The young man’s eyes went to the window where snow continued to fall. “Perhaps after the storm—”
The Jaguar spun on him. “Not after the storm. Now. I want the chopper fueled and ready to go in an hour.”
“But the FAA has grounded all—”
The Jaguar leaned close, so that his face was mere inches from the younger man’s. “Are you a coward? Afraid to die for your cause?”
“No.”
“Good. Fuel the chopper. Brief the pilot. Make sure he’s ready to lift off within the hour.”
The young man bowed his head slightly. “Of course.”
But The Jaguar wasn’t finished. “Tell the rest of the men that I personally will kill any man who is not prepared to die for this cause.”
The young man nodded once then turned and fled the room.
CUTTER CARRIED HER as far as he could, and then he carried her a little farther. Visibility had dwindled to zero. The wind slapped at his face like a rude, icy hand. The cold stole through his body, paralyzing his muscles.
At some point in the past hours, he’d ac cepted the very real possibility that they were going to die out here. The optimistic side of his mind reasoned that at least they would not die at the cruel hands of The Jaguar. Hypothermia wasn’t such a bad way to go. The only problem with that logic was that Cutter wasn’t ready to call it quits for at least another thirty or forty years.
But he was thinking about stopping. Just laying Mattie down in the snow, snuggling up beside her and holding her until the cold claimed them both. But then, that would be the easy way out. And he’d never been able to do things the easy way.
Just then he stumbled over something buried in the snow. Weakened by hypothermia, he dropped Mattie and fell flat on his face. For the span of several seconds he just lay there. Damn, this was bad. He should get up and do something. Maybe dig a snow shelter. At least that would get them out of the wind.
Mattie lay next to him, her hair wet, her complexion deathly pale. Dear God, had she succumbed to the cold? Shaken, he started to get up to reach for her and noticed the slow rise and fall of her chest. Thank goodness she was breathing. But he knew they couldn’t last much longer. Damn, he hadn’t wanted things to end this way.
He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he got to his knees, scooped her into his arms and struggled to his feet. That was when he realized the thing he’d stumbled over was not a log, but a piece of wood. He squinted into the blinding white swirl of the blizzard. At first he thought he was seeing some bizarre mirage. Then he realized the board had fallen off the porch of a small cabin. He’d stumbled upon the very thing he’d spent the past several hours searching for: the old hunting lodge.
Cutter stumbled onto the ramshackle porch. He rammed the front door with his shoulder. The rotting wood gave way with a resonant snap. He staggered into the murky interior. Dust and the musty odor of rotting wood filled his nostrils. Straight ahead a river-rock hearth dominated the room. Grimy windows allowed little light inside, but there was enough for him to see the rickety table and chairs near the rear door. A small sink. Cupboards. A bunk.
The woman in his arms stirred. Cutter looked down at her. “Hang on, blondie,” he whispered.
He swept dust and small debris from the bunk and set her on the mattress. Looking around, he spotted a tattered blanket draped over the back of a chair. Cutter opened the blanket and covered her with it. It would have to be enough until he could get a fire started.
His head spun when he rose, and he fought to maintain his balance. He needed wood for the fire. His limbs felt as if they were made of lead as he crossed to the table and chairs. Awkwardly, he lifted one of the chairs to shoulder height, and brought it down on the table. Once. Twice. The table broke into two pieces on the third try. Another blow and two of the chair’s legs clattered to the floor.
Cutter gathered the wood and stacked it neatly in the hearth. He found several pages of an ancient newspaper someone had used to line the cupboards, wadded it up and placed it beneath the wood. A curse broke from his lips when he pulled the matchbox from his pocket and found most of the matches damp. Picking through, he finally found one that was dry, struck it against the stone. It lit. Carefully he set the flame beneath the wood and watched the paper ignite.
Once the wood was burning, he turned back to Mattie. She looked incredibly small and vulnerable lying curled on her side beneath the old blanket. He had to get those wet clothes off her. Cutter didn’t want to do it—he wasn’t at all comfortable with the way he was responding to her—but he knew enough about hypothermia to know nothing zapped body heat more effectively than water.
Kneeling next to her, he set his hand on her shoulder. “Mattie?”
“Tired…” she muttered, but she didn’t open her eyes.