Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,32

not going to read it, I will.”

She opens the laptop and clicks on the message. She begins to skim it, and I can see her eyes grow wide. Whatever she’s reading is big. Very big.

“Let me guess. The Pentagon wants me to come back and try to help solve this thing again. But what’s the point? They’re not going to listen to me.”

Chloe spins the screen around and shows me the email. I read it myself.

It was sent by a Dr. Evan Freitas, undersecretary for science and energy at the DOE. He explains that the powers that be in Washington have finally acknowledged that the animal crisis must be dealt with scientifically, not militarily. The Department of Energy is now overseeing America’s response, not the Department of Defense. Dr. Freitas is spearheading the new response team personally, and he desperately wants me, Jackson Oz, renowned human-animal conflict expert, to return to the United States and join it.

“This is our chance,” Chloe says, grabbing my shoulders, “to get out of this icy hell. To actually stop this thing this time. It’s what we’ve been waiting for!”

I can see tears forming in the corners of my wife’s big brown eyes. It’s obvious how much this means to her. I’m still skeptical, but I know I can’t refuse.

“You’re right,” I finally reply. “It is what we’ve been waiting for. It’s hope.”

Chapter 4

The metal walls of our little weather station are rattling like a tin can. Outside, something’s rumbling, something big. And it’s getting louder. Closer.

“Daddy, look!” Eli exclaims. He’s standing in front of a triple-paned glass window that looks out across the icy tundra, jabbing his finger at the sky. “It’s here!”

The rumbling grows to a crescendo as a gunmetal military transport plane roars overhead, flying dangerously low to the ground.

Which is a very beautiful sight. It means it’s about to land. Right on time.

As it touches down—on the snow-covered airstrip about a quarter-mile from our hut—Chloe and I quickly gather up the few small duffel bags we’ll be bringing with us. Mostly clothes, toiletries, and a dog-eared copy of A Tale of Two Cities we’re halfway through reading to Eli.

Other than the hooded jumpsuits we’re already wearing, we’re leaving the rest of our extreme cold-weather gear behind. I’d started packing our thermal underwear last night, until Chloe saw me and practically slapped the long johns out of my hand.

“I hope you’re joking,” she said, crossing her arms. “We’re done living in this damned Arctic wasteland. Forever. We’re returning to civilization, remember? And we’re saving it. For real this time.”

“Right,” I said. “Of course.” Then, under my breath: “No pressure or anything.”

But my wife had a point. We’d decided to leave our safe little hideout at the edge of the world. We both knew there would be no coming back.

“Okay, bud, time to go,” I call to Eli, who eagerly jumps into Chloe’s arms.

We assemble by the front door, which we haven’t opened in nearly a week—not since I tangled with that polar bear and left a trail of her blood and mine right to our doorstep. Chloe and I were afraid more wild animals would pick up the scent and come calling.

By the evening of the next day, they had.

First was a herd of rabid reindeer. They rammed their hoofs and antlers against the metal siding for hours until finally giving up from exhaustion. Next came a pack of wolverines. Not the scary Hugh Jackman mutant kind but weasel-like critters the size of small dogs. Still, their teeth and claws are as sharp as razors. If they’d found a way in, they’d have had no trouble turning three helpless humans into mincemeat.

I peer through the door’s porthole. The coast looks clear—but anything could be out there. Lurking. Waiting. The quarter-mile hike to the airstrip might as well be a marathon.

Which is why I’m holding that trusty Glock—the one that saved my life once before—just in case. I check the clip: seventeen shiny gold bullets. Locked and loaded.

I push open the door and the three of us step outside. With my very first breath, the frigid air stabs the back of my throat like a knife.

“Come on,” I manage to croak. “Let’s hurry.”

We traipse as fast as we can across the fresh snow; it’s up to our knees. Over the crunching of our footsteps and the whistling of the wind, I hear Chloe speaking some comforting words to our son to help keep him calm.

Meanwhile, I’m scanning the icy vista all around us