Four Live Rounds
“Where are you going?”
“Out there.”
Ken strode twenty feet to the thick door and slid back the iron bolts.
“Dad!” Sean whispered. “You sure about this?”
“I love you, Sean. I’m sorry I brought you here.” He pulled open the door, and Sean could see a meter of snow just beyond the overhanging eave, the railing of the veranda nearly buried. The cold that swept into the passage made his eyes water.
Ken stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed after him.
Jonas put on his goggles, stood at the edge of the alcove, surveying the corridor. He saw the woman he’d shot a short ways down—motionless, sprawled, her shotgun unattended on the floor. He went and picked it up.
Looking down toward the end of the corridor, where it opened into the lobby, he saw bright green flares of light—lanterns perhaps. He could just make out the shape of someone sitting on the hearth.
He removed his white parka and snow pants, but instead of continuing down this corridor, he turned around and started for the stairwell.
Ken stood under the eave, feeling the cold infiltrate his down jacket. In the absence of lantern light from the passage, it took a full minute before his eyes picked out what detail the moon allowed—the veranda, buried under feet of drifted snow, the railing covered in places, poking through in others, the forest fifty yards to the east, out of which meandered a black stream, the snow dipping toward its banks in folds, something voluptuous about the curve, like white hips in the moonlight.
When he saw them, he wondered why the tracks paralleling the railing hadn’t been the first thing to catch his attention, and, likewise, the figure who stood where they ended, perhaps thirty feet away in the farthest corner, pointing a gun at him.
Ken felt his heart trip over itself, but he managed to raise his arms.
The figure waved him over. Ken nodded, moving forward onto the snow, sinking to his waist, doing his best to negotiate the snowpack while keeping his hands above his head.
Ten feet from the masked figure, Ken saw a gloved palm extend in his direction.
He stopped, trying not to stare at the wicked-looking pistol aimed at his chest.
The figure wore a white mask to match his winter apparel, with a bar cut out that exposed his placid blue eyes, and the divoted bridge of his nose.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the man asked.
Ken smiled nervously, ducked his head in greeting. “I just want you to know that my son and I are—”
“Where is your son?”
“Just inside that door. We’re guests of this lodge. Or were, and we don’t have any quarrel with you.”
“How do you know?”
“Know what?”
“That we don’t have a quarrel.”
“Because I don’t know you.”
“I think it’s safe to say I have laxer prerequisites for having a quarrel.” The man raised the suppressed pistol to shoot Ken in the head.
“Oh God, please. I’m rich. That’s what I came out here to tell you.”
“You came out here to tell me that you’re rich?”
“Yeah.”
“Congratulations.”
“No, not just that. Also that I would give you any amount of money if you would let my son and me sit out whatever’s getting ready to go down in there.”
“You have this money with you?”
“No, but I could—”
The man squinted his eyes, grimaced. “What? I leave you my address? You send me a check?”
“Or a bank account number. It would be seven figures.”
The man seemed to consider this. “And we would operate on what? The honor system?”
“Please.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Back to the door?”
“Yes.”
Ken turned away and started back across the veranda, his feet growing cold, snow having slid down into his boots. He felt a swell of pride at having walked out here and saved himself and Sean.
He said, “I’ll even tell you where everyone is in—”
At first, he thought the man had pushed him, that he wasn’t moving fast enough, and he tried to improve his pace, but something bloomed inside his right lung—a rod of molten pain—and he went down, kneeling in snow up to his neck, watching the man in white clean his blood off a piece of metal by running the blade between his gloved thumb and forefinger.
“I already know exactly where they are, Ken,” he said, proceeding on toward the door. “But many thanks.”
Ken stood up, accomplished three staggering steps in the snow.
The man in white had almost reached the door, but he stopped and glanced back, saw Ken standing there.
Ken heard the man sigh, watched him shake his head in annoyance.
He was coming back now, and two steps from Ken, he pulled the knife out of a hidden sheath stitched into his snow pants.
Ken reached out, put his hand on the man’s right shoulder to stop himself from falling, and, as if in accommodation, the man grasped Ken’s right shoulder and shoved the KA-BAR Marine Hunter eight times into his stomach.
Kalyn came to Suzanne and knelt in her blood, felt the guilt knocking, knew better than to let it take root. Any distraction could be fatal. She pulled out her radio.
“Suzanne’s gone,” she said. “So we know at least one of them has made it into the lodge.” As she slipped the radio back into her pocket, a pack of shadows leaped through the open window into the south-wing alcove and disappeared up the stairwell.
A scream emanated from the lobby.
Kalyn grabbed her radio again, said, “Sean? Ken?”
Will’s voice crackled: “You hear that?”
“Just sit tight. Stay where you—”
“No, I’m gonna check it out.”
Rachael said, “You aren’t leaving me here alone.”
“I didn’t say I was. Let’s try to go without the flashlight, though. Might as well not advertise our position.” He helped his wife to her feet and they progressed toward the specks of light in the lobby, dragging their hands along the wall, using it for a guide.
Jonas emerged from the stairwell onto the fourth floor. The corridor was empty, so he spent a moment unloading the shotgun, then dropping it on the floor. At the far end, lantern light shone from the lobby. He figured he’d claim a secure position and snipe from above.
He started down the corridor. The Beretta felt good in his gloved hands, but he didn’t like passing all these doors, kept expecting one of them to swing open.