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brEE LOBBED THE RADIO to Alex and watched him go, then turned her attention to Mahoney.

“Do you have a better idea how many are out there?” he asked.

Bree shook her head. “No, but their numbers are down. I know of ten dead, including members of Malcomb’s inner circle.”

Mahoney tried to relay that information to Olson’s Mounties, who were halted to the north, headlights off. But all he got back was a sharp hiss.

“Jamming us,” Bree said. “They can do it in a large radius around the mine.”

Somewhere in the darkness, someone—Bree assumed it was the janitor—opened fire again with a short burst; it struck the side of the sled that was giving Sampson cover. Bree swung her attention south, panicking to think that he’d seen Alex trying to get to John.

“Got to give Alex some cover fire,” Mahoney said.

“Agreed,” Bree said. She started to climb the bank.

“Wait,” he said. “Let’s make this count. Here’s what I want you to do.”

Two minutes later, Bree was lying on her belly in the snow just below the edge of the packed trail and right behind their stalled snowmobile.

She eased up and over the lip, crawled to the sled’s track system, and took off her helmet. She turned on the headlamp’s red filter, put the lamp on the helmet, balanced the helmet on the barrel of her rifle, raised it until the headlamp barely cleared the sled’s saddle, then pulled it down. After a thirty count, she did it again but this time she kept the helmet and red lamp there.

The janitor opened fire.

Slugs smacked the sled and sent the helmet flying; Mahoney started shooting from behind his sled, aiming at the muzzle flashes that had given away Toomey’s position.

In the stillness that followed, even with the gunfire ringing in her ears, Bree heard the wailing and groaning of someone who’d just been shot.