Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,30

crash. Or maybe it’s the blood loss. My left arm is gushing from easily a dozen lacerations.

Removing the polar-bear-blood-soaked goggles from my face, I survey the massive animal that nearly took my life. Even dead she’s a terrifying sight. Unbelievable.

I thought my family and I would be safe up here. That’s the whole reason we’re living in Greenland in the first place, to avoid the sheer hell of constant deadly animal attacks. So much for that.

I just have to remind myself: the rest of the world is even worse.

Chapter 2

“You could have died out there, Oz! What the hell were you thinking?”

My wife, Chloe Tousignant, paces the cramped quarters of our tiny galley kitchen, anxiously twisting the cuffs of her thick wool sweater, biting her bottom lip.

Chloe’s furious with me, and I don’t blame her. But I have to admit, I’ve forgotten how awfully sexy she looks when she’s mad. Even scared or angry, my French-born wife is both the most beautiful and most brilliant woman I’ve ever met.

“Come on, how many times are you going to ask me that?”

This would be number six, for those of you keeping track at home.

The first was when I came stumbling back inside covered in blood—the polar bear’s and my own. The second: when Chloe was helping me clean and dress my wounds. The third was when I went back outside again, the fourth when I returned dragging as much of the carcass as I could. The fifth was while she watched me butcher it. (I think, but I was focusing pretty intently on the YouTube video I was watching, via our spotty satellite internet connection: How to Skin a Bear ~ A Guide for First-Time Hunters.)

“I just don’t understand!” she exclaims. “How could you—”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” I say gently, gesturing to the tiny room right next to us, where our four-year-old son, Eli, is taking a nap.

Chloe frowns and switches to a harsh whisper. “How could you take such a risk? It was completely unnecessary! You know it’s prime mating season all across the tundra. The animals are even crazier than normal. And we still have plenty of food left.”

I take a moment to weigh my response.

The reality is, we don’t have plenty of food left. We’ve been living in this abandoned Arctic weather station for nearly four months now. Originally settled at Thule Air Base, twenty-five miles away, with President Hardinson and a group of government officials, we had been on our own since they returned to the United States to manage the animal crisis more closely.

Chloe and I had decided to stay. We thought it would be safer. We hoped that living in such a harsh climate, home to fewer wild animals, would mean fewer wild animal attacks. And for the most part, it did. It also meant we were left to our own devices.

Yes, Chloe is right that it’s prime mating season—because it’s late “summer” and, relatively speaking, fairly temperate. But even colder, more brutal weather is just around the corner. Every day I don’t go out there and trap a wild caribou or haul in some fresh fish to tide us over through winter threatens our survival.

As I stand over our little propane stove, stirring a gigantic pot of simmering polar bear stew, I decide to keep all of that to myself. Instead, I extend an olive branch.

“You’re right, honey. It was pretty dumb of me. I’m sorry.”

Chloe probably knows I’m just trying to play nice. A highly educated scientist, she’s well aware of the Arctic’s weather patterns. And I can guarantee that, as a deeply devoted mother, she’s been keeping a worried eye on our rations. Still, she clearly appreciates my words.

“I’m just glad you brought that gun along,” she says.

“Are you kidding? That thing’s like American Express. I never leave my three-room Arctic hut without it.”

Chloe laughs, grateful for a little comic relief. Which makes me feel happy, too. There’s no better feeling in the world than being able to make her smile.

She comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. I wince as she brushes against my bad arm, the bloody slash wounds throbbing beneath the bandages.

“Sorry,” she says, backing off. “The pain must be awful.”

It is. But Chloe’s got enough on her mind. I don’t want her worrying about me.

I turn around to face her. Her concern, her love, her beauty are all too much.

“Not too bad,” I reply. “But maybe you can help me…forget about it for a while?”

She coyly arches