Page 133 of Saddles

What the hell is that?

Son of a bitch, it’s a screen.

As I creep closer, I can just make out the faint outline of the narrow steel stairs winding around the edge of the tall silos.

That makes sense they’d be on them.

I can’t see the top from the base of the steps.

What would be the odds that they’d both be up there?

Maybe there’s more than two.

I’d be screwed.

Peering through the thick flakes, I can’t see any other indication that there’s someone else on the ground.

But I haven’t seen their rig either. Did they drive? Hike in? More snow machines?

Fuck. I’m completely rushing in.

They better not circle back and find April.

Nausea grips my stomach as my foot lands on the first metal grate.

I can’t worry about that now.

Leading with my pistol, I take each stair slowly. The last thing I want to do is make any noise to alert whoever it is up there.

The ground slowly disappears into the void of darkness beneath me until I feel like I’m floating in some sort of limbo between the earth and sky.

Hushed voices come from above.

At least two, then heavy footfalls signal someone is coming towards me.

Damn it.

Readying myself, I pull back the slide on my Ruger to make sure I have a round in the chamber.

This might suck.

I try to hug the corrugated side of the silo as snugly as possible to buy me what thin shred element of surprise I may have.

The clunking gets louder.

A wide case appears, clutched to the chest of a bundled man.

All I can see is his eyes widen, before the brows drop and he shoves the package at me, knocking me off balance.

The case bounces between us, then falls under the railing.

That’s when I get a good look at his face.

It isn’t Dave. Nick. Whatever fucking name he’s using now. But the resemblance is close enough, I bet it’s—

“Doug Powell?” I throw it out, hoping I’m right.

His head tilts. “Yea?”

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