Scott Sigler - Ancestor

“Just get up there.”

Tim crutch-walked to the ladder. The choir loft was made from the same black stone as the church’s walls, but with an ornate wooden railing. She looked over that rail down on the dilapidated church proper below. The place must have been beautiful once.

Tim managed the climb up the twenty-foot wrought-iron ladder. He made way more noise than necessary, taking great pains to show Sara just how difficult it was for him.

She slung the blanket over her shoulder and followed him up, going out the trapdoor. The turret was about ten feet in diameter, ringed by four stone pillars rising up from a waist-high stone wall to support the witch’s-hat roof. Sara shivered as wind cut through the open turret—this was probably the coldest place on the island.

Tactically, though, they couldn’t possibly do any better. She could see the entire town and even down the trail that led to the harbor. Thick stone walls would stop small-arms fire. Fate had put her in the most defensible spot on Black Manitou.

Except, of course, if Magnus decided to use the Stinger.

“Okay,” Tim said. “Mission accomplished. Now can I go back down? I’m freezing.”

She tossed him the blanket. “Nope. As of right now, you’re on the clock. Gary won’t come until tonight, but we have to keep an eye out for anyone approaching our position. Get comfy and keep watch. I’ll relieve you in four hours.”

“Come on, Sara. I’ll freeze up here, and I need a drink.”

A vision of Tim trying to get the syringe needle into the vial flashed in her head. Had he given the cow the right dosage? Had a drunken mistake cost the lives of Cappy, Alonzo and Miller?

“You’ve had enough to drink,” Sara said. “You pull your own weight, Feely, or else.”

He started to complain, but she ignored him and went back down.

“MOTHER DUCK-FUCKIN’ MOTHERFUCKER,” Andy said, then gently set the phone back in the cradle. This was turning into a crusty-turded shitstorm, and fast. How the hell was it even possible?

He sprinted out of the security room, up the stairs and into the lounge. Magnus sat there, fresh bottle of Yukon Jack in hand, staring blankly out the picture window at the blustery winter night.

“Magnus, we’ve got a big problem. Rhumkorrf just called in.”

Magnus turned sharply in his chair. Andy took an unconscious step back.

“If you’re bullshitting me, Crosthwaite, I’ll give you a million dollars right now.”

Andy shook his head. “No bullshit. He called from Sven’s place.”

Magnus stared for a second, then turned to once again face the window. He took a long swig of whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Andy shuffled from foot to foot, waiting for orders.

Magnus finally stood. He capped the bottle and set it on a table. “Have you seen Clayton?”

Andy shook his head. “Not lately.”

“Who’s in the watchtower?”

“Gunther,” Andy said. “Colding is probably sleeping in his room.”

“Go get Colding. Tell him Rhumkorrf called in. You don’t know what’s going on, because Rhumkorrf is supposed to be on the plane. Both of you go to Sven’s house. Before you get there, kill Colding.”

Fuck yes. Fuck yes . “No problem,” Andy said. “And then what?”

“You take Colding’s Beretta. You kill Rhumkorrf. You kill Sven. When you come back down the trail, you kill James and Stephanie Harvey.”

The woman. Hell yeah. He could save her for last, take his time.

Andy felt an iron hand on his neck before he even saw Magnus move. Fuck , but that guy was fast. Andy stayed calm and stood very, very still as his boss leaned in so close Andy could smell Yukon Jack breath.

“We’re in a bit of a pickle here, Andy. All the evidence has to point toward Colding. So if you go dipping your wick in Stephanie Harvey, that will leave evidence that is not from Colding. I’ll make this so clear even a twisted pervert like you gets it. You shoot her, you don’t touch her. Do you understand? Blink once for no, twice for yes.”

Andy blinked twice.

“If Rhumkorrf lived, we assume the others did, too. They have to be hiding somewhere. So do the only thing you’re good at—kill everyone you see. This is a good strategy, Andy. If you agree, blink twice. If you disagree, blink once, but if you blink once, I’m going to crush your windpipe, then sit here and sip whisky while you lie on the floor and slowly suffocate.”

Andy blinked twice.

Magnus let him go. Andy felt oxygen flood into his lungs. He blinked twice more, just to be sure he’d got the message across.

“Now move,” Magnus said.

Andy ran for the door, headed for Colding’s room.

TEN MINUTES AFTER Rhumkorrf’s call, P. J. Colding held his snowmobile throttle wide open. Andy was on a sled right behind him, the two of them shooting down Clayton’s groomed trails. Headlights played off trees that whipped by as blurs of green and brown and white.

Colding’s mind raced even faster than the snowmobile. How could Rhumkorrf be back? Colding had watched the plane take off. Nothing had landed since then. Had the C-5 crashed?

If Rhumkorrf survived, chances were Sara had as well. But if she had, why hadn’t she contacted him?

Because she didn’t trust him.

That was the only thing that made sense. Andy or Magnus had sabotaged the C-5 somehow, and Sara had crashed it on Black Manitou. Not landed , but crashed , as the landing strip was the only place to safely bring down a plane that big. Colding had sent her up. If Sara had survived, she’d think he had betrayed her right alongside Magnus and Andy.

He had to find her. Explain things. But more important, he had to save her from Magnus, which dictated only one sickening course of action—killing Andy Crosthwaite. First Andy, then Magnus.

Colding wondered if he’d be able to pull the trigger. No, that was the type of comment someone might mumble in a badly written movie. He could do it. He would do it.

He wanted to get as far away as possible from the mansion and Magnus before making his move. Maybe Rhumkorrf could provide enough of a distraction to let Colding slip behind Andy unseen. Andy was a trained killer—Colding knew he’d only get one shot.

He had to make it count.

MAGNUS GUNNED HIS Arctic Cat down the main road. The snowpacked road’s perfect condition was a bit ironic, considering Clayton had groomed it, yet Magnus was heading to Clayton’s house because the man had seemingly slacked in his duties.

Clayton Detweiler had always been the poster boy of the blue-collar work ethic. Maybe he looked like he’d slept in mustard and didn’t know that razors even existed, but the mansion was always clean and all the phone lines worked—everything seemed to just be taken care of as if by some invisible hand.

But for the last two days, Magnus had barely seen Clayton. Not around the mansion, not around the hangar. The roads and trails were groomed, but how much time could that require? Phone line repairs had also taken far longer than normal. Most significantly, the mansion looked dirty. Nothing big, a few papers here and there, but that wasn’t normal.

All of it meant that the old man’s attention was focused elsewhere. After Rhumkorrf’s call, Magnus had a good idea why.

Magnus drove into Clayton’s driveway. He walked up to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. He drew his Beretta, then raised a foot and push-kicked. The door flew open, banging against an inside wall.

No one home. He looked in the kitchen, then moved through the living room. Nothing. He moved to Clayton’s bedroom. Bed unmade. Clothes covering the floor. Magnus was about to leave when something white in a pile of clothes caught his eye. He bent down and picked it up.