he couldn’t keep it up forever, made a desperate, unexpected move: he braked hard, turned, and fired a shock shot at Donovan’s sled. The round smashed a headlight and the machine shuddered. Mark overcorrected and lost speed.
That tiny error was Tom’s lifeline. He dove into the trees and vanished into the tangle. Mark’s men fired wild shots into the cover. They could follow on foot, or call for backup. Either way, heavy machines couldn’t follow Tom deep into the blowdowns.
He didn’t stop until his lungs felt like they’d split. He kept going until the motor noise faded. After an hour he eased to a halt and took the torc from his boot. It was warm against his skin. He stared at the griffin heads and felt a cold, steady resolve harden inside him. These men had come to his country and killed for the thing. He’d make sure they didn’t do it again.
