Chapter 4 - The Sound of Metal
The AdvanceThe convoy of the Iron Saints was dying.
Two miles up the pass, Hawk’s Chevy Silverado had thrown a tie-rod after slamming into a hidden boulder beneath the snow drift. They had left the vehicle where it stood, its headlights pointing uselessly into the white void as Hawk and his crew piled into the back of Jaxon’s Ford.
The snow was now four feet deep across the entire width of the highway. The F-350’s massive diesel engine screamed in low gear, the four-wheel-drive system groaning as the heavy chains on the tires bit into the hidden asphalt below. The wind was hitting the passenger side with a force of sixty miles an hour, threatening to lift the four-ton truck off its suspension every time they crossed an exposed ridge.
Jaxon Reed sat behind the wheel, his large hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel so tightly the seams of his riding gloves were popping. His face was a mask of cold fury, but inside, his chest was an open wound.
"Jax," Grave said from the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the thermal imaging screen mounted to the dashboard. The screen, connected to a high-definition infrared camera on the roof, showed nothing but a chaotic, swirling pattern of green and blue—the cold signature of the storm. "We’re coming up on the fourth mile. If Rick went off near the observation point, we should see the thermal signature from his engine block. Even if it’s dead, the metal stays warm for a few hours."
"There," Jaxon barked, pointing to a sudden, jagged break in the wall of snow on the right side of the screen.
Grave leaned forward. "That’s not an engine. That’s a break in the guardrail."
Jaxon slammed the brakes. The truck skidded sideways, the heavy steel rear end swinging out over the frozen shoulder before the chains found purchase. Before the vehicle had completely stopped, Jaxon was out the door, his heavy flashlight casting a powerful, blue-white beam into the dark ravine below.
The light caught the crumpled tail section of the black SUV thirty feet down, already half buried under a fresh drift.
"Rick!" Jaxon roared, his voice tearing through the wind as he slid over the edge, exactly where Tyler had slid four hours earlier.
Forty bikers followed him down, their heavy boots turning the embankment into a muddy, snowy chute. When Jaxon reached the driver’s side window, his flashlight revealed the pale, lifeless face of his brother-in-law, Rick.
Jaxon closed his eyes for a single second, his forehead resting against the cold steel of the door frame. "Goodbye, brother," he whispered.
Then he turned his light into the back seat.
The car seats were empty. The nylon straps hung loose, their ends cleanly severed by a sharp edge.
"Jax!" Hawk shouted from the other side of the wreck, holding up a long, dark strip of rubber. "The floor mats are gone! And look at the snow here... someone was here. There are tracks. Small ones. And a drag mark."
Jaxon dropped to his knees, his flashlight scanning the fresh snow at the base of the ravine. The wind was already filling them in, but there, clear and unmistakable, was the vertical imprint of a duct-taped boot heel.
"They aren't here," Jaxon said, his voice rising with a sudden, wild surge of energy that electrified every man on the hillside. "Someone took them. Someone got them out of the car."
"Which way, Jax?" Grave demanded, his iron crowbar ready.
May you like
Jaxon looked up the mountain, toward the western crest of the pass. The tracks didn't go down toward the valley. They went up. Into the highest, coldest part of the Bighorns.
"They're walking," Jaxon said, his eyes burning through the whiteout. "Back into the trucks! We hunt them!"
