Chapter 13 - The Whiteout Reckoning
A sharp contraction doubled Eliza over before I could lift her.
"Breathe, darling. Look at me, breathe," I commanded, using my combat medic voice—low, steady, brooking no panic. I scooped her into my arms, carrying her to the sofa by the roaring fireplace, wrapping her in the dry quilts we had washed that morning.
I rushed to the landline to call Doc Hallowell.
Dead silence.
I tapped the hook three times. Nothing. The heavy, wet snow had dragged down the timber line north of the creek, severing the telephone wire.
I pulled out my cell phone. "No Service" blared across the gray screen. The blizzard was jamming the mountain relay tower.
The wind outside shrieked like a dying animal, throwing heavy blankets of snow against the western panes. Blackwood was twelve miles down a logging trail that was already under two feet of snow. The Ford had chains, but with Eliza in active, accelerated labor, getting her through the switchbacks in a whiteout could mean delivering her on the side of a frozen cliff.
"Nolan!" Eliza cried out, her back arching as another contraction tore through her. "The water broke! Oh God, it hurts—it hurts so much faster than they said it would!"
"I've got you," I said, dropping to my knees beside her, stripping off my wet boots. "I delivered two kids in an Afghan village when our medevac was grounded. You and I are doing this right here. You trust me?"
Tears spilled over her cheeks, mixing with the sweat, but she nodded violently, clutching my forearms with a grip that bruised my skin. "I trust you! Only you!"
I ran to the kitchen, putting four large pots of water on the gas range, tearing clean linen sheets into strips, gathering every sterile gauze pad and medical clamp from my tactical kit. My mind was sharp, stripped of fear, operating on pure survival instinct.
And then, above the howl of the blizzard, a sound cut through the cabin walls.
A heavy, metallic thud from the front porch.
The floorboards groaned under the weight of someone stomping thick snow off heavy boots.
My heart froze.
Doc Hallowell didn't have snowshoes, and Ramos was in Spokane. Nobody in Blackwood could have made it up that unplowed switchback in a regular vehicle.
"Nolan?" Eliza whispered through her clenched teeth, terror piercing through her labor pains. "Who is that?"
"Stay down," I whispered, reaching under the sofa for the 12-gauge shotgun.
I racked the slide, chambering a heavy 00-buckshot shell, and stepped into the short hallway leading to the entryway.
The front doorknob rattled.
Then came three slow, heavy, deliberate pounds against the thick oak wood.
The door was bolted, but the voice that came through the drafty weather-stripping was low, raspy, and carried the ugly, wet cadence of a man who had nothing left to lose.
"Nolan Vance!" the voice shouted over the shrieking wind. "Your boy Miller didn't make Spokane! But Savannah gave me something else before the feds swept the hall! She said you kept the cash right under the floorboards!"
A violent smash shuddered the door as the butt of a fire axe split the outer oak panel, splintering the grain down the middle.
May you like
Behind me, in the warm glow of the hearth, Eliza let out a long, agonizing scream of labor that echoed through the entire cabin.
I raised the shotgun to my shoulder, my finger tightening over the cold trigger, as a second blow caved the center of our front door inward, letting the freezing white gale roar into the house.
