Page 91 of Hard Pursuit
Keep him irritated.
For now, frustrating him was the best chance she had at staying alive.
SIXTEEN
The mountain road could only take them so fast, and Archer hated every mile of it.
The four-wheel drive SUV fishtailed through snow and wind while his pulse outran the engine, every instinct in him throbbing to reach Jolie.
Cannon’s voice came over comms. “Townie was right. Map shows only one structure on this road. The rest rotted to the ground or were demo’d.”
“The Tucker cabin,” Rome added.
“What the hell is the Tucker cabin?” Archer demanded. “And who the hell is Tucker? Anybody live there?”
Rome’s voice filled their ears again. “Dead miner from a hundred years ago. The cabin kept his name.”
The comms crackled and Townie came on from the other SUV. “Been empty for years unless you count squatters or addicts.”
“Or the motherfucker who just dragged Jolie into it,” Archer ground out. “Give me more. What are we walking into?”
Cannon took over. “One road in. Several exits through old mine cuts in the hillside could provide fast cover.”
Archer stared into the white storm ahead, jaw locked so hard it ached. He jammed his boot onto the gas, but the truck was already maxed out, tires fighting for purchase on the snow-packed road.
The whole team surrounded him in a staggered convoy, engines cutting through the dark as two trucks clawed theirway up the mountain. Every second trapped inside steel and machinery felt like he’d lose his mind.
Cannon’s voice came over comms. “Road ends in two hundred yards. We switch there.”
Archer gripped the wheel tighter. He’d drive straight through the mountain if that was what it took to get Jolie back.
They hit the turnaround in a spray of snow and brakes. Doors flew open before the trucks fully stopped. Men poured out fast, hauling weapons, med kits, breaching gear and packs in practiced motion.
Two snowmobiles were already being kicked to life. The tracked UTV growled awake beside them, exhaust curling white into the storm.
Rome and Townie mounted the first sled. O and Younger took the second. Rivers tossed his med bag into the rear of the UTV and climbed in while Cannon jumped into the passenger seat. Archer hit the driver’s side before anyone could assign him elsewhere.
Rorke grabbed the rear roll bars and planted himself on the outside step rail, half hanging off the machine like a lunatic. He threw his head back and screamed into the storm like Lieutenant Dan riding out the hurricane.
“Move,” Cannon barked.
Archer pinned the throttle. The tracks bit deep and launched them ahead.
He’d trained for this kind of ground in the Black Heart Tactical Training Facility—snow, steep grades, bad visibility, machines bucking under him while the weather tried to kill his focus. He knew how to keep moving when the world turned deadly.
What he didn’t know how to do was stop the fear from climbing higher in his chest and taking hold.
They drove hard and fast, chasing the last of the tracks before the storm could bury them. They rounded a bend and started up a rise.
The Tucker cabin sat at the edge of a clearing.
Archer’s heart slammed forward before he ever hit the brakes. Cannon ordered them to kill the headlights short of the clearing and approach on foot.
In seconds, they were on the move, snow creaking under their boots as Archer and Cannon took point with Rome on their six. O and Townie peeled off wide to cover the rear of the cabin. Rivers moved through the dark like he was part of it, med gear slung over one shoulder and rifle over the other, while Rorke and Younger locked down the outer perimeter.
Archer raised the thermal scope. The image flickered, then sharpened.
“Two bodies. One heat bloom.”
