Guardians of the Portals (34 page)

Memories of her scent and the feel of her thin frame pressed into his chest brought him up short. False memories he assured himself. Their 'interlude' had been so brief as to be ludicrous. Surely it would not have this lingering impact, as if she'd been hard-wired into his nervous system. He needed to do this job, recover the asset, hand her over to Eirik and request reassignment. He could not go on this way, consumed, eaten alive with desires he couldn't name.

He settled on the small outcrop, content to watch and evaluate. The woman lay against one of the snowmobiles but he couldn't see well enough to determine if she were trussed, tranquilized or genuinely injured. Her energy flowed steadily, albeit weak. He no longer felt fear, dismay, pain or any of the dozens of emotions she'd been broadcasting like a damned radio tower, all frequencies all at once. He'd gone into circuit overload until abruptly it shut down. Whatever they'd done to contain her, he was grateful for the respite. It gave him time and energy to think through his next steps.

The men below argued—he could tell that by body language and exaggerated gestures—then two of them split off and proceeded uphill. He lost them in the trees. The other two loaded the woman on the Bearcat and took off downhill, to what destination he couldn't be sure. The only thing down there was their cabin. That was a thought he didn't want to entertain right that minute for it brought up a host of options and concerns that seriously messed with his limited understanding of what was going on. He expected to lose the link with the woman as her captors distanced themselves from his perch but it stayed steady and true, a tiny hum of hope and prayer.

Wolf muttered, "Now would be a good time for some guidance, my goddess."

He wiggled off the ledge and landed in the creek bed, discernible only as an indent in the snow pack. The woods had taken on a translucent quality with weak shadows fogging the backdrop of upright trunks and lacy pine foliage. It made movement impossible to detect as the entire mountain oscillated and waved to some cosmic tune. If nothing else it would mask his approach. Wolf headed south for several hundred yards, then turned sharply left until he came within sight of the road. He was below the last snowmobile, still well within the tree line. Slipping the shotgun off his shoulder, he dodged from one tree trunk to another. There was no way to know exactly where each man had positioned himself, other than it was likely they were on separate sides of the road. Split the target, make it more difficult—it's what he would have done.

He needed to get in relatively close, despite the Brenneke slugs effectively tripling the range on his Mossberg. If he tried using his shielding, he would compromise visibility, not a good thing when trying to sight in a target. The snow pack had a coating of ice from the freezing rain, and though the woods seemed alive with a cacophony of creaking and cracking limbs, he doubted it would be enough to mask his approach. His only advantage was that he was downwind of his quarry. And even after he took the one, he'd be faced with another rapidly moving target, one who might—or might not—turn tail and run for the Bearcat. He'd have to worry about that later. One thing at a time.

A gust of wind rattled the upper limbs, prompting a shower of icy flakes that filtered down the back of his jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied movement as the target carelessly brushed away snow from the back of his neck. Wolf thought,
got him,
and moved quickly into position to take the shot, but just as quickly reconsidered. He had one chance for two-birds-with-one stone but not if he sounded like an invading army. He'd have to take this one the old-fashioned way.

Silently Wolf set his Mossberg against a tree trunk and withdrew his blade from its sheath at his side. He said a short prayer to Freyja and advanced in a crouch, weaving amongst the downed limbs and irregularly spaced pines and maples, timing his movements to the wind. The man seemed to sense his presence but was reluctant to take his gaze from the road, only yards away. Wolf carefully measured his trajectory, then employed his shield at full strength and launched at his quarry's back.

****

"A
rne? Put her in the walkway. Tie her. I need to see if the electricity's working yet."

"Sir. There's a satnav..."

"Won't do us any good with the weather. Clouds getting thick again. I'm betting we're getting ready for round two."

"Yes sir."

"Take a look around outside. Listen for anything. We can't assume Uri and Serge will bag the man."

The team leader entered the small enclosed porch and slipped off his boots and socks—his feet were frozen despite high tech insulation and advanced design. He unzipped and shed the black snowmobile suit and hung it carefully on the rack. His innards felt like they'd been on puree for far too long. He flicked the switch but no lights came on. The kitchen was cold, as was the rest of the interior. He opened the Vermont stove and poked at the ashes. He would need to restart it. Annoyed that no one was around to tend to the task, he stomped back into the kitchen, reached for the rifle but stopped abruptly. He'd need both hands to carry the pile of wood inside. Their initial reconnoiter had pinpointed the wood shed with the enclosed walkway so he needn't bother with outerwear. He slipped the boots on and laced them quickly, then trotted down the short corridor, through the garage and into the lean-to. He grabbed six split logs and hastened back to the cabin.

As he passed the prone body of the woman, he wondered why she was so important. They were on a need-to-know basis with upper management. Obviously she qualified. It didn't matter, she was just a job. The only specification—and the brass had been very clear on that point—they were to bring her back alive and relatively unharmed. He hoped overdosing her on tranqs didn't qualify as 'abuse' on his part. So he'd misjudged her body mass. Who knew she'd be Twiggy? She was skinny enough for a career as a runway model. He bent down to feel for a pulse and was gratified to find one, slow and steady. He'd have to find her a blanket. It was too cold in the walkway, barely above freezing, but he was disinclined to carry her all the way inside. Maybe when Uri came in, they could do it together.

The man moved into the kitchen and scanned for his rifle, muttering, "I thought I left it in here," before continuing into the living area. He dumped the wood into the empty hamper and looked around for newspaper or a supply of starter kindling. A stack of newsprint sat by the front window so he grabbed a handful and quickly bunched several pages and threw them into the fire box, then stacked two smaller logs on top. He used the kitchen matches sitting on an end table to light the papers. Tending to a fire was one of the simple pleasures he'd almost forgotten. It had been light years since he'd had a wood stove. He'd never forgotten the fascination of the flames, the heat and wavering orange-red curtain lulling him into fanciful thoughts.

Satisfied the fire would continue without further attention, he lunged to his feet, his thoughts straying to where he'd left his rifle. It wasn't like him to be so forgetful. It had to be in the kitchen or the coat room. And he needed to put a blanket on the woman so she wouldn't freeze to death. He scooped up the afghan lying on the floor and folded it over his left arm.

Stalking to the kitchen, he poked through the door and scanned the floor. The rifle was nowhere within sight. He knelt and checked under the counter, then once more in the small niches where it might have slid just out of sight. Annoyed, he moved to tend to the unconscious woman, planning to tear the cabin apart next.

He stepped down into the coat room and quickly searched along the wall with the coat hooks. A slight creak jerked him out of his reverie. He called out, "Arne?" It was the last question he would ever ask.

"Arne's not coming, comrade."

****

W
olf shifted the rifle to his other hand and scooped the blanket off the dead man's arm. He raced to Caitlin's side and quickly covered her with the afghan. It barely came to her knees. She was slowly regaining consciousness and her body shuddered and quaked uncontrollably as the cold and shock set in. He set his weapons down and lifted her carefully, clenching his teeth against the surge of energy. Her pale face lolled against his shoulder as he scrambled through the narrow kitchen and into the living area. Gently setting her on the floor, he gathered cushions off the couch and arranged them next to the wood stove. Once he had a resting place set up, he positioned her on the make-shift bed, tucking the cover around her shoulders.

Wolf raced up the stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time. Caitlin's bedroom was two doors down to the left. He pushed into her room and stripped the bed of the goose down quilt and wool blanket folded on a wood stand. As an afterthought he grabbed two pillows and hustled down the steps, almost losing his footing as he tripped over loose laces, having removed his outer wear in order to prowl about the house undetected. He'd slipped the boots back on without bothering to tie the leather lacings.

The flames flared and settled. Wolf rolled Caitlin to one side and spread the quilt so her body was encased in a feather cocoon. He laid the over-sized wool blanket on top, then stripped out of his jacket, easing on the floor next to her and cradling her against his massive body.

Wolf drifted off, exhausted beyond measure. He'd run all the way to the cabin, at least another half mile or more, instead of taking the snow machine. Stalking and dispatching the strangers had robbed him of the last of his strength. His final coherent thought as he wrapped his arms around Caitlin was that their connection felt strong and steady, somehow 'right', exactly the way Eirik had described it. She'd ask about him when she woke up. He wasn't sure how he was going to handle that.

****

"C
aitlin? Wake up."

The sound echoed strangely, coming from a distance. Caitlin tried to move but found she was trussed like a sausage in a tight wrap. She kicked at the covers wildly, grunting and groaning as her stomach roiled and bile rose up in her throat. She felt like she'd been on the mother of all rollercoaster rides, a marathon of insane twists and turns. Her head ached where one of her captors had slammed it against the tree. Her neck itched, then stung, from where they'd jabbed the needle. She needed a bath and she needed coffee and she wanted Wolf. Apparently she was getting two out of three.

"Caitlin, oh, good, you're up. I have some coffee," Wolf inclined his head toward the tray, "and toast. Sorry, not much else to offer. I can make eggs if you want. Stove works."

Caitlin rasped, "Coffee, please."

Wolf poured mugs for both of them and handed her one. Grateful, she sipped at the hot liquid. She felt half dead and probably looked worse. As she wrapped the blankets about her lower body, she realized her jeans were still damp from the snow. Then something other than discomfort niggled at the edges of awareness—something was missing—what was it? The thought faded as practicality intervened. She desperately wanted to feel clean again and find dry clothes.

"Any hot water?"

"No, sorry. Electric is still out. We're out of the way up here. All the other places on this side of the ridge are empty this time of year. The line crews will be concentrating on the valleys first. We have a generator but I need to bring it in from the garage and fire it up."

"Okay. Listen, I, uh, need to..." Caitlin stuttered, suddenly feeling shy and unsure of herself. This was the longest conversation she'd ever had with the man and every word seemed charged with double meanings. The way he looked at her, with a knowing and ... something else.

He smiled and flicked a finger at the stairwell. "We'll have to use the outhouse pretty soon. Well's not working either. We have enough bottled water to last for a while." He looked her over with concern. "You're wet. Better change. You're still weak. You don't need to add getting sick to all this shit. Uh, sorry."

Caitlin smiled. "I'll be right down." She walked stiffly to the stairs, pausing at the first step. Something niggled at the back of her mind but she couldn't put a finger on it. Then the realization hit, Eirik was missing and Wolf had said nothing about him. She leaned over the rail to ask the question she suspected had an answer she didn't want to hear, but Wolf had already left the room. With a sinking feeling, she raced up the stairs.

****

W
olf chugged the last of his coffee and headed to the kitchen for a refill. The pine floors creaked as Caitlin moved about upstairs. He turned toward the counter and grimaced when he noticed his figure had been hacked to splinters. That pained him more than it should but he would do a better one for her ... now that he understood.

He wrapped the bits in the newspaper and carried the small pile, along with his mug, to the stove and added the sad remains to the fire. He heard Caitlin flush the toilet and smiled—old habits. She'd be getting her tush cold using the outhouse unless he could get the generator running. He listened to her footfalls, soft shushing on cushioned feet. She had changed to wool socks. He heard her murmur something and thought,
oh shit no!

He bolted up the stairs and swung right. Eirik's door stood ajar with Caitlin braced against the door jamb, mouth agape and shaking like a leaf.

Wolf gently wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her toward him, but she jerked away and padded into the room.

She moaned, a scratchy throaty wail of agony, "No, please, God, no..."

Eirik lay splayed diagonally across the bed. He'd been shot at close range, execution style. Wolf hadn't bothered to tend to the remains. He'd needed to take care of their problem, then see to Caitlin's health and comfort. There was little he could do for Eirik. Mourning would come later, much later.

Wolf pulled Caitlin into his arms and led her out of the bedroom. He carefully shut the door and guided the stunned woman downstairs. He would have preferred taking her to his bed but the upper floor remained chilly. They'd be better served to stay warm and hydrate while he worked out a plan. So far the only thing that came to mind was ... run.