Hard Line - Pamela Clare Page 0,69

cloth, then ripped open a QuikClot dressing and pressed it against the wound before fixing it in place with a pressure bandage. Next, he peeled off his snow pants and jeans and cleaned the graze wound on his thigh, sucking in a breath at the burn of the antiseptic.

When he had triaged the graze, he checked on Samantha, then went to the bar and made a pot of coffee. Warm drinks would go a long way toward helping with the cold. While the coffee brewed, he moved one of the tables so that it sat over Samantha and then draped another Mylar blanket over the table, creating a sort of tent to hold in the radiator’s heat—and hide the light from the flashlight.

He drank a cup of coffee as quickly as he could but didn’t pour one for Samantha. She needed to be conscious to drink. Now, there was one last thing he needed to do before he could get beneath the blanket beside her.

He walked to the entrance with a chair to bar the door. As it turned out, the door also had an old-fashioned bolt. He slid it into place and tucked a chair beneath the doorknob. Then, at last, he crawled into the Mylar tent, got beneath the emergency blanket with Samantha, and held her close, doing his best to warm her.

“I’m right here, skat.”

19

Steve had no idea how many bullets remained in Isaksen’s pistol—hopefully enough to kill the bastard. He must not have hit him in any critical organs. Somehow, Isaksen had gotten to Sam, untied her, and disappeared.

Well, he couldn’t have gotten far.

Steve dressed for the cold, tucked the pistol in his pocket, then grabbed a flashlight, unlocked the rear fire escape, and headed out into the dark. The wind had picked up, creating whiteout conditions. But this wouldn’t take long. The Dane was probably lying dead outside one of the doors, Sam beside him.

But if they weren’t dead, it would be an act of mercy to finish them.

Steve headed down the stairs, gritting his teeth against the bitter cold. The wind had scoured Isaksen’s blood away. There was no sign of footprints, either.

Damn it!

Beneath the station, which functioned like a fucking wind tunnel, the ropes were gone, too, probably blown into a drift somewhere.

He shined the flashlight around. He didn’t see any bodies, but visibility was limited, the light reflecting off the flying snow. He walked out from beneath the station and made his way from one entrance to another. They weren’t at the main entrance. They weren’t at any of the fire exits. They weren’t at the B1 power plant exit.

They weren’t anywhere.

Chills that had nothing to do with the cold shivered down his spine.

No, this couldn’t be. They couldn’t have disappeared. There was no one to help them. Sam had been drugged, Isaksen wounded. No, the bastard was dead, and so was Sam. They were probably buried in blowing snow somewhere.

He must have missed them.

Steve walked around the station a second time, looking for telltale mounds of snow, a bit of fabric, anything to show him where their bodies were. The wind cut through his parka, his gloves, his snow pants, his boots, cold seeping into his bones.

Nothing.

“Goddamn it!”

Where the fuck were they?

Maybe Isaksen had made it to the entrance of the service arches. Or perhaps he had tried to get to Summer Camp or one of the labs, where they would have heat.

If he had, he was dead out there. It took just a few minutes to become hypothermic in this weather, and the labs were about fifteen minutes away. Summer Camp was much closer, but Steve wasn’t about to head out there. There were no flags to guide him, and in this weather, he might wander off and not find his way back.

Still, he could walk part of the way, keep the station in sight, and see if there were any lights on out there.

Keeping the station to his back, he walked toward Summer Camp, leaning into the wind, panning back and forth with the flashlight, watching for bodies buried in the snow. But all too quickly, the station began to disappear, swallowed by darkness and whiteout. He couldn’t see Summer Camp at all.

“Shit.” Painfully cold now, he made his way back to the station, up the back stairs, and into his office, where he sat, shivering, rage building in his gut.

Why would Isaksen’s buddies be so certain he was alive?

They’re just fucking with you.

Where the fuck had Isaksen gone,