The Season of Killing by Leigh Mayberry (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

“I’m really scared,” Matthew said. His voice trembled.

“I know, Matt. I can’t tell you it’s going to be okay. But I think we have a little time before they come out here. You and I can talk. Do you want to do that?”

Another eternity went by. Matthew, alone in the dark somewhere out there had to make a choice that might make the difference between living and dying in the wilds of Alaska.

“Okay,” he called. For added measure, Matthew said, “I’m sorry.” His volume diminished. “I give up,” he said.

It sounded comical, cliché, but necessary. Facing a lifelong Alaskan who had a weapon, learned subsistence hunting and fishing, who likely had all the tools and abilities to live off the land, gave up. The reality of living off the grid as a wanted felon posed more of a struggle for him than living alone and unfettered.

Meghan waited to answer. She wanted Matthew to understand what it felt like faced with indecision. Holding back allowed a psychological edge over him.

“Now, Matthew,” she started. “If I come to you, how can I trust you won’t shoot at me again?”

“I won’t,” he said. It came out smooth as if declining a super-sized portion at a fast-food drive-thru window.

“Matt, I want to believe you.”

Meghan stayed low. She rolled onto her belly and crawled away from the sled, down into the gully below the plateau. She maneuvered around tundra bushes, pushing the helmet ahead of her, keeping it between her and Matthew in case he changed his mind. Meghan dug her hand into the snow to make sure the mound she hid behind was something hard and not a snowdrift.

She waited. Her body ached. The cold, wet snow seeped into the layers of nylon and denim. Her boots sucked up the wedges of snow that slipped beyond the laces. Her socks turned into wool anchors around her icy feet.

It was impossible to walk to Matthew. The ground had no flat base. Treading through deep snow piled on low brush meant she’d scrape up her legs. A few times, when Meghan tried standing to walk upright, her legs broke the surface, sinking up to her thighs. Crawling on her stomach, spreading the weight out evenly, was the only way.

“I need you to turn on a flashlight. That weapon better not be anywhere near you, Matt.”

Meghan saw the light swish in her direction. She ducked down. Meghan turned her head to project her voice away from Matthew so he couldn’t pinpoint her.

“Can you start a fire?” she asked. Meghan needed to rest. Exhaustion pulled at every part of her. The distance from Eric’s snowmobile to Matthew’s sled took a long time to close.

“I don’t have my lighter. I think I lost it.”

Meghan crawled over the snow toward him. She used her FBI training academy experience to move forward, push through the pain and tiredness. The cold tundra was another piece of her survival training. On her elbows, scissoring her legs, Meghan crept closer to Matthew’s flashlight beam.

Eventually, details of him emerged in the dark. He didn’t wear a helmet. Meghan kept hers because it made sense. It protected her head and face from the elements. Had Matthew tried to shoot her, Meghan hoped the fiberglass deflected the shot.

The rifle, she saw, leaned against the plastic hood of the snowmobile. It was in arm’s reach of him. Matthew sat recumbent with his back against the saddle. He nestled in the snow. His bottom succumbed to the depth underneath the machine. His face looked red, too red to ignore.

Meghan knew a little about exposure to raw elements. The potential for frostbite, Matthew riding without a helmet, using only a neoprene face mask and a wool muffler, wasn’t enough to protect him.

“Matt, I need you to move away from the gun. Can you do that?”

He sighed. Meghan was twenty feet from him. Close enough for the flashlight to spot her. He turned away from the rifle. His knees went through the top layer of snow. He climbed out of the hole toward the rear of the machine.

Meghan slithered over the snow. Moving quickly, shuffling on her stomach, she didn’t breathe again until she snagged the rifle. Meghan sat up, got on her knees, and cleared the chamber of the live round. She left open the bolt.

“Let’s get a fire started,” she said, pocketing the bullets.

“You got a lighter?” he asked.

“No, we don’t need a lighter.” Meghan popped open the hood of the snowmobile.

Meghan located the oil dipstick. She borrowed Matthew’s flashlight and scanned the side of the Polaris.

“How’s your sled running?”

“I’m out of gas,” he said.

“Do you know where we are?”

He looked around absently. His face gave away his confusion.

“If we had gas,” Meghan said. “Do you think you could find your way back to Kinguyakkii or Noorvik?”

Matthew pointed out in the general direction of the distant mountains. The black cutouts pressed against the horizon, cut in half by the cloudy soup. Sandwiched between the swirling clouds and the tundra, they were insignificant.

“I think that’s the way back to Kinguyakkii.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “I think we’re better off staying put for now.” Meghan had everything she needed to start a fire except dry kindling. “Is that the money?” she asked.

Matthew had the backpack strapped to his shoulders. He rested against it like a pillow permanently attached to his back.

He nodded.

“Give me the backpack,” she said. It was heavy. Substantial like the kind of weight that happens when a lot of cash got stacked together in a concentrated space. She didn’t want to count it. Meghan didn’t care how much was in the bag. It was all blood money anyway.

Reluctantly, Matthew shouldered out of the straps and handed it over.

“Let’s get this area cleared of snow.”

Meghan began scooping