Chapter 11: The Whiteout
The wind howled like a wounded animal as Sarah pushed her way out of the drainage pipe and collapsed into the deep snow. The storm was a blinding white wall, biting at her exposed skin. She dragged herself to her feet, orienting herself to the steep incline of the ridge. Dead north.
Behind her, the muffled crack-crack-crack of Marcus’s rifle echoed from the cabin, immediately answered by the heavier, rhythmic thud of automatic weapons. Sarah sobbed, pulling her coat tighter over Zoe, and began to climb.
The snow was thigh-deep, turning every step into an exhausting battle. Her lungs burned with the freezing air. Zoe was squirming now, letting out soft, confused whimpers against Sarah's chest.
"Shh, baby, I know, I know," Sarah gasped, pushing through a thicket of frozen pine branches.
She reached a small clearing halfway up the ridge, pausing for a single second to catch her breath. That was when she heard the crunch of snow behind her.
Sarah spun around, dropping her hand into her coat pocket to grip the cold steel of the Glock.
A figure emerged from the whiteout, a high-powered flashlight cutting through the snow. It was David. He was wearing an expensive, fur-lined parka, looking horribly out of place in the brutal wilderness. He had always been smart; he had circled the perimeter while his hired guns took the front.
"Sarah," David called out, his voice dripping with condescending relief. "There you are. God, look at you. You look insane."
"Stay back, David," Sarah warned, pulling the Glock from her pocket and leveling it at his chest. Her hands were shaking violently.
David laughed, a sharp, arrogant sound. "You're not going to shoot me. You're a suburban housewife. Now stop this embarrassing tantrum and hand over my daughter. Mom is furious, but I can smooth it over."
"She hit her, David! She bruised her face!"
"She was disciplining her! It’s what our family does, it builds character," David sneered, taking a step forward. "Give me the baby, Sarah."
"I said stay back!"
David lunged, reaching for her coat.
Sarah didn't think. She remembered Marcus's voice. Point and squeeze. She pulled the trigger.
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The gunshot was deafening. David screamed, collapsing into the snow as a dark stain spread rapidly across the thigh of his designer snow pants. He writhed, dropping his flashlight and clutching his leg.
Sarah stood over him, her chest heaving. She reached down, yanked the heavy satellite phone from his front pocket, and walked away, leaving him screaming in the snow.
