Sarah Varland - Alaskan Ambush

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

Acknowledgments

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

The gunshot cracked loud in the snowy silence, confirming Kate Dawson’s worst fear: someone wanted her dead.

So she ran. She didn’t look around, didn’t try to identify where it had come from, because it would almost be impossible to tell in the winter darkness with trees surrounding her, and if she didn’t run, she might get hit.

Dying wasn’t an option for her, especially on someone else’s terms. No, if Kate died young, it would be from her taking her outdoor adventures one step too far, not from whatever it was she’d stumbled into when she’d gone home tonight. Whoever was after her had been in her house in town, had ransacked it completely, like they were looking for something. Kate didn’t have what they wanted, didn’t have a clue what it might be, but knew she needed to get out of there fast. Shivers had run up and down her spine on the walk from her house to her car; she’d known even then she was being watched.

She ran faster, legs burning as she powered through the powdery snow toward her cabin, the one place she might have a chance to escape. Kate dodged another birch tree and powered up the last hill before her cabin. Less than a quarter of a mile. She could do it, even with the backpack on her back. She’d never been so thankful to be in good shape.

As the bag slammed in rhythm against her back, she called herself every kind of fool for not mentioning to her brother Noah that she’d felt like she was being followed. She knew he was already worried enough that her home had been broken into. As chief of the Moose Haven police, he would have known what to do and would have mobilized the entire department to help her. Except she hadn’t known what kind of trouble she was in, hadn’t been sure if he could help and hadn’t wanted to bring danger to her family’s doorstep by going to their lodge.

So instead she’d driven around town, trying to lose whatever tail she had, and finally parked her car at the Hope Mountain Trailhead and headed for the safety of her cabin. Her plan had been to stay for a few days, try to figure out who could be after her and why, and alert Noah via the satphone she carried in her pack.

Something else to be thankful for in addition to her fitness level—she was always prepared in the backcountry.

Another pop and snow flew less than ten feet to the right of Kate. She could see her cabin now, not that it did her any good. Or did it? She might be able to hole up there. She had a .44 in her backpack in case any confused bears had awakened from hibernation for a snack. But that seemed like a bad plan. Unnecessarily dangerous.

Still, it was all she had. Get in the cabin, shut the door, get her own weapon out as fast as possible.

Fear clawed at her throat, made it hard to breathe, and Kate hated the sensation. She was rarely afraid for her safety—years taking risks in the backcountry had seen to that—but she hated feeling powerless.

She swallowed hard. Braced herself for the fight.

Because a person couldn’t run forever—she’d spent the last decade denying that was true. But out here, facing a cold-blooded killer’s bullets?

The only way through a problem was through it, just like her dad had always taught her.

With a last burst of speed, she made for the door, shut it behind her and took a deep breath before bending down to get into her backpack, remove the gun and the satphone. It was past time to call Noah.

As she did so, she looked around at her cabin, ready to assess the scene like she would in one of the disaster scenarios in one of the backcountry survival classes she’d attended for years. This was different than facing the elements, or even wildlife, but hopefully the skills transferred. They were all she had. The cabin was destroyed, just like the main floor of her house. The cushions had been ripped from the wood-framed futon that sat against the wall with the window that looked out into the woods. That would be the most likely place for an attack against her to originate from, if her assailant didn’t come straight in the door. The drawer of the little side table had been pulled out and lay cracked on the floor and the books had all been pulled off her bookshelf.

Kate had her house, her car, her phone, a camera, this cabin. That was the extent of her worldly possessions, at least those that might be worth stealing. Not that this felt like simple stealing to her at all. This wasn’t a crime of opportunity. She was being targeted.

Why?

She ran her hands along the cold wooden grips of the .44, took a deep breath and hoped she’d be strong enough to use it if she had to. Kate hated the idea of killing anything, especially a person, but if someone broke in here intent on killing her...she wasn’t opposed to self-defense.

Another gunshot, this one so loud she knew her pursuers must be right outside the cabin. But if so, why hadn’t it hit the cabin, shattered a window?

More gunshots, these farther away.

Kate tightened her grip on the .44, frowned. Two sets of shooters. Both shooting at her, or shooting at each other?

The shots paused.

The cabin door creaked.

Kate raised the .44, hands trembling more than she wanted to admit, and waited for her shot.

* * *

The cold of the snow was the first thing that registered in Micah Reed’s mind when he came to. He blinked his eyes against the darkness, could make out the shapes of dark trees around him.

How long had he been unconscious? He rubbed his throbbing head, the blackness threatening to pull him under again. He wouldn’t let it. He had to get up, get away from the scene of the ambush that had taken place. He and his partner had thought they’d been prepared to make this arrest, but something had gone wrong.

Micah focused on the pain in his upper arm, willing it to help him stay conscious, grounded in reality. It gave him something to grit his teeth against, another reason to fight. He struggled to sit up, to get his bearings and figure out how far he’d made it from Jared Delaney’s cabin.

His partner of three years was lying dead somewhere behind him, on the cold Alaskan ground, shot dead by criminals they’d been attempting to apprehend and arrest.

He still didn’t know what had gone wrong, though there would be plenty of time to analyze every aspect later on when he had to fill out the incident paperwork. But right now all Micah knew was that they’d been so sure they had had what they needed to arrest Jared and Christopher Delaney to take them down for their part in a ring of thefts from several places in Anchorage: museums, high-end gift shops, even hotel lobbies displaying Native Alaskan artwork that the group later sold. They’d been confident the two brothers were the heads of the operation, though not desperate enough to pose a huge danger.

Of course every arrest had danger in it. Everything he did as an Anchorage police officer did—traffic stops included. It was part of the job, a risk inherent in it, and one Micah had accepted. He’d known one day he might die doing what he thought was right, protecting people who were more and more resentful of that protection.