Jeanie London - Her Last Protector

“No.” He gave a short laugh.

Under normal circumstances, his answer would have annoyed her, but the sound of that one humorless laugh stuck, a thought to divert the other sounds in her head.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

He seemed not to feel the brutal cold while her adrenaline seeped away in slow degrees. She couldn’t be sure how long they walked, but not much time had passed since she’d said her farewell to Bunică. Forcing herself to focus, Mirie put one foot in front of the other despite her quaking knees and chattering teeth.

Drei must have noticed her struggle because he brought them to another stop. Handing her the light, he opened his coat to forage through his inner pockets.

He withdrew a thick square wrapped in crackling plastic. With a few quick gestures, he shook out a weather poncho made of thin waterproof canvas.

“Wear this.” His voice was gentle as he drew the white outerwear around her and pulled a hood up over her head, hat and all. “It’ll help with the cold.”

“You travel prepared.”

“That’s what you pay me to do.”

Such a simple reply, yet not so simple. He had known there might be danger because she had left her secured palace, a glittering shell that housed the golden egg.

“Any better?” he asked.

She nodded, appreciating his precautions and his concern.

The tunnel began an ascent. Gravity and ice conspired to make each step more difficult. There were no handholds, and she was finally forced to cling to Drei, who anchored himself against the rough wall, a bulwark always, shifting his balance to secure her, his arm locked tight, his grip strong yet gentle.

And when they finally reached the end of the passage, they found a half-rotted wooden portal shaped like a manhole cover. The exit had long ago been concealed beneath snow and forest debris, making an icy, dirty blotch that didn’t budge when Drei put his weight to it.

He shut off the light. “I need you to step back, Your Royal Highness. This mess may collapse. I don’t want you far, though.”

“I can hold the light.”

“I have to see what’s out there, and this wood is disintegrating. I start loosening this ice, and the mountain might fall in.”

Mirie retreated just far enough to watch Drei work.

He tested the wood, used a knife to coax away debris so he might see outside.

Mirie gasped when the crack of ice startled the quiet. Suddenly thin light penetrated the darkness. He slipped some sort of slim instrument through the hole—a mirror?—and must have been satisfied with what he had seen because he pulled out another weather poncho like her own, camouflage to blend in with the snow-covered terrain.

This man was such a blessing in her life. Had she ever even told him how grateful she was for all his careful attention?

Probably not. She barely noticed him at all. Took his presence for granted. An oversight she would have to change immediately.

“I’ll stay within earshot, but if you hear gunfire, you head back the way we came,” he said, businesslike. “Just stay inside the passage until the general makes contact.”

He withdrew his audio transmitter, then with calloused fingertips, he tilted her head to the side. She could feel the warmth of his skin as he slipped his hand beneath her hat and brushed aside her hair. He wedged the tiny device in her ear, his touch soft, warm, so alive.

For the moment, anyway. They both knew if she heard gunfire, he was dead. That would be the only reason Drei wouldn’t return to her, and without him, her chances of making it out of this passage alive weren’t good.

“We’re out of range now. But if you make it back into the church, you’ll be in contact with the general. Got it?”

She nodded.

“Stay hidden.”

Then he crawled through the opening and vanished.

Mirie could hear the rustling of branches and tree limbs, his boots crunching through the snow. Then all sounds faded, leaving only silence to drown out the noise of her thoughts, solitude to distract her from the memory of the attackers in the helicopter, a fat-bellied fly skimming pristine white treetops and old Vlas running from automatic gunfire on creaky legs.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

When she could no longer resist the lure of the light, she eased toward the exit, listening for any sound from outside, adrenaline making each breath come hard in her chest. She peered through the broken slat and took in the surroundings.

From the village these trees sloped steeply up the mountain, always covered in snow, so beautiful, like a scene in a child’s globe. One turn of the wrist and glittery snowflakes sprinkled down upon a tiny village.

Ninsoare. Her country had been named for the snowy peaks that defined the land.

What Mirie saw now was more desolate than magical. Wind gusting so hard it whistled like an emergency siren. She had known the storm was coming, and here it was, recalling the last time she had been forced to flee into these mountains. So many years should have dimmed the memory, drowned out the sounds of screams and tears and murder.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

It had been snowing then, too.

CHAPTER THREE

“DAMN,” DREW SAID ALOUD, not bothering to rein in his frustration.

The tracks were fresh, and the snow came down so hard and fast, he had almost missed them. Inspecting the ruts, he followed the trail until determining that four snowmobiles had passed along this ridge. Probably not more than ten minutes ago.

Given the altitude and climate conditions, Drew was willing to bet no sports enthusiast would be up here snowmobiling for kicks. No, he was looking at a second group of thugs patrolling points of egress. The terrain was difficult, essentially ineffective for launching a surprise attack on a funeral procession. Most likely these snowmobiles had carried scouts searching for the missing princess.

Did they know about the tunnel? Would they be back?

These were the only questions that interested Drew right now. And who was behind these well-organized thugs? Were they Slovakian, too? Drew didn’t have a clue and knew General Bogdanovich likely wouldn’t, either.

“Damn, damn, damn.”

Gusting wind drowned out his frustration. Heading back to the tunnel, he used a branch to sweep away his tracks. Not that anything would be visible for long with this storm, but his boots were doing a helluva job marking his trail. He would have to assume the snowmobiles would be back, but with any luck the storm might slow them down a little.

It was certainly deterring him, and his options were narrowing by the second. He couldn’t use his two-way radio to contact the general. He would be lucky if he could transmit over a mile in these conditions, and couldn’t risk an intercepted transmission anywhere close to these snowmobile tracks.

As near as he could tell, the snowmobiles had headed in the most direct route back to civilization, which left him with the next problem—Mirie wouldn’t last long in this weather. They had dressed for a funeral, not for prolonged exposure to the elements, and she had already been fighting the effects of shock when he’d left her. He needed to get her safe and warm because he didn’t see any alternative but riding out the time it took the general to secure the area and retrieve them. Drew needed an alternate plan B.

Shoving up his coat sleeve, he glanced at his watch and made out the compass display. Visibility was getting crappier by the second. There was a place where they might hole up safely, but he would have to get Mirie there, and that wouldn’t be easy. The terrain was tough in good weather. Of course the storm would complicate travel for the enemy, too. That much was a plus.

Drew trudged back, unhappy with his choices. He hadn’t been gone five minutes total, but after crawling back inside the tunnel, he took in the sight of Mirie, safe, like a punch to the gut.