Tom didn’t patrol at random. He steered his pursuers toward a place local hunters avoided: Devil’s Hollow. Summer or winter, men who knew the Hills gave it a wide berth. Thin crust covered sinkholes and fissures that could swallow a truck. A man on skis could thread it; a snowmobile would only find trouble.
He reached the rim of the hollow and flicked his skis into the cover. Behind him the roar of engines returned. Mark’s men were stubborn, and they’d learned the terrain quick. They blasted into the hollow, howling, and the chase became a hunting of its own.
Two sleds hit a hidden sink and vanished into a hole hidden by fresh snow. One sled toppled into a drift and died. Tom allowed himself a short, ugly smile. Only Donovan was left. But the most dangerous piece of the run was ahead: a fallen pine trunk bridging a deep chasm — Devil’s Bridge — slick with ice and just wide enough for a narrow crossing.
His momentum carried him onto the log. Skis squealed on ice. He balanced like a tightrope walker as the chasm opened below. Then, with a roar behind him, Mark’s sled launched onto the log.
Mark’s passenger bailed at the last second. The sled’s treads lost purchase. It slid and tipped and somersaulted into the ravine. Tom made it across and turned to watch the collapse. Mark stood on the far side, small and furious against the white, pistol in hand.
He fired into the air and then toward Tom, the shots clattering harmlessly off stone. He couldn’t follow through the blowdown; he’d have to go around. Tom left before Mark could gather himself.
His goal was the old ranger cabin, five miles away: the kind of place a man in Tom’s job keeps keys at. Under the floorboards was an emergency satellite phone the agency issued for real trouble. Tom’s boots hit the porch just as the stars came out.
Inside it smelled of damp wood and mothballs. He smashed the frozen padlock with his rifle butt, found the hard, black case under a pile of rusted tools, and pulled out the satellite handset. The screen was black. He held the battery against his chest to warm it, each minute stretching.
Outside he heard a motor: someone had walked back through the pass, cutting across the long way. Tom pressed the battery in, extended the stubby antenna, and watched the screen flicker to life with a single bar.
He dialed the county dispatcher by rote.
“Dispatch?” a tired voice answered.
“This is Tom Walker, Pine Ridge patrol. I’m under attack. Group of armed men on snowmobiles — Mark Donovan. They chased me across the ridge. I’ve recovered an ancient gold torc. I need help. Cabin at Devil’s Hollow, coordinates on my tracker. Send anyone you’ve got.”
There was a pause. “Repeat what you said about a torc?”
“An ancient neckpiece. Very valuable. They’re here for it.”
“Hold the line. We’re pinging your unit. We’ve got a chopper on standby. ETA twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes felt like an hour and a half in that cabin. Tom hugged the phone and kept himself busy, breathing in a calm he didn’t quite feel. At one point he heard snow crunch outside — someone on foot. He dropped the phone and grabbed his rifle.
The door crashed open. With a silhouette framed in moonlight came Mark Donovan — out of breath, branches in his hair, grin gone hard.
“Thought you could run, huh?” he rasped, stepping inside with gun already out. He fired at the floor near Tom’s feet, splinters spitting up.
Tom lifted his hands and tried to look harmless. Mark wanted the torc, and he wanted the witness gone. He threatened to take Tom’s legs one by one if he didn’t talk. Tom glanced at the sat phone blinking on the floor — he had a line left in the world.
He kept his voice steady, told Mark he’d buried nothing outside — a plausible lie. Mark frowned: he noticed, but in the dim light the swollen right boot didn’t jump out to him as suspicious. He forced Tom to stand and walk outside, pistol pressed into his back.
Tom dragged his feet, buying seconds, finally collapsing to his knees at the crooked pine where he’d pretended to hide the torc. He scrabbled through the snow while Mark watched, pistol ready. Tom’s hands closed on a heavy stone. He clenched it like a heartbeat.
“I’ll count,” Mark said, voice cold. “If it’s not there—”
He counted to two when the night tore open above them. First a low thud, then the thunder of rotors. Snow shook from the trees as a county helicopter, lights blazing, came down on a nearby clearing.
