Alaskan Ambush. Sarah Varland

could be after her and why, and alert Noah via the satphone she carried in her pack.

      Something else to be thankful for in addition to her fitness level—she was always prepared in the backcountry.

      Another pop and snow flew less than ten feet to the right of Kate. She could see her cabin now, not that it did her any good. Or did it? She might be able to hole up there. She had a .44 in her backpack in case any confused bears had awakened from hibernation for a snack. But that seemed like a bad plan. Unnecessarily dangerous.

      Still, it was all she had. Get in the cabin, shut the door, get her own weapon out as fast as possible.

      Fear clawed at her throat, made it hard to breathe, and Kate hated the sensation. She was rarely afraid for her safety—years taking risks in the backcountry had seen to that—but she hated feeling powerless.

      She swallowed hard. Braced herself for the fight.

      Because a person couldn’t run forever—she’d spent the last decade denying that was true. But out here, facing a cold-blooded killer’s bullets?

      The only way through a problem was through it, just like her dad had always taught her.

      With a last burst of speed, she made for the door, shut it behind her and took a deep breath before bending down to get into her backpack, remove the gun and the satphone. It was past time to call Noah.

      As she did so, she looked around at her cabin, ready to assess the scene like she would in one of the disaster scenarios in one of the backcountry survival classes she’d attended for years. This was different than facing the elements, or even wildlife, but hopefully the skills transferred. They were all she had. The cabin was destroyed, just like the main floor of her house. The cushions had been ripped from the wood-framed futon that sat against the wall with the window that looked out into the woods. That would be the most likely place for an attack against her to originate from, if her assailant didn’t come straight in the door. The drawer of the little side table had been pulled out and lay cracked on the floor and the books had all been pulled off her bookshelf.

      Kate had her house, her car, her phone, a camera, this cabin. That was the extent of her worldly possessions, at least those that might be worth stealing. Not that this felt like simple stealing to her at all. This wasn’t a crime of opportunity. She was being targeted.

      Why?

      She ran her hands along the cold wooden grips of the .44, took a deep breath and hoped she’d be strong enough to use it if she had to. Kate hated the idea of killing anything, especially a person, but if someone broke in here intent on killing her...she wasn’t opposed to self-defense.

      Another gunshot, this one so loud she knew her pursuers must be right outside the cabin. But if so, why hadn’t it hit the cabin, shattered a window?

      More gunshots, these farther away.

      Kate tightened her grip on the .44, frowned. Two sets of shooters. Both shooting at her, or shooting at each other?

      The shots paused.

      The cabin door creaked.

      Kate raised the .44, hands trembling more than she wanted to admit, and waited for her shot.

      * * *

      The cold of the snow was the first thing that registered in Micah Reed’s mind when he came to. He blinked his eyes against the darkness, could make out the shapes of dark trees around him.

      How long had he been unconscious? He rubbed his throbbing head, the blackness threatening to pull him under again. He wouldn’t let it. He had to get up, get away from the scene of the ambush that had taken place. He and his partner had thought they’d been prepared to make this arrest, but something had gone wrong.

      Micah focused on the pain in his upper arm, willing it to help him stay conscious, grounded in reality. It gave him something to grit his teeth against, another reason to fight. He struggled to sit up, to get his bearings and figure out how far he’d made it from Jared Delaney’s cabin.

      His partner of three years was lying dead somewhere behind him, on the cold Alaskan ground, shot dead by criminals they’d been attempting to apprehend and arrest.

      He still didn’t know what had gone wrong, though there would be plenty of time to analyze every aspect later on when he had to fill out the incident paperwork. But right now all Micah knew was that they’d been so sure they had had what they needed to arrest Jared and Christopher Delaney to take them down for their part in a ring of thefts from several places in Anchorage: museums, high-end gift shops, even hotel lobbies displaying Native Alaskan artwork that the group later sold. They’d been confident the two brothers were the heads of the operation, though not desperate enough to pose a huge danger.

      Of course every arrest had danger in it. Everything he did as an Anchorage police officer did—traffic stops included. It was part of the job, a risk inherent in it, and one Micah had accepted. He’d known one day he might die doing what he thought was right, protecting people who were more and more resentful of that protection.

      He hadn’t counted on losing a fellow officer, though. He’d assumed his commitment to not let that happen would be enough, would somehow keep those around him safe.

      He’d thought wrong.

      Micah swallowed hard. Thinking was good, it was better than letting himself fade back into unconsciousness, but he needed to get up, get backing this, do what he could to arrest them on his own. Now that he knew they were willing to kill...making the arrest solo wasn’t ideal, but he’d do what he had to do.

      He pushed himself up, the cold of the snow stinging his bare hands as he did so. His gloves...where...? That’s right, he had taken them off when they’d approached the cabin and shoved them in his pockets. He felt for them now but they were gone. Probably lost in the pursuit, when they’d realized their tip was a setup and the Delaneys were waiting... When Stephen had gotten shot and Micah had managed to drag him away from the scene only to watch his life ebb away under a spruce tree...

      He owed it to Stephen to make sure justice was done here.

      Although...

      He forced his mind to focus, to go back to the ambush. The one where they should have been able to arrest the Delaneys, put an end to their crimes and tie the entire case up with a nice bow. But the Delaneys’ cabin had been guarded by far more than two men. He wasn’t sure how many. Four? Six? Only three well-prepared and well-armed men? He didn’t know. Easy enough to explain, as the Delaneys had men working under them. But something rubbed him wrong about that, his mind wouldn’t let that answer be sufficient.

      It hadn’t seemed like the Delaneys were the ones calling the shots. They weren’t the ones yelling orders; there’d been someone else, a man, but his voice was too foggy in Micah’s memory to do any good.

      Which meant they’d missed something in their investigation. Missed someone.

      Micah rubbed his hands on his pants, glanced down at the blood running down his arm. The wound had stopped bleeding when he was still but had picked up some now that he was using it again.

      He needed to get moving. He could feel the edge of his mind growing fuzzy, maybe shock setting in, maybe the beginnings of hypothermia, he didn’t know. They’d come prepared for the hike to Jared Delaney’s cabin but at the last minute he’d left his backpack with some gear behind in the patrol car. Time had been of the essence and he’d thought it would be better not to be weighed down by too many safeguards.

      Stephen had protested, as usual. They balanced each other out, Stephen’s safety-conscious streak and Micah’s willingness to take chances. They’d both had on their vests, should have been well enough protected had the Delaneys and whoever was with them not had such a high-caliber weapon. Why the round had hit Stephen and not Micah, who’d been only eighteen inches away, he didn’t know. The men had been aiming at both of them, Micah knew that, but guilt still ate at him. Why Stephen? Why not him?

      But he couldn’t begin to think it through right now. He owed