Page 23 of No Hope of Rescue

Together, the men lift the crate box up over another and lower it to the ground. It must be pretty heavy. One of them puts the crowbar under the top slats, steps on it, and wood cracks. The other guy starts breaking away what’s left and then starts digging in. Sawdust falls when he pulls out a football-sized box.

They work in silence or are speaking so softly we can’t hear them. The oilskin shifts and our view widens slightly, but they’re clad in balaclavas, and I can’t make out their faces.

I have no memory of the men who grabbed Codie, and my stomach sinks. I was hoping seeing them again would ignite a flicker of recognition in case I have to ID the two at some point.

And that hinges on if we make it.

“Here we go,” says the taller man.

“That’s it.”

“That’s one of them.”

The flashlight beam starts scanning again, and it moves to the oilskin.

“What’s back there?” says the tall one with the flashlight, walking right up to where we lie. Riley shrinks into me further.

Savi licks my calf.

A large gust of wind pummels the fuselage.

Jesus.

“Hey, I got it,” says the taller guy. “Over here.”

Light bounces along the curved walls of the plane as they both move to the right-hand side about five feet away.

Savi yawns.

“What was that?” says the taller one, grabbing the flashlight and shining it right above our heads.

“This is the shit, man,” says the shorter one. “Here.” Again the crowbar splinters wood, and they reach inside. This time, after two or three rejections, one pulls out what looks like a bowling ball wrapped tightly in clear bubble wrap.

“Hey, maybe we could take this too?” The taller one holds up something I can’t make out.

“If you want to work again, you’ll fuckin’ put that down,” says the other.

They talk more, though only a few words rise above the storm.

“. . . clear out . . . buyer . . . Wyoming? Piss off . . . weird . . . doctor . . . trust shit.”

Then they’re out the door again, and the sound of the snowmobile engines turning over rises and falls, competing with the wind. In a moment or two, the sound fades as the two men put distance between us and them.

It’s a long time before either of us begins to shift. My ears strain to check for any man-made sounds—any evidence that they’ve turned around and come back. Finally, we start to disengage. Savi is the one who bolts as soon as I release her from her “down-stay.” The blast of cold along my backside makes me want to hang on to Riley longer. She turns in my arms and looks at me.

“Codie’s alive,” she says and then slips both arms around my neck and presses her face against mine for a moment before trying to sit up. I rearrange my arms again and hold her tight.

“Two more hours till dawn. I say we stay put.”

She settles and stares into my face. In the eerie twilight of the storm, her face is small and pale. As I reach up to pull the oilskin back over us, Savi comes running inside, shakes the snow from her thick coat, and takes a bite from a shelf of drift snow. Licking my hand first, she digs her nose under the leather blanket to reassume her position against my back and legs.

“Who were those men?”

Riley’s question seems self-answering.

“I don’t know.” My hand on her chest can feel her heart pounding. She’s still in fight-or-flight mode.

“But they have Codie?”