Chapter 9
The avalanche had turned the pass into a graveyard of snow and twisted metal. Jarnes worked alongside the professionals, his hands blistering inside his gloves as he hacked at the ice. His world narrowed to the rhythm of the axe-lift, strike, dig-each
motion a penance.
Memories ambushed him between swings: Sophia’s laughter muffled by snowfall during their Vermont trip, the way she’d once traced equations onto his palm to explain her research, her silent tears in the hospital when he’d been with Vicky.
A rescuer shouted at him in German, pointing to his bloodied gloves. James ignored him. The pain was nothing compared to the vise around his lungs, the terror that he’d buried her long before this mountain did.
Dusk bled into night. James’ vision swam with exhaustion, his fingers numb beneath the bandages a medic had forced onto him. He barely registered the commotion nearby until a voice sliced through his delirium:
“Sort casualties by severity-Redirect stage 3 hypothermia to Zone B!”
Sophia.
She stood twenty feet away, directing triage in fluent German, her parka hood dusted with snow. Alive. Alive.
James staggered toward her, his pulse roaring in his ears. A figure stepped into his path-a tall researcher with a Scandinavian accent. “Ms. Moretti is occupied,” the man said, gripping James’ arm. “Identify yourself.”
James wrenched free, but the movement sent him crashing to his knees. “Sophia!”
Her head snapped up. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked across the chaos-her gaze widening in recognition, then hardening like glacial ice. She turned back to her team.
“Carry on.”
