Chapter 8
The northern ridge of the Colorado mountain was a treacherous, narrow wall of rock and pine trees exposed to the full brunt of the blizzard. The wind roared like a freight train, tearing at the heavy branches and sending sheets of ice cascading down the cliffs.
Richard’s snowmobile slammed over the crest of the ridge, its headlights cutting through the blinding whiteout. Frank followed right behind him.
Ahead, nestled in a hollow between two massive boulders, sat the dilapidated wooden structure of the old ranger station. Its roof was partially collapsed under years of heavy snow, but a faint, warm glow flickered from a small chimney pipe.
Parked near the trees were two black snowmobiles. Fresh footprints led directly toward the broken wooden door.
Richard brought his vehicle to a halt, dismounting before the tracks were swept away by the wind. He drew his pistol, his face pale with cold, but his eyes burning with absolute, lethal purpose.
"Frank, sweep the perimeter," Richard ordered softly. "If any of Mark’s men try to break for the snowmobiles, shoot them."
"Got it, Boss," Frank said, moving stealthily into the shadows of the pines.
Richard stepped onto the rotting wooden porch of the ranger station. The front door was hanging off its hinges, pushed inward by force. From inside, the sound of heated, angry voices echoed over the howling wind.
"Where is it, Sarah?" Mark’s voice barked aggressively from inside the cabin. "Where did you put the original trust document?"
"I don't have it, Mark!" a woman's voice cried out—a voice filled with terror, yet holding a fierce, desperate strength. "I gave it to Noah! I carved the toy for him! He has it!"
"The kid is three years old, you idiot!" Mark yelled, followed by the violent sound of wooden furniture being overturned. "He doesn't know what a trust document is! Claudia searched his clothes—there was nothing there!"
Richard glided through the doorway, his leather shoes silent against the icy floorboards.
The interior of the ranger station was tiny, lit only by an old kerosene lantern resting on a wooden crate. Standing near the center of the room was Mark, wearing a heavy winter parka over his sweater, holding a handgun. Beside him stood Claudia, her face bruised from Richard’s earlier slap, her eyes crazed with greed.
Cornered against the stone fireplace was a young woman in her late twenties. She wore a faded winter coat, her fair, rosy cheeks thin and hollow from three years of hardship, her messy dark hair framing wide, terrified blue eyes. She was clutching an old iron poker, shielding a small wooden safe built into the floorboards behind her.
It was Sarah.
"I told you, Mark," Sarah sobbed, her voice shaking violently. "If you touch my son again, I will burn this entire mountain down around you! Richard knows the truth now! He’s coming!"
"Richard doesn't know a damn thing!" Mark sneered, raising his gun toward her. "By the time my father gets up this mountain, you'll be buried under six feet of snow, and I'll have the original deed from that safe!"
"He already knows," a deep, thunderous voice boomed from the doorway.
Mark and Claudia spun around in sheer horror.
Richard stood in the threshold, his dark three-piece suit dusted with snow, his heavy signet ring catching the yellow light of the kerosene lamp. In his right hand, his custom pistol was aimed directly at Mark’s heart.
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"Dad..." Mark stammered, his gun hand trembling as he backed away toward the broken window. "Dad, listen to me—"
"Lower your weapon, Mark," Richard said, his voice dropping into a deadly, rhythmic calm. "Or I promise you, you won't live long enough to see the sunrise."
