Colding looked up at the tower, hoping to see her face. He saw no movement. Someone could be up there looking right down at him, and if they stayed still he wouldn’t see them at all.
He chewed on his lower lip. They didn’t even know if Sara and Tim were here. Maybe Gary had made it, taken them off the island. Maybe Magnus had already killed them. No way of knowing. Colding could, however, make sure they weren’t still waiting. And all he had to do was risk his life to find out.
“Clayton, we’re going as soon as Doc flies over. That might draw Magnus out, give us a chance to kill him.”
Clayton leaned out and looked across the open town circle. “We’ll be exposed for looks like ten or fifteen seconds. Can Magnus get us that quick?”
Colding nodded. “If he’s ready, or if he heard us coming, yeah, he could take us out. Just depends on where he is.”
“And if we get to da church and he’s already inside?”
Colding paused. Anger started to replace his fear. “Then we kill him.”
Clayton nodded fiercely. “That’s da first time I’ve ever heard you say something that made sense. You drive, I’ll shoot.”
Colding started the Arctic Cat and waited for the Sikorski to fly over.
7:03 A.M.
INSIDE THE CHURCH, Tim looked up at the ceiling.
“Sara, do you hear that?”
Sara listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s getting louder. I think it sounds like…”
She heard it, faintly, but she heard it. “Like a helicopter.”
They rushed up the ladder to the turret’s trapdoor.
7:04 A.M.
MAGNUS HEARD THE flutter of rotor blades. Helicopter approaching. He’d seen both Danté and Bobby go down—that left only one person who could fly the Sikorski.
Rhumkorrf. The man who had murdered his brother.
“I’ve got something special for you, Doc. Yes I do.”
He reached into the backseat.
7:05 A.M.
THE SIKORSKI’S ENGINE hum dopplered into a roar as it flew directly over Colding’s position. The helicopter slowed and started to circle back toward the well.
“Clayton, we’re going! If you see Magnus, just start shooting!”
“Ya think? Just drive, asshole.”
Colding gunned the engine.
The Arctic Cat shot out into the open.
SARA HAD NEVER seen a sight so beautiful—a Sikorski S-76C. Bobby Valentine’s ride, coming in low. And she saw something else, down on the ground, something far better—even bundled up in the snowsuit, she knew it was Colding on that snowmobile. Clayton was on the seat behind him, holding an Uzi with one hand. Hope and love exploded in Sara’s chest. They could make it. But Magnus was still out there somewhere. He could kill Colding at any second. Sara looked around the town circle, trying to spot the big man.
There, by the old log lodge… Magnus.
When she saw what he held, that feeling of hope crumbled and died.
MAGNUS TRACKED THROUGH the Stinger’s viewfinder. If Rhumkorrf hadn’t made these abominations in the first place, Danté would still be alive.
Claus Rhumkorrf was a murderer.
“Breathe your last, motherfucker.”
Magnus pushed the firing button.
7:06 A.M.
SARA, TIM, COLDING, Clayton and Magnus watched the Stinger missile’s flashing white trail. Oddly, the intended target was busy trying to readjust his bobbling, broken glasses: Claus Rhumkorrf never saw it coming.
The five-foot missile homed in on the Sikorski’s hot exhaust. Rhumkorrf had swung the chopper around to face the town center, just in time for the missile to slice into the cockpit window. The warhead exploded on contact, blossoming into a brilliant orange fireball.
Sikorski pieces and streams of burning fuel rained down on the old town.
THE HELICOPTER EXPLODED above the snowmobile’s forward path. Colding yanked the steering handles hard right, away from the church. The sudden movement caught Clayton unaware and threw him from the seat. He slammed into the snowy ground, rolled once, then skidded to a halt.
He didn’t move.
Colding managed to stay seated as he fought for control. Burning wreckage rained down around him. He squeezed the brakes and pulled hard left as the tail shaft—rotor still spinning—crashed into the ground in front of him. He’d turned too sharply this time; the snowmobile pitched on its right side. Colding dove free before the machine rolled three full, horizontal, rattling times. It landed on its skids, the fiberglass body shattered beyond repair.
Colding hit hard. He smelled burning feathers before he felt the heat, before he realized his jacket sleeve was on fire. He rolled on the ground, pushing his burning arm into the snow. The flames hissed out before he suffered any serious damage.
He stood, smoke and steam rising from his ruined sleeve, a murderous gaze fixed on his face. He unslung the SA80 rifle and looked for his target.
A voice from behind.
“Drop it, Bubbah.”
Fury. Fear. Colding shook. He fought the urge to whirl around and open up with the SA80. He wouldn’t even make a quarter turn before Magnus gunned him down. There was nothing he could do.
Colding dropped the rifle.
“And the Beretta,” Magnus said. “Slow.”
Colding slowly pulled the Beretta from inside his snowsuit and tossed it away. It fell into the snow and vanished.
“Now put your hands in the air and turn around. You and I have a date with a hot little lady.”
7:08 A.M.
A large gush of burning fuel had set the log lodge ablaze. Sara watched long flames rise up into the morning sky, whipped to and fro by the returning wind. She figured the old wooden structure would be completely engulfed by flames within fifteen minutes. Several of the town’s buildings smoldered or burned. The Sikorski/Stinger combo would finish the work begun by a mine accident some fifty years ago.
Far worse, the church itself was about to go up in flames. A chunk of engine had spun wildly into the air, arcing a good thirty yards before slamming into the church roof. Small flames glowed, seeking purchase through the slate shingles to the old wood beneath.
From her spot in the bell tower, Sara couldn’t get near the flames. Even if she could, she had nothing with which to put them out. The tower’s stone turret wouldn’t save them—when the fire caught full force, she and Tim would be cooked from below if the smoke didn’t kill them first.
“Tim, we have to move.”
“Fuck that,” Tim said. “The helicopter, the explosion—the noise will bring the monsters.”
“We run or we roast. Let’s go.”
Tim paused, but only for a second, then crutch-walked for the trapdoor. Sara opened it for him. Tim started his awkward climb down, then they heard death speak out loud.
“Saaaaaaraaaaa.” Magnus’s voice. From inside the church. “Sara, I’ve got someone here to see you.”
Blazing rage pulled Sara’s lip back into a snarl, even while an urge to run and hide made her stomach clench. Fear or no fear, there was only one way out, and that was over Magnus Paglione’s dead body.
“Stay up here,” she said to Tim. “I’ve got to take care of this.”
She descended the ladder.
7:09 A.M.
A gun at his back, Colding stood in the church’s center aisle amid the broken and moldy pews. The place already smelled of smoke. Small fires burned the rafters on his left, filling the church with a flickering light. Up above, a few sunbeams filtered through the stained glass of the Twelve Apostles. On his right, up in the choir loft, he caught a glimpse of someone deep in the shadows.