Page 6

6

Tristan

O utside, the wind howled. Tristan’s fingers drummed against the cyclic control, his jaw tight as he guided the Choucas74 through the worsening storm. Rain fell on the windshield in relentless sheets, and the visibility was shit.

The radio crackled. “Anything?” That was the colonel’s voice. Tristan was still half-surprised Beau and Damien had managed to convince the man to stay back in the office.

Tristan exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip. “Not yet.”

His spotlight swept over ridges and rocky outcroppings, cutting stark white into the storm-blackened landscape, but there was no way they were going to see anything from this high up, and it was too risky to keep flying in this weather.

“I can’t get us any closer,” Tristan told Beau, who was sitting beside him.

“This is good,” Beau said, looking down at the ground below. “Put her down. We’ll split up and comb this side of the col. Kat will drop Damien’s team off and they will do the same on the other side.”

Tristan nodded, scanning the terrain below. His heart hammered in his chest, harder than he wanted to admit.

Lena—Madeleine, he reminded himself—was down there. Somewhere.

“You okay, Tristan?” Beau asked. His team leader knew him well.

It was just the two of them in the cockpit. This was the perfect time to let Beau know he knew the colonel’s daughter. But again, that selfish, angry piece of him rose to the surface, and he stayed silent. Guilt assaulted him, but he told himself he was doing the right thing. Because a distraction was the last thing Lena needed.

Tristan nodded. “All good,” he said, clearing his mind as he struggled to put down the bird in the worsening storm.

By the time he managed the landing, Beau had selected a pear-shaped area of terrain for each of them to cover. It was testament to how worried they all were that they’d be searching alone, instead of in pairs, at least until morning came and they could add more people to the search. “Stay in touch with your radios,” Beau instructed, his voice steady but tight. The rain blurred his outline, the beam of his headlamp catching on the heavy droplets as he gestured to his team. “We’ll regroup here in thirty minutes. But I want everyone checking in every ten.”

Tristan barely heard the last part. He was already shouldering his heavy pack. “We’ll be back soon,” he muttered, patting the helicopter lightly on the side.

Cold. The wind bit through his clothes instantly, sending an icy shudder through his bones. Tristan pulled up the neck of his uniform jacket as high as it went. The rain had turned the ground into a treacherous mess of slick mud and loose scree. And Lena was out here in this. Alone. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Can you hear me, Lorenz?” Beau asked, as soon as they were all out of sight.

“Yes, Mom,” came Lorenz’s clipped reply. Tristan stifled a laugh. “Loud and clear,” Tristan said, when it was his turn. Alex and Hugo weren’t as quick and got an angry growl from Beau in response.

Tristan adjusted his headlamp, narrowing his focus. Find her . That was all that mattered now.

He moved carefully but quickly, scanning the uneven ground, checking for gullies and rock outcroppings where Lena might have taken shelter. His boots sank into the mud with each step, and he had to brace himself against the wind, his breathing harsh in his ears.

Ten minutes in, his radio crackled.

“Tristan, report.”

He clicked the button. “Negative. Nothing yet.”

The storm swallowed his voice the moment he released the button. He pushed forward, his light cutting through the darkness, illuminating the rain-slicked rock. This wasn’t the Col des Montets he knew and loved.

The search continued. He checked in again, listening as the rest of the team did the same. Around them, the wind howled. The storm was getting worse, not better, and Tristan realized if they waited much longer he might not even be able to get the helicopter off the ground.

And then Beau uttered the words Tristan had feared. “It’s too dangerous. We have to go back. We’ll come back at first light.”

Tristan opened his mouth to acknowledge, like the rest of his teammates were doing, but the words stuck in his throat, refusing to form. And he knew he had to respond. Tristan might be a risk taker, but he respected the hell out of the Commandant and always followed Beau’s orders. Always .

But not tonight. He thought of Lena as he’d last seen her, the pale column of her throat exposed as she laughed at something he said. So full of life. He wouldn’t turn back and leave her out here alone. He couldn’t .

The radio crackled again, Beau’s voice sharper this time. “Tristan. Report now.”

When Beau started swearing at him, Tristan tapped out the letters O.K. in Morse code, then lowered the volume on his radio to swallow Beau’s voice. He kept on walking, swiveling his head lamp right and left and high and low. And he knew he was a fool, because the area was larger than one man could cover in a week. The chances of finding her on his own were infinitesimal at?—

Ahead of him, a broken piece of ledge caught his attention. He was going to have to go higher to navigate around it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sound.

Tristan froze.

His pulse slammed in his ears, competing with the relentless pounding of the rain. He held his breath, listening.

At first, there was only the wind, rattling through the trees, and the unending rain. Then—there it was again. Faint, but unmistakable. A shrill whistle, repeated three times. Coming from below. From below the broken ledge.

Lena .

He surged forward, moving faster now, his boots slipping on the treacherous ground, almost ending with him on his ass. The mud sucked at his feet, and the rain blurred everything outside the narrow light from his headlamp, but it was hard to care about any of that.

“Lena!” he called, his voice barely carrying over the storm. “Lena, can you hear me?”

A single whistle this time, in reply to his voice. Weaker, it seemed, than the one before.

Tristan’s stomach clenched. Was she hurt?

He reached the edge of the ledge and looked down. His light cut through the darkness, revealing jagged rocks and a steep, rain-slicked slope. Fuck . Did she roll down this slope? Just how hurt is she?

There was only one way to find out. He had to get to her.

He pulled his emergency climbing equipment and slipped into his harness. He had to work fast. His fingers were already numb from the cold.

He scanned the wall, searching for something he could use. There. A deep crack ran along the rock. Tristan slipped his hand into the crack, testing it. It looked just wide enough. He pulled out his first cam, wedging it into the crevice and giving a sharp tug. It held, and he exhaled. Good. He did the same thing again with a second cam, then clipped a locking carabiner through the loops, securing them with a twist—praying it’d be enough.

For extra safety, he found a second anchor point—a pointy rock a few feet to the side. He wrapped a length of webbing around it, securing it tightly before clipping his last carabiner through the loop. Then he tugged, harder this time. Both points held. It was as good as he was going to get.

He took a deep breath. He wasn’t a natural-born climber, like Gael, or an all-round athlete, like Lorenz. But he’d trained for this, and he knew what he was doing. He clipped himself in, securing his harness to the rope with a quick, practiced motion, then leaned back slightly over the ledge, testing his weight against the rope. So far, so good .

Without waiting, he began lowering himself down the nearly vertical slope. His headlamp swept downward. He caught a splash of color—something red. His heart seized for an instant, then relaxed when he realized it wasn’t big enough to be Lena. Probably an item of clothing. Smart, placing it there for people to see. If it hadn’t been so dark, he would have seen it sooner.

He looked beyond the red item, sweeping his gaze left and right, catching glimpses of the treacherous slope below—loose rocks, exposed tree roots, wet patches of scree shifting like sand beneath the weight of the rain. And then—Lena.

She was curled beneath an overhang, small and motionless. Too still.

His gut twisted. Lena, hold on.

Step by step, he lowered himself down, careful not to dislodge loose debris that could tumble straight onto her. His muscles burned, his fingers aching as they clung to the rope and fought against the rain that made everything slicker by the second.

Finally, his boots reached the ground, just a body’s length above where she was holed up. He unhooked himself, leaving the rope dangling in the storm, and rushed towards her, trusting his boots to find purchase on the rain-slicked ground.

“Lena.” He fell to his knees next to her, his headlamp casting eerie shadows across her face. The freckles on her nose and cheeks stood out like beacons on her pale skin. His hands sought the pulse at her neck. Her skin was ice cold.

She stirred weakly at his touch, her eyelids fluttering open for an instant. Recognition flickered, barely there. Then her eyes closed again.

Relief crashed over him so hard it nearly buckled his knees.

“I’m here, Lena,” he said, his throat tight. He brushed the wet strands of hair away from her face, cupping her cheek for a moment. Too cold. Too pale. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

She tried to say something else, but her lips barely moved. He leaned in to catch her words.

“C-cold,” she whispered.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, already shrugging out of his jacket. “Where are you hurt?” He didn’t want to move her if there was a risk he’d be making an injury worse, but he couldn’t let her freeze to death out here either.

“My ankle.”

“Not your back?”

“My ankle,” she repeated mutinously.

“Okay.” He raised her body gently and peeled off her soaked rain jacket, then wrapped her into his own jacket, tucking it as tightly as he could around her before wrestling the rain poncho back onto her.

God, she was trembling so hard. Fear and relief warred inside him. He exhaled roughly. You found her . She’s alive.

His radio crackled at his hip. He flicked the volume dial. And there was Beau. Still calling for him. Loudly. Angrily. “Tristan. Where the fuck are you?” Tristan pressed the button with more force than necessary.

“I found Le—Madeleine.”

A pause. Then Beau’s voice, sharp with urgency now, his anger momentarily forgotten. “Where are you?”

“Northeast corner of my search area, on the path along the river. She must have fallen when the ledge she was on crumpled.”

“Status?”

“She’s alive but injured. Sprained or possibly broken ankle. Hypothermia setting in.” He scanned their surroundings again, already calculating his next move. Getting her out of here wouldn’t be easy. “We need immediate evac.”

“Kat is grounded.” Beau’s voice was tight. Frustrated. “Wind’s too strong. You’ll have to stabilize her until we can get a rope team to you.”

It was what Tristan had expected, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Understood.”

“I’ll let the colonel know. And Tristan? Stay close to the radio this time. If you ignore a direct order again, you’ll be packing your shit when we get back to the gendarmerie. ”

“Understood.” Tristan released the radio and winced. That went well.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing wet hair back from her face. His fingers were cold, but her skin was colder. “You with me?”

Her eyelashes fluttered for a moment, but she didn’t open her eyes.

He had to get her somewhere less exposed.

He squeezed her hand. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

Her lips parted. “My camera.” Then her eyes closed. Another shiver racked her body.

A small laugh bubbled out of him. He looked around, found the camera bag beside her body, and stuffed it inside his backpack. “I’ve got it. I promise.”

Lena

She was dreaming. Obviously dreaming. In this latest dream, she’d conjured Tristan up in the mountains with her.

She was glad it was only a dream. She didn’t want to think of him hurt or in pain.

She opened her eyes and caught him frowning at her. He was as tall as she remembered, his wide shoulders braced to withstand any storm. Rain poured down his temples, making his light brown hair look even wilder, and a muscle ticked behind his strong jaw. He looked cold, which was odd. She closed her eyes again, willing herself to go back to the other dream, the one in the bar. She preferred that dream—one where they were both warm and happy.

“Lena,” Dream Tristan said sharply, shaking her gently. “Stay with me. Look at me.”

She squeezed her eyes tight. No . She didn’t like this dream. She was going back to the other one.

“Dammit, Lena, open your eyes.” She flinched at the harshness in his voice. His arms were around her now, pulling her against his chest. She could hear his strong heartbeat, feel his ragged breath against the top of her head as he held her tight against him. A sob escaped her at how real it all felt.

“Please look at me,” he begged.

She didn’t want Dream Tristan begging, so she did as he asked, only to find his light blue eyes dark with worry.

“Lena.” His breath fell on her frozen cheek, warming her for an instant, and it was that sudden warmth that made her realize she wasn’t dreaming.

“Tristan?” Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Thought you were … a dream.” Her brows knit together. “But you’re really here.”

He let out a sharp laugh. “I’m here, Lena, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. She tried to shift, and pain radiated from her foot all the way up her leg. A soft, pained sound escaped her lips. Tristan caught her immediately. “Don’t move. Your ankle looks sprained, maybe broken.”

“Where are the tourists?” she asked, looking behind him, into the dark.

“Tourists?” he frowned, looking worried. “You’re not alone?”

A laugh escaped her. “ Your tourists, I mean. You said you were a pilot. I assume you do helicopter tours?”

His jaw clamped together at that. “No tours. No tourists. I’m a pilot with the PGHM.” It took a moment for his words to make their way through the noise in her head. He pointed to the front of her jacket, which wasn’t her jacket at all. He must have put it on without her realizing. That must be why she wasn’t quite as cold anymore. And there, in white lettering, was the little emblem she knew well.

“The PGHM,” she breathed, the pain receding as she thought through the implications. “That means you?—”

“Work for your father,” Tristan completed grimly. “Yes.”

The realization sent a different kind of ache through her. Tristan was here because her father had sent him here. Because it was his job. She bit her lip in annoyance. So what? She should be glad he worked with the PGHM. Gratitude was the only thing she had a right to feel.

“Lena?”

“How did you find me?”

“The note you left your father. We split up to look for you.” He shrugged. “And then you used the whistle. That was smart.”

Right. The whistle. She remembered pulling it from her pocket. Lena swallowed hard. She wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come. She was too cold, her body wracked with deep, rolling tremors. The shaking was relentless now, her muscles seizing in protest. Hypothermia. The thought sent another wave of fear skittering through her already exhausted mind.

Tristan must have noticed, because his hands were suddenly moving against her, rubbing her arms, her back. “You need to warm up,” he said.

She wanted to tell him to stop fussing, but she didn’t have the energy to push him away. And maybe, selfishly, she didn’t want to.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Where’s the helicopter?”

He huffed out a sound—part laughter, part frustration. “Not close enough. We’re going to need to wait for my team to get here.”

“Is my father … is he part of the team?”

Tristan shook his wild hair. “Beau—my boss—convinced him to stay back. He will have called him already.”

“Good,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want her father worrying. “He’s going to kill me, you know?” she sighed. “For getting lost in the mountains. Talk about bad PR.”

Tristan shook his head. “I very much doubt that.”

“We’ll see—“ She lost track of what she was going to say when she saw something glinting in the rock wall beside her. “What is that?”

“Huh?”

“Help me,” Lena said. For an instant, she forgot about the cold, the pain, everything. “I need my camera.”

“Hey. Don’t move. I’ll get it for you.” Tristan reached for her camera, his movements quick but careful as he unzipped his backpack and pulled it free. His eyes flicked back to her, assessing, but she barely noticed. She pointed toward the spot where she’d seen it—something glinting in the rock, partially obscured by shadows.

Her heart pounded, and this time it had nothing to do with her ankle.

Tristan followed her gaze, his headlamp illuminating something pale, something smooth—something unmistakably organic—on the rock wall.

Bone .

Lena’s breath hitched. A human skull. Half-exposed, embedded in the rock.

Beside her, Tristan went still.

“Shit,” he muttered, exhaling sharply. “The landslide probably uncovered it.”

Lena adjusted the camera in her hands. The flash popped, briefly lighting up the space in stark, artificial white, highlighting the skull and, beneath it, the skeletal remains partially encased in the stone. The bones looked weathered, ancient, like they had been there for decades—maybe longer.

“This is…” she trailed off, tilting the camera to inspect the shot. It was real. Not a trick of the light. A million questions burned through her. How had someone ended up trapped out here? How long ago?

“What do we do?” she finally asked.

But Tristan’s eyes had moved beyond her. He seemed to be listening to something behind them.