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MINUTES LATER, brEE, MAHONEY, and I were up the ridge, moving as fast as we could by the light of the headlamp toward the sled we’d left near the dead snag. Olson, Fagan, and three other Mounties had gone for their snowmobiles.

“How bad is he hit?” Ned said, gasping in the thin air as he trudged through the snow.

“Bad,” Bree said.

“There’s an EMT with us. And we’re supposed to get a break in this storm in the next hour or so. Maybe enough time to get a chopper in here.”

“He’s going to need it,” I said, relieved to see the snowmobiles where we’d left them. “Follow us,” I said. “We need to use Malcomb’s helmets, so we won’t hear your comms. Blink the headlights at us if you need us and we’ll pull over.”

“Better,” Ned said, and handed Bree a two-way radio.

I pulled on the helmet in time to hear Malcomb say, “Cross has returned to his sled, Toomey. Go back to Sampson before returning to base.”

“And do what? That sounded like a goddamn army up on that ridge.”

“I don’t care. Do what you always do, janitor. Clean things up.”

“Not today,” I said into the microphone. “We’re coming for you, Toomey. Officer Fagan is not dead, and she and half the Canadian Mounted Police are coming for you.”

That last part was not true. Olson had several other Mounties with him, but I still felt like we were taking the fight to Malcomb and Maestro. I turned off the ridge and gunned the throttle back down the wider route toward the meadow.

It was pitch-black dark by then, and the snowfall had lightened. I knew the headlights gave our positions away, but I kept mine on full power, slashing the night. I had no choice. The life of my oldest, dearest friend, my partner of countless years, was at stake.

To our left and back a good four hundred yards, Olson and his Mounties were entering the meadow. I felt a tugging at my heart as we neared the grove of scattered trees where we’d begun fighting back.

Suddenly, there was the sled. Suddenly, there was John in the snow on the ground behind it, waving at us weakly, pointing to our right, to the west.

I stopped.

He yelled, “Ambush!”

Bree and I dove off the snowmobile just as someone opened fire from the west. We tumbled off the bank of the packed trail, heard bullets smack the sled behind us.

We landed in deep, powdery snow below the grade of the trail, so it took a moment to get upright. Bree shouted into the handheld radio for Captain Olson to stay back.

My helmet radio crackled with the first Maestro transmission in several minutes: “Got eleven guns on me, M. This might be too much to clean up alone.”

“Cavalry’s coming, Mr. Toomey. Everyone I can spare.”

I turned off the microphone and said to Bree, “I’m going to John.”

“I’ll come with you.”

A soft red light appeared ten feet away, and I started to swing my gun toward it but then saw it was Mahoney wearing a headlamp. He tossed me a backpack.

“Blood-clotting agents and pain meds,” he said. “How many bad guys out there?”

“Not sure. One that I know of,” I said, shouldering the medical bag. “But reinforcements are coming from that mine. I’ll need the radio, Bree.”