“Then I suppose I should stop confronting him all the time.”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Zimmer said.
CHAPTER 20
Horton stumbled forward with his hands bound behind his back, feeling the energy fading from his body. He spat out a patch of blood to rid his mouth of the metallic taste, sending a tooth along with it.
The two men hauling him by his elbows used to be his friends and part of his squad: Dice and Sketch. Now they were on the other side of the equation. All it took was one failed mission to change their loyalty.
Horton peered through the moonlight at the path ahead, wondering how long he had to live, his ribs screaming at him in pain. It started with fists to the gut and ended with blows to his face, every punch taking him closer to death.
Each man in the execution team had to land a blow. It was all part of their ritual when purging the camp of a failure. No one was allowed to abstain, not unless they wanted to join the condemned.
Horton knew Frost got off on it and so did most of his men, taking their frustrations out on whoever was being eliminated.
Frost measured failure on a scale from one to ten, ruling the punishment based on his primal need to hurt something. Or someone, as in this case.
As bad as this was, it was still better than the ending Slayer had endured. A knife to the gut doesn’t allow a man to prepare to meet his maker.
Horton appreciated these extra few minutes of misery, as twisted as that would sound to an outsider. When you’re facing death, moments are precious. So are seconds, allowing you time to organize your thoughts and say a final prayer.
A minute later, they arrived at their destination—an old telephone pole near the abandoned skateboard park, its wooden surface pitted with decades of wear.
The pole was a symbol, he figured, standing alone in the Frozen World. It was how each man had come to Frost’s camp—alone. And now that was how he would go out.
Horton had been this way only hours before in search of the frizzy-haired escape artist known as Summer Lane. One of Edison’s group. A girl that was about to get another man killed.
He guessed there was poetic justice wrapped inside the events of the day, only his mind couldn’t reconcile it. All he knew was that Summer was clever. Damn clever. More so than he was.
Dice and Sketch spun him around and cut the rope keeping his hands secure. A second later, they had his wrists on the other side of the pole, and soon after, once again bound in restraints. Only this time, it wasn’t rope. It was bailing wire, cinched tightly, cutting into his skin.
Next, his feet were bound to the front of the pole with another stretch of wire, adding to the pressure of wood against his back.
He could feel the frigid night air wafting over his exposed skin like an invading virus, seeking out more of his wounds to penetrate.
At first, he expected to be stripped naked and left for Mother Nature to take her revenge. That would have fit Frost’s mantra: humiliate then execute. A stark reminder of what happens when you failed the man.
But that was not what happened.
Frost left him some dignity in the form of clothes, including boots. Horton wasn’t sure why. It didn’t ring true. Neither did the windbreaker Frost carried in his hand.
Even so, the clothes weren’t going to be enough against the subzero temperatures headed his way. Maybe Frost thought it would extend the torture with a false sense of hope. That ruse would fit the man better, wanting to ramp up the cruelty.
Frost bent down and put the windbreaker on the ground, laying it out as if he was getting ready to fold it like a handmaiden would do for her master. His hands worked methodically, eliminating each crease in the material, then he covered the corners with rocks.
Fletcher moved a few steps away from Frost and tossed a pile of oil-stained rags to the ground. They were from the maintenance shop—old and grungy, all of them needing a thorough wash.
One of Fletcher’s men stepped forward with a gas can and poured fuel on the three-foot-high pile of rags, dousing them until they were soaked. It was gallons of fuel they couldn’t spare, not with the refinery on the fritz. Yet Frost didn’t seem to care. In fact, he looked as if he was enjoying himself, his face covered in a full-on grin.
Frost took a strike-anywhere match from his pocket and lit it with a scratch of his thumbnail. It burst into a flame as he held it in the air, making eye contact with each of his men.
Horton got the impression the gesture was a precursor to some kind of medieval ceremony, almost as if this entire process had been rehearsed to perfection.
Frost flipped his wrist and sent the match end over end, leaving his fingers in a high, sweeping arc. Right then, time seemed to slow down, ticking by one frame at a time.
Horton watched the match spiral in flight before it landed on the pile—dead center—as if his boss had done it a thousand times. The material erupted into flames, sending a fireball billowing into the sky.
The flash from the sudden ignition lit up the area, making Horton flinch. “Give me another chance,” he said with blood dripping from his lip.
“You know the rules, Horton. Failure is never an option,” Frost answered, waving at his loyal dog to approach Horton.
Sergeant Barkley came forward in a measured strut, his front shoulders low and snout leading the way. The fur on the dog’s back stood at attention as he sniffed Horton’s feet, then wandered around to the back side of the pole to continue with his heels.
Horton wasn’t about to give up. There was still a chance, he convinced himself after spitting out another patch of blood. “We almost had her, sir. At least we recovered the map. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Frost’s grin vanished, his face turning sour. “That’s why we’re here instead of back at HQ. Otherwise, we’d be scraping your sorry ass off my floor with a sponge. If you can make it out of here alive, then you’re free to be on your way.”
The rest of the men erupted in a community laugh. Each of them must have realized the odds were slim.
Horton knew it, too. There was zero chance he could free himself and stay alive without food, water, or a heavy parka. That’s why Frost had put the windbreaker just out of reach—to torment him.
This was just another inventive execution cooked up by the man they called boss, all in an attempt to give the condemned a glimmer of hope. Hope in the form of light clothes and a temporary fire for warmth. None of it would matter. Death was coming for him, snaking closer with each tick of the clock.
When Horton’s eyes found their way to the burning material, the intensity of the flames brought a new thought to his mind—the Scabs. That’s why Frost wasted the gas. Not to taunt him with warmth. It was to bring them in.
Horton’s vocal cords took over, firing before he could stop them. “I’ll find her, boss. I swear to God. I will find that bitch, no matter what I gotta do. You have my word.”
Frost never responded, his eyes still watching the mutt standing behind Horton’s legs, panting like a freight train.
Horton wasn’t about to stop his plea. “I know her tactics now. I’ll be able to anticipate her next move. You need me, boss. Nobody else here knows her like I do. Let me prove it to you. I beg you. I can do this.”
Frost put his hand out toward Fletcher, who was standing next to him.
Fletcher gave him a folding knife with a three-inch blade.
Frost deployed the blade with a pull of his fingers, then slid its metallic handle gently into Horton’s mouth. “Here, you might need this. If nothing else, it’ll shut that pie hole of yours until we leave.”
Frost looked around the area, his eyes stopping at four points on an imaginary circle. “I figure you have twenty minutes, tops. If the cold doesn’t end you, our hungry friends out there will.”