Page 34 of No Hope of Rescue

Dropping from the window, Codie staggers forward, regains her footing, glances around, and looks up at us. There’s no wave. She must have heard the chopper. She turns to face the woods and runs.

The snow is deep and she struggles. She has no coat, just her pink fleece turtleneck. Her arms flail as deep snow pulls, and she sinks with each step. We have no way to track her, and once she gets into the trees, we’ll lose her. Her instincts are right: flee, find coverage, but it will work against us. Ross pulls up, the blades whirling. We have to maneuver lower so Ross can maintain position and we can drop a line.

Codie’s hiked Ferris Crest most of her life. She knows exactly where she’s going. As she turns, running in between pine trees, glimpses of pink flicker.

“There’s no place to land!” Ross shouts over the rotors.

I shake my head, jutting a thumb in the direction of the winch. I hear Riley immediately releasing her seat belt, and the click of the carabiner as she tethers herself and starts prepping the winch.

I never take my eyes from the binoculars.

I point. “I know where she’ going!” There’s a clearing around three hundred yards from the cabin—a circular dead end left over from an old logging trail. The spot is pretty much open, though it nestles right up next to a sheer cliff face.

Ross shakes his head. I get it. It’s still awfully tight. We’re liable to hit a tree. I glance at the altimeter: 10,213 feet. His ability to hold her steady is already compromised. Hovering will be a challenge. The cliff creates backdrafts as well. It’s dicey.

There’s another flash of pink. It’s definitely where she’s headed.

As long as Ross stays away from the rocks, I can drop down on the line. We’re very close and Ross settles into position, to the right of the cliff but still clear of trees.

Riley taps me again on the shoulder as I secure the line, slip my foot into the grip, and watch as two men start out toward the woods. They know she’s escaped. We have to move fast. I give a thumbs-up, rev my index finger in quick circles so Riley gets the message, and she throws open the hatch. The winch begins to whine.

Even though it seems like there’s little wind, it still hits hard. Gripping the cable tears at my side, but I barely notice.

What takes only a few minutes or so seems like an hour. Four feet from the ground, I release and drop into snow. Up here, with the semi shelter of the cliff face, the snow drift isn’t as heavy, only a foot or so.

The blades are loud. “Codie!”

I tap the radio button on my helmet. “Do you have a line of sight?”

Riley’s voice runs through static. “Two o’clock.” I take off, trying to run. In thick snow, it’s difficult. It’s like running in quicksand. There can only be twenty yards or so that separate us now. My side throbs.

The woods are thick. She’ll be running on anything that looks like a trail. I stay off the trails. I try to stay in between the trees, slipping and sliding along a small incline. There’s a small eight-foot-wide clearing after the crest of a rise, and there she is, thirty feet away, hunched over, hands on knees, panting, looking at me as I climb up the embankment.

Her face, ghostly white, turns even paler. It’s not like in the movies. There’s no stopping or staring. We both start toward each other, running. She’s almost clawing her way to me, and in seconds, she throws her arms around my neck. I hold her for a moment, and then she just starts sobbing, huge gulping, gut-wrenching sobs, which I’ve never heard from her before—except when her dog, Atlas, died.

I’m trying to move with her, but she’s dead weight around my neck.

“I thought you died,” she says over and over again. I try to wipe tears from her eyes and get her to move. We have to get back to the helicopter.

My “I’m here, I’m here” doesn’t seem to do much. There’s a shout from the forest. It’s one of the men. Within seconds, I’ve switched to: “Come on. We have to go. Move, Codie. Move.”

Holding her with one arm around her waist, I half lift her up the side of the hill. Twice, the bullet wound in my side pulls, and pain sears hot and angry for a moment then fades. There’s too much adrenaline pumping right now. But it’s immaterial. The sound of blades intensifies. We get to the top, and I drag her underneath the chopper. She looks up, stunned. Her bare hands are blue. She’s so cold.

The cable flies loose in the wind. There is no time to lower a gurney and get it back up. I’m just going to have to put her in a harness and hang on.

“Oh my God,” she keeps saying over and over and then, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

I don’t understand what that means. “You’re fine. You’re okay. You’re back here now. You’re okay,” I keep repeating as I shove limp arms through loops and cinch the front.

She looks back at the cabin anxiously. “What am I going to do?” she says again, then without looking at me, she starts crying.

A sudden thought worms its way into my brain, and a wave of nausea leaves the back of my throat burning.

“Did they touch you?” I shout. It’s so loud and we don’t have a headset for her. I take her little chin in my hand, and I turn her face to mine. “Codie. Did they touch you?”

She buries her face in my chest. Her sobs make her entire body shake.

“Codie, you’re okay. You’re okay, no matter what happened.” I’ve never seen her this unglued.