Page 14 of Thaw of Spring (Knife’s Edge, Alaska #2)

T he rain came down hard, drilling and punishing, pounding the roof in a steady rhythm that masked most other sounds.

Water gushed from the eaves in thick sheets, pooling along the gravel alley and soaking everything that wasn’t under cover.

Christian stood tucked beneath the narrow overhang on the side of the tavern, one boot braced against the wall, his arms crossed tight to stay warm.

His jacket collar was damp, and water still tracked down the back of his neck.

He felt like a fucking idiot, but he wasn’t leaving.

The sky was pitch black, the clouds thick and low enough to feel like a lid. No stars, no moon—just rain and the constant hum of runoff sliding through the gutters and hitting the earth with dull splashes.

The smoke lingered in the air, though the rain had drowned most of the smell.

He looked over at the remains of the storage building.

The fire had gutted it completely, leaving nothing but a heap of blackened wood and collapsed metal sheeting.

Someone should clean that up. He wasn’t sure what they were waiting for. Then again, he hadn’t asked.

The door to Sam’s Tavern opened with a sharp creak, spilling weak yellow light onto the wet ground. Amka stepped out first, followed by Doc May and Wyland Friday.

Christian pushed away from the wall. It was two in the morning. Nobody had any business being out, least of all Amka. Of course, he was there waiting to make sure she made it home safely. What was wrong with him? He didn’t have room in his life for a woman, and that one was taken.

May stopped short when she saw him. “Are you guarding the place?”

“I was just walking by.” His voice sounded rough in the storm, even to him.

May stood close to Amka and Wyland, and the way her shoulders stayed tense made him think she expected one of them to collapse. The doctor clearly appeared exasperated. “I’ve been telling Amka to go home for hours, but she wouldn’t listen. I swear, the patients in this town are the worst.”

Wyland snorted, then hiccupped. “I totally agree.”

May rounded on him. “You have arthritis. You need your sleep. It’s too late for you to be out, and you should not be drinking doubles like that.”

“You sound like a cranky schoolmarm,” Wyland muttered.

“I’m your doctor. That’s my job,” May grumbled, the rain matting her blonde hair to her head.

Amka glanced back inside the window, where a trio of fisherman could be seen still drinking beer. “I should close up and not leave Daisy to do it.”

May waved a hand. “Daisy’s happy to do it, and they’re tipping like drunks. Stop worrying about it.”

Christian studied his three charges. May looked pissed yet solid. Wyland was running on pride and stubbornness. But Amka swayed slightly, not from the wind. Her face had gone pale, and the dark circles under her eyes showed a woman pushing herself way too hard.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said, looking at her.

May slid her shoulder beneath Wyland’s arm, taking some of his weight. Rain tracked down both of their faces. “I was planning to give them both a ride, but if you don’t mind taking Amka, that would be great. We’re headed the other direction.”

Christian nodded once. The Fridays lived upriver, past the last gravel turnoff. Their land had been there longer than the town. “Sounds good.”

Amka made a noise and opened her mouth as if to argue, and Christian lowered his chin, meeting her gaze evenly.

She fell silent.

The hair on the back of Christian’s neck rose. He paused, eyes narrowing, the downpour hammering against the roof and ground in deafening sheets.

A shot cracked through the storm.

He turned instantly, lunged, and drove the group to the ground just as another round ripped through the space where they’d been standing. Water exploded off the gravel. The sound of the rain masked the direction of the gunfire, echoing off buildings, cars, metal.

“Move.” He grabbed Amka and hauled her toward the front tire of her SUV. She tried to speak but didn’t get the chance. He put her on her ass, one hand firm on the back of her neck as he pushed her face down to her legs. “Knees. Stay low.”

Amka folded without resistance, rain soaking her hair, water running in streams over her shoulders.

May scrambled toward the rear tire, dragging Wyland with her. He slipped once in the mud, and she pulled harder, gritting her teeth. Another shot shattered the rear window of the vehicle. Glass scattered over the pavement, slick and invisible. The next shot hit the tavern’s window.

Christian didn’t flinch. He crouched, yanked his phone from his back pocket, and called without even checking the screen.

His brother grumbled in answer. “What the hell? It’s two in the morning.”

“Shots fired at Sam’s Tavern. Sniper across the street.”

“I’m coming,” Brock answered. The line went dead.

Christian stowed the phone and pulled the weapon from beneath his jacket.

“You’re carrying a gun?” May shouted from her crouch, voice nearly lost in the roar of the rain.

“I always carry a gun,” he said.

Wyland fumbled in his coat and came up with a soaked Ruger. “Ditto, buddy.”

May reached over and yanked it from his hand. “You’ve been drinking.”

Christian didn’t comment. He was already scanning. There was no cover—nothing but broken remains of the storage building, two half-exposed vehicles, and a town that had gone eerily still except for the downpour. Moonlight barely cut through the clouds now, just flashes in between cracks.

The rain was unrelenting. Cold. Hard. Every breath was wet air and sound.

Christian moved like the chaos didn’t touch him. He positioned himself past the front tire, calculating angles in his head. This was his element, like it or not. Water rolled down his face and soaked into his collar. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just listened.

Another shot fired. Close. Maybe hit the alley next to the tavern.

He held up a hand, flat, steady. No one moved. He'd decide when. He'd decide how.

Nobody was dying tonight.

He lifted his head just enough to see over the hood.

Rain hit him sideways, cold and needle-sharp, blurring his vision and slicking his hands.

The storm had worsened. The wind shoved at the vehicles, and water flowed in muddy rivers along the curb.

The dark was absolute, broken only by the occasional flicker from the floodlight above Sam’s back entrance.

Another shot cracked, closer this time, and sparked against the wet asphalt.

Christian dropped back behind the Jeep. He wasn’t guessing anymore.

The shooter perched on the roof of the old cineplex across the street, Moosejaw Cinemas, where Tuesday tickets cost three bucks and the popcorn tasted like lighter fluid.

The last movie had probably ended around eleven and the patrons were long gone.

Now the theater was just dark windows and peeling paint, but the building had the elevation and cover a shooter would want.

He shifted up again and fired three shots, fast and clean. They hit the siding just above the ticket booth awning. Right where they should.

Silence followed.

He turned toward Amka, who hadn’t moved. She sat curled against the front tire, rain soaking through her clothes. Her knees were up, her face down. “You okay?” he asked.

“No,” she said, voice muffled. Then she looked up. “Is he gone?”

“Not yet. Don’t move.”

Wyland sneezed, wet and loud.

May tightened her grip on him. “What should we do?”

Christian checked the math. “Is anybody hit inside?” he yelled.

“No,” Daisy called out. “We’re all behind the bar now.”

He extended his hand to May. “You keep Wyland down as close to that tire as you can. Give me the Ruger.”

May passed it to him, wet and slippery. It was double-action and already chambered. He checked anyway. Six rounds. Compact frame, short barrel, nothing fancy.

He handed the gun to Amka. “Position the weapon on the hood. Keep your head and shoulders down. Aim straight up at the roof of the Moosejaw. Make sure you aim up there and keep down. Got it?”

She nodded. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her cheeks. Her hands shook as she took the pistol, but she held it like she’d used one before.

“Whatever you do, don’t aim lower,” Christian said.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Run across the street. You’re covering me.”

Her eyes widened. “Christian, that’s not?—”

“Amka.” His tone stopped her cold.

She swallowed. “Okay. And…if I miss?”

“You don’t have to hit anything but the building, baby. You’re just providing cover.”

She swallowed. “Okay.” She turned on her knees, staying under the cover of the hood, and positioned herself with care. The Ruger rested against the metal, angled up. Her arms braced. The gun trembled slightly, but her aim was true. “Tell me when,” she whispered.

Christian inhaled, gaze fixed on the theater roof. He took a deep breath, glancing at her and then reaching over and covering her hands with his, nudging the barrel up half an inch. The angle had to be right. The last thing he needed was a bullet in the ribs from the only person trying to help.

“I can do this,” she whispered.

“I know.” He slid forward to the front of the Jeep, boots sloshing through water pooling in the dip beside the curb. The hood rattled under the rain, sheet after sheet pouring over it. “Fire slow. Count it out. One. Two. Three. You have six bullets. Use them all.”

“Okay,” Amka whispered.

“Now.”

She fired.

He moved.

Rain came sideways, sharp and cold, battering his face as he broke cover. He sprinted across the open street, not looking back. Another shot. Then another. Her timing was good. Each one gave him a second more.

He hit the far sidewalk, turned, and slammed his back against the building. The concrete was wet and cold, but it gave him cover.

Two more rounds. Then nothing.

She ducked.

He rounded the corner, jumped for the fire escape, and caught the lowest rung. The metal was slick, so he tightened his grip and kept climbing. He passed the second floor, and then the third, rolling onto the roof and staying low.

Wind ripped across the building. Rain came harder up here, straight across from what felt like every direction. He crawled toward the far corner. No movement. But this was the spot. It was the only place that gave a straight shot across the intersection.

He found the shell casings by touch before he saw them. Still warm. Just a few. No scatter. The shooter had control. That told him something.

Too late, though. He was already gone.

A truck engine roared down the street. Lights cut through the storm.

Christian looked over the edge.

Brock’s truck skidded into view, tires kicking up water. Doors flew open. Brock went right, behind cover. Ophelia moved left, gun drawn, sweeping.

“It’s clear,” Christian called down.

Ophelia ran around the SUV, crouching as she must’ve checked on everyone.

Christian didn’t wait. “Make sure they’re all right,” he said. “I’m going after him.” He took the wet stairs down the back, jumped the last two rungs, and hit the ground hard. Gravel shifted under his boots. The wind shoved him sideways.

He pulled out his phone. The screen lit, and he thumbed on the flashlight.

Maybe his brothers had been correct in forcing him to get the phone.

It was coming in handy. His gaze caught on a boot scuff in the wet dirt, and then bark torn from the low shrub beside the walkway.

Weight had come through here, moving fast.

He followed it.

No theory. No instinct. Just movement, one sign after another, through the back lots behind the native association and the library.

He angled into the storm, tracking the trail toward the edge of town.

Toward the school.

The trail cut behind a tool shed and through a gap in a rusted chain-link fence.

Christian followed, every step careful and measured.

The rain made it harder. The storm pushed leaves flat, erased weight, and filled shallow prints until everything blurred.

But not all of it. He caught where a boot had dragged through soft earth, clipped the edge of a concrete footing, and left a faint smear on wet metal.

He dropped to a crouch beside a narrow line of crushed grass.

The shooter had gone through there fast, off balance, maybe trying to keep from slipping.

That told him something. Probably not military.

Could’ve been, but didn’t feel like it. No retreat plan.

No sign of a lookout. No suppression shots on exit.

The guy’s plan had been to just run and disappear.

Christian’s plan would involve pain. A lot of it.

He passed the edge of the old playground with its metal swings rattling hard in the wind, plastic slide shaking with every gust, and cut across the mulch, already half-flooded.

The shooter had gone straight through. Christian followed the broken path to the far fence, hopped it, and landed low in a crouch.

The trees opened just enough to show the logging road ahead.

A well-used cutout near a tributary of the river with an excellent fishing hole.

Everyone knew about it and used it often.

Ruts, tire tracks, animal signs—all of it churning in the mud.

No clean boot prints anymore. Just chaos in every direction.

Christian stopped at the edge, lifted his head, and breathed.

Not just air. Information.

His brain ran through it like it used to back in Afghanistan. After a raid. After the target had gone to ground. It wasn’t magic. It was training. Repetition. Sweat. Sand. Death.

He scanned the dark.

The shooter could’ve gone anywhere now, and the storm had masked the engine of his vehicle.

Yet, Christian didn’t move. He listened. Watched. Felt. There were things his body caught before his brain did. A pattern in the silence. A direction in the wind. A small, instinctive pull that something was off just east of the split in the road.

He didn’t know who the shooter was, but he was going to find him.

And when he did, he wasn’t going to ask questions first.

But the bigger question burned hotter than the rest. Who had the bastard been aiming at? Out of all the possibilities, only one of them had been inside a fireball yesterday. One of them wasn’t supposed to still be walking.

Did somebody want Amka dead?