Page 36 of Run Wild Omega

I look at him. He’s serious. The golden retriever energy is gone, replaced by the steel-eyed determination of a man who runs into burning buildings for a living.

“Fine,” I bite out. “But you follow my lead. No hero shit.”

“Always.”

I grab the handset for the base station radio and punch in the frequency for our junior volunteer.

“Kyle, this is Callahan.”

Static, then a burst of young, breathless energy. “Copy, Cap. I’m five minutes out. What’s going down? The alert siren on my phone is screaming.”

“We have a beacon activation on North Ridge. Female victim. Confirmed ID as Tess Hartwell.” My voice breaks on her name, just a fraction, but I force it steady. “I need you to get to the office ASAP. Take over comms. Coordinate with Sheriff Reddick. If we go off comms, you’re our lifeline. You copy?”

“I copy,” Kyle says, the playfulness gone from his tone. “I’m flooring it. Be there in five.”

I hang up and grab the satellite phone. My hands are shaking. I ball them into fists, digging my nails into my palms until the pain grounds me.

I dial the direct line to the sheriff’s department.

“Dispatch, Sheriff Reddick’s line.”

A woman’s voice. Sarah Jenkins. She’s been dispatching since before I left for the service. She has three kids and a voice like a warm blanket, usually. Right now, it’s tight.

“Sarah, it’s Wyatt. I got an automated relay from the Forest Service grid.”

“I just got it too.” I hear keyboard clacking in the background. “Beacon ID registered to Tess Hartwell. Coordinates put her high on the North Ridge, just below the second pass. Automated distress call received at 17:15 hours.”

“At 17:15,” I repeat, checking my watch. That was fifteen minutes ago. “Why the fuck did it take so long to relay?”

“Grid interference from the storm cell, Wyatt. The system buffered.” She sighs, and I hear the fear in it. Sarah knows Tess. Everyone in this town knows Tess. “Conditions up there are critical. The National Weather Service just updated the warning. Wind shear is exceeding ninety miles an hour on the ridges.”

“I know,” I say. “We’re mobilizing.”

“Be careful, Wyatt. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m just going to get her.”

I hang up.

Miles is already by the gear locker, pulling out his specialized avalanche kit. Transceiver, probe, shovel. He’s moving fast, but there’s no panic in him. He’s in his element. Give Miles a crisis and a calculator, and he’s the most dangerous man in the room.

“We can’t take the truck all the way to the trailhead,” Miles says. “Snow drifts on the access road are already past the axles in some spots.”

“Grab the snowshoes and the skis,” I tell him. “We move fast.”

I jump into the driver’s seat of the search and rescue truck. Dylan rides shotgun; Miles takes the back.

I start the engine. The roar is deafening in the quiet garage.

“You good to drive?” Dylan asks quietly.

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. “Yes.”

We tear out of the lot, the tires spinning on the ice before catching. The drive to the trailhead is a blur of snow and shadow. The town is quiet, people tucked away in their homes, unaware that the world is ending for me.

I push the truck harder than I should, taking the switchbacks on two wheels.

Why?