Henriksen opened the box and a look of horror spread over his face. “Oh my God…”
Martinez’s eyes narrowed and he covered his mouth to stop himself throwing up. “God damn it, Max!”
Laurie watched Henriksen slam the box shut and close the chest. Then both he and Martinez took a few steps back from the box.
“What the hell did you see, Max?”
“I…I don’t… I…can’t…”
Laurie saw something in Henriksen’s face change as he looked at him. His eyes began to cloud over and his voice grew hoarse.
“Laurie…it was….inside the box…”
Martinez started to look the same as his boss, only now the skin on their faces looked like it was going a gray color and beginning to harden.
“What the hell is going on here, Max?” Laurie said, moving back to the door and grabbing the handle. Outside the wind had risen and was howling like a pack of hungry wolves.
Henriksen strained to speak. “Get out, Laurie! Get somewhere safe…”
Laurie watched in horror as Max Henriksen seemed almost to solidify right in front of him as he spoke. His skin went silver in complexion and turned into a strange matte texture before going completely rock-hard. A second later, the same happened to Martinez, who had tried to run away to the door but was now frozen in place with cold, dead eyes.
Laurie panicked and opened the door. He ran out into the night, and strained for some fresh air in the icy wind-chill. The storm had passed now and the moon was full and low in the sky. As he stared at it he noticed it was growing darker and getting blurry. Then he felt his chest grow heavy and it became harder to breathe.
He turned to run inside to get to the radio but found his legs were frozen to the ground. He felt it creep up his body like ice, only it was much colder and when he looked down at his hands he saw they had turned a strange silver color. Then he was rock-solid, unable to move, blink, breathe. Slowly the moon dimmed completely, and then, a second later, he was gone forever and the Arctic night wind howled around him as if he were nothing more than a piece of granite.
CHAPTER ONE
The Englishman sprinted toward the edge of the cliff with all his might and leaped into the void without a second thought. Instantly he felt the air rush up and flow over him. It was a little colder at this altitude. Joe Hawke liked cold air. It brought back memories of home. Sometimes, he thought, memories are the best part of life.
He looked beneath him and saw a river far below flash in the sunlight as he plummeted toward the rocky ground. He noticed he was flying a little slower than usual and his path through the air was choppier than he normally managed. All things considered, this was not one of his best wingsuit exits but it would do, and he could always try again tomorrow. He had nothing else to do.
His suit had started flying earlier than usual, and a few seconds after leaving the cliff he was gliding through the summer air like an eagle. As he raced forward, his arms stretched out behind him, he glanced back and saw he had a tail flutter, where part of the suit in between his legs had failed to pressurize properly. The result made the fabric flap wildly as he cut through the air. He cursed — this was what was slowing him down.
No matter. The valley floor below was still thousands of feet beneath him as he sailed out further into the hot Idaho day and twisted to the right to correct the direction and speed of his descent to earth. He felt alive. He felt free.
As he ripped through the sky at nearly two hundred miles per hour, he looked down again and searched for his landing site. They’d been staying at the cabin now for a few weeks — his way of winding down and staying away from the press. It turned out that saving the world back in the Ethiopian Highlands had stirred the interest of the world’s media. Sending Maxim Vetrov to his horrifying death in the catacombs inside the Tomb of Eternity had livened things up even more, despite Eden’s attempts to suppress the story. At least Eden had managed to keep Hawke’s name out of the papers — he’d rather be hunted across Siberia by Spetsnaz than face a press pool.
He shook it from his mind and returned to the day.
The horizon was hazy today, but the day was hot, and the ground was rushing up toward him as fast as it always did. He chose his usual landing place as his mind drifted back to Africa and the argument he’d had with the team back in Luxor. How they said they’d all been lying to him from the very beginning, that they’d mostly known each other from the start and were testing him to see if he was suitable to join their gang. He’d been angry and walked away from them — leaving even Lea Donovan behind, just hours after she had almost died. He’d been a stupid fool, and he knew it.
Now, the adrenalin pulsed through his veins as the ground zoomed toward him, but receded when he turned upwards and performed a move wingsuiters called the cobra — using forward momentum to pull up and drastically reduce speed. Then he pulled the ripcord and his parachute opened out behind him. He felt the jerk as the chute rapidly slowed his fall and he gently guided himself to the selected drop zone with the careful use of the steering lines. Moments later he jogged to a stop outside the cabin and his parachute fell gently to the dusty ground behind him.
He stepped out of the harness and unzipped the wingsuit on his way up the cabin steps, pausing to tap the little barometer she had placed on the porch. Pressure rising.
Inside he could smell cooking and heard her singing along to a song on the radio. He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge to find a cold drink.
“Hey,” she said, without turning to face him. She was busy cooking breakfast. “Good jump?”
“Yeah, not bad,” Hawke said, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and walking over to Alex Reeve. He leaned over her to smell the cooking eggs. “Looks great.”
“You know…”
Hawke sighed. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Oh yeah? So what am I going to say, Nostradamus?”
“You’re going to tell me to call Lea. I could tell by your tone… Anyway, you tell me the same thing every morning, so it doesn’t exactly take Nostradamus.”
“Wrong. I was going to tell you to go wash up because I’m about to put this on the table.” She lifted the pan to underline the point.
Hawke hesitated to take some bacon out of the pan. “Yeah, right. You’ve told me to call her about a thousand times. I’m starting to think it’s all you can say — plus, I’ll have my breakfast on a plate thanks, not the table.”
She rolled her eyes. “How does she put up with you?”
“Did… how did she. She’s probably moved on by now.”
“That’s up to you, you pig-headed fool.”
“Hey! Less of the cheek, madam.”
Alex served up three plates of bacon and eggs and walked over to the table with them. Hawke knew it had been strange for Alex to use her legs again after so long, but she seemed to have got used to it over time. She once told him that sometimes she felt like she had never been shot, and the whole thing had been nothing more than a terrible nightmare.
They sat down together and he watched the sun light up the steam rising from the plates.
She looked at him. “I know I said it before, Joe… but thanks.”
Hawke put some pepper on his eggs.
“Thanks for what?”
“For saving my life in Moscow, of course. Vetrov was going to feed me alive to crocodiles.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She paused a beat. “You know…”
He glanced at her, forking the food into his mouth. “What now?”
“You never actually thanked me for saving your life in Serbia.”