F. Paul Wilson - Hardbingers

A splash.

He pulled off a glove and squatted to check the ice. Wet. Covered with at least half an inch of water. And more gurgling up through a half-inch crack.

Quelling a surge of panic, fighting the urge to run, he shuffled back to the Jeep and eased inside. He started her up, put her into first, and began a slow right turn… to the east… toward the nearest shore.

Hang on, he told the ice. Hang on.

His only consolation was his assumption that the closer he got to land, the safer he'd be—the ice would be thicker and more stable in the shallows along the shore. He just had to make it there. But how far was there ?

Finally the Jeep nudged against something. He put her in park and stepped out. He had the headlights and a flashlight but didn't dare use them—not with the house lights visible to his left.

He knelt and felt piled snow. He dug through and sighed with relief when he found sand.

Made it.

He rose and looked around. His original plan had been to approach the house from the west. He didn't want to change that, so he'd have to walk out onto the ice and loop back to the house.

The big question was how safe was the ice out there. He weighed a hell of a lot less than a Jeep, but was it too unstable even for a single man? He wished he knew.

What he did know was that falling through the ice would be the end of him. Even if the frigid water didn't throw him into shock, even if he didn't drown and managed to drag himself to thicker ice, a water-soaked man would die of exposure in this frozen wind long before he reached warmth.

But he had to risk it.

He pulled the comforter from inside the Jeep and held it up ahead of him where it served as a shield while blurring his human outline. He started walking, peeking over its upper edge to make sure he was on course.

No more ice booms. Small comfort. He felt it could crack open under him any second.

He kept the glow to his right and slowly it began to take shape. He'd arrived. And he was facing the house's western flank.

He crouched and draped the comforter over his head like a shawl, then pulled out his binocs. He picked out the stairs leading up to the only door: solid, no glass, probably steel. He'd been hoping for but not expecting a few panes of glass. Solid steel offered the best protection. The only glass needed was a peephole.

He'd worry about the door later. He first had to cross a hundred feet of ice and a couple of hundred feet of snow to reach it. Those last two hundred feet were well lit. Very well lit.

Like Shea Stadium.

Lots of light inside too. He shuffled closer and scanned the windows: regular casements on the lower level; big picture type centered in the top, with sliding glass doors onto the deck up there. The big window was the major threat to his arriving unseen.

No one there now. Maybe he should—

He spotted movement in a top-level window to his right. He focused on it. Just a silhouette… but it was brushing long hair.

The new Oculus—Diana.

That settled it. He knew where he had to go, and knew it had to be now.

Stuffed the binocs into a pocket. Then, staying in a crouch, held the comforter before him and let it flap in the wind as he charged the house. Got off to a slow start on the bare ice, but that changed as soon as he hit the snowy shoreline. His sneakers dug into the calf-high powder and he sprinted a zigzag course across the two hundred feet toward the base of the house. Felt the ground change as he crossed the road; stumbled in one of the ruts, but kept his balance.

When he reached the wall he flattened his chest against it and pulled one of the H-Ks. Then he waited for an outcry or a commotion.

Nothing.

Except for the howl of the wind, all remained quiet.

His scars itched like they had at the warehouse when the Oculus was present. That clinched it: She was here.

Turned to face the way he'd come and—

Footprints… a trail of them winding from the icy shore to the house.

Damn. He'd known he'd have to leave some, but the lights cast shadows along their edges, making them stand out. As he watched, though, the wind began to fill them with snow. In a little while they'd be gone—before anyone spotted them, he hoped.

His back to the siding, he inched around to the steps and inspected their undersides. Risked a few blinks of his flashlight—doubted they'd be noticed in the flood of light from the spots—but couldn't find any wiring. As expected. Early warning sensors might make sense in a city, but out here the salty air would strip the insulation from exposed wires in no time.

Made his way up the steps—slowly, carefully, hugging the cedar siding all the way. When he reached the landing he inspected the door. Just as he'd expected: steel, secured by a knob lock and a dead bolt. Gave the knob a try—you never knew—but it held fast. Would have been nice simply to push it open and let them think the wind had done it.

But that would have been too easy. Had a feeling nothing was going to be easy tonight.

Opened his parka and uncoiled the rope from around his waist as he studied the top-floor deck. It sat a couple of feet above his head and five feet north. On a good day he could stand on the landing's railing and jump, grab the edge of the deck, and pull himself up. This was anything but a good day. Grab and hold on to a snowy deck? Good luck.

Thus the rope.

Tied a slipknot and made a two-foot loop. Brushed the snow off the landing's two-by-four railing and climbed atop it, spreading his feet to shift most of his weight to the ends of the board. Leaning against the cedar shakes for support, he threw the loop at the deck's corner post. The wind blew it back. Tried again, throwing harder. Same result.

Made it on the fifth try.

Tightened the loop, then knotted his end of the rope around the base of the landing's inner post. Now he had a makeshift rope ladder to the deck. But he wasn't leaving the stairs just yet.

Pulled off the white parka. The wind sliced him as he stuffed the comforter into it, even up into the hood, then zipped it closed. Using his Spyderco he cut off a length of the remaining rope and used it to tie the parka to the top step, back to the door.

Flattened himself against the siding and pulled out one of the three M84

flash-bangs he'd brought along. He yanked the safety pin but held the clip in place as he drew one of the H-Ks.

Then he pounded his fist on the door.

C30

With the dish reception shot due to the storm, Diana had started the DVD of her favorite film, Napoleon Dynamite . Cal tried to watch but found it a lost cause. He saw why she might identify with a movie about geeks who simply can't fit in with the rest of the world. She probably saw herself as the ultimate geek.

He glanced at the other two occupants of the room: Lewis was dozing on the couch while Geraci fiddled with the puzzle.

He wandered over to the harborside picture window. No letup in the snow. At least the ocean wasn't acting up.

He was turning away from the window when the snow suddenly thinned and revealed what looked like a winding trail of indentations through the snow. Instantly the storm thickened again and hid it from view. Wind could sculpt weird patterns in snow, but this had looked like footprints.

Crazy. Couldn't be. But he stayed at the window and waited for another break. And when it came he was ready.

There—a zigzagging line of shallow depressions. Had to be footprints. Goddamn! Someone had come off the harbor!

He ducked away from the window and yelled, "We've got company!"

Geraci leaped to his feet. "Where?"

Lewis mumbled a "Huh?" from the couch.

"Footprints outside. Go down and tell Cousino and Finan"—this was their watch—"and wake up Dunsmore and tell Grell and Novak."