Chapter 6 - Shadows in the Snow
Julian approached the cracked door, his hands cold despite the oppressive heat radiating from the boilers. He lifted the white lily from the handle; the petals were crisp, unbruised, and carried the faint, unmistakable scent of Elena’s citrus perfume. She hadn't fled down the mountain path toward the valley as the decoy shots had suggested. She had doubled back down through the service elevator, moving beneath them the entire time.
""She’s hurt,"" Julian muttered, shining Miller’s penlight toward the floor. The crimson droplets were distinct, falling in rhythmic splashes that indicated a deep laceration to an arm or shoulder. ""The sniper fire—one of the stray rounds caught her before she cleared the terrace.""
""Or she wants you to think she’s hurt so you follow her into a kill pocket,"" Miller countered, raising his suppressed handgun and sweeping the dark expanse of the underground garage. Rows of luxury SUVs and seasonal sports cars sat silently under the flickering fluorescent tubes, covered in thin sheets of winter storage plastic. The concrete air was freezing here, fed by the open automated garage door at the far end that led out onto the winding, private mountain road.
Julian didn't wait for Miller’s tactical clearance. The shock had burned away, replaced by an incandescent, stubborn fury. He had spent years being the quiet, methodical accountant who balanced numbers and swallowed his grief. But the ghost of his brother had shattered that timid persona. He followed the blood trail past a row of parked Audis toward a blacked-out Mercedes G-Wagon idling quietly near the exit ramp, its exhaust curling in thick white clouds into the freezing air.
The driver’s side door hung slightly ajar. Miller crept forward along the vehicle’s blind spot, gesturing for Julian to stay behind the concrete pillar, but Julian ignored him, stepping directly into the vehicle’s side-mirror view. Elena was inside, slumped over the steering wheel, her muted olive puffer jacket soaked in dark, spreading crimson along her left ribs.
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""Elena,"" Julian called out, his voice shaking.
Her head rolled slowly toward him, her hazel eyes clouded with shock and pain, but her lips curled into that same infuriating, enigmatic half-smile. ""You're... late, Julian,"" she gasped, her right hand lifting weakly from her lap. She wasn't holding a weapon. She was holding a small, blood-smeared keycard with the crest of the Reykjavik Port Authority stamped into the brass. ""They’re at the tarmac... they have Lucas on the cargo transport. If you don't take the wheel... they're going to harvest him before midnight.""
