***
Finnegan spread the remaining pyro fuel in a thin line around the island’s perimeter. It blazed incandescently, its pink-red flames and oily, transparent fumes protecting them from the perils of the crater lake. He left a small gap at six o’clock, in case they needed to escape. Bess, though, was dead in the water unless she could recharge; until the sun returned, and her solar panels were fed, the survivors were trapped on the island.
Barely a word passed between them while they waited in the center of the fiery ring. The malaise weighed heaviest on Vaughn, who’d not only failed to properly officiate the manhunt assigned to him, he’d been the one responsible for Jan’s safety. She’d trusted him, and he should have insisted she stay behind at Echo Outpost. What had he been thinking, letting her get involved in the business of killers?
Stopper’s tail never ceased wagging as he lay at her side, watching Vaughn. Did the dog blame him, too? He had every right.
Polotovsky folded the Fleece into a smallish square, then rolled it as tight as the bulging liquid inside would permit. With Finnegan’s help, she managed to force it into a copper, urn-like cylinder that appeared to be refrigerated inside—when she opened it, the heavy white gas spilled out and spread across the rock. Vaughn recalled the unusual coolant container he’d found in the Nina. It was a comparable size, and had to have been intended for the same purpose—storage—once Lewartow’s mercs had recovered the Fleece.
He couldn’t guess how much time passed before the first raindrops peppered the back of his neck. An hour. Three. The pyro flames, almost dead anyway, were finally extinguished by a sudden downpour on a par with a tropical monsoon. Vaughn didn’t care that the temperature plummeted, or that he was underdressed for it; he just sat there and took his punishment, not paying attention to anyone or anything.
Something heavy and metallic hit the rock nearby with a clank. He jumped alongside the others. Stopper shot to his feet, barked toward one, no, two o’clock, now three. What the hell...?
The storm swept its dirty laundry across the island in a nor-easterly direction. Through the dark rainsheets he glimpsed a metallic glint, and the line of a cable drifting in and out of yellow light.
A searchlight!
He raced across, tugged on the transparent winch-line until a series of amber pulses flashed down the optical fiber inside.
“It’s a rescue party! They found the beacon,” he yelled to the others. “They’re sending someone down. Hang back!”
It wasn’t until the second man lowered into view—decked out in full, heavy duty survival suit and gear, all bearing the ISPA EMS insignia—that Vaughn remembered his friends’ outlaw status. Crap. He had to improvise. Most of what had happened here should not be disclosed to the authorities: DeSanto’s illegal presence might pose too many questions, ditto the Fleece, and the names Finnegan and Polotovsky.
So what were they all doing out here?
“Shamil Fehr, EMS,” said the first rescuer, draping a thin waterproof blanket over Vaughn. “How many are injured?”
“Ferrix Vaughn, Omicron. None are injured...one is...dead.”
“How many are you?”
“Three survivors, plus one indigenous dog from Echo Outpost.” Vaughn pointed the man to Stopper...and Jan. His outstretched hand shook, so he fisted it, pulled it to his side. But the chill was inside him now, spreading, searching for the one place he was powerless to defend against a force like regret. He should know. He’d deserted that place long ago, so he’d never be caught there when the chill inevitably came to collect its dues.
But Jan was in there now. Somehow, she’d found her way into the heart of an Omicron agent, the most cursed Omicron agent ever to wear a badge. His entire family, his great mentor, and now her—fodder for the goddamn chill. It owned him now. Probably always would. As he walked away to address the second rescuer, the chill burst into a bitter squall deep inside him, almost making him retch.
“...expect to see you out here, bud!”
Vaughn wiped the rain off his visor. “Kraczinski?”
“None other. What wild goose chase led you this far out, Vaughn?” The sheriff appeared to have gained more than a few pounds since the last time they’d met, which somehow made Vaughn even more glad to see him. “Ah, shit. Who’s that? One of the wardens?”
“Dr. Juanita Corbija.”
“Friend of yours?”
Vaughn was silent.
“What about the others?” asked Kraczinski.
“A couple of survivors from the Kingmaker.” Fehr escorted Finnegan and Polotovsky to the winch-line. They both sported waterproof blankets. As he harnessed Polotovsky onto the chair-lift, the drops grew big and heavy, the downpour even more violent. Vaughn had to shout at the top of his voice to be heard. “Before we leave the planet, you’ll need to make a couple of stops.”
“Sure. Get you back to your ship. Echo Outpost, right?”
“Right. Then I want you to take this dog to one of the other stations. Call around, see who’s willing to look after him. As far away from this place as possible. Okay?”
“Okay, bud. Whatever you say. He’ll have to stay in the airlock for now, but I’ll sort him out later. Came in handy, did he?”
“Let’s just say I’ll take it personally if he’s not treated like royalty for the rest of his life.”
Crash slapped his gloved hand on Vaughn’s shoulder. “Any more loose ends to tie up—with the case, I mean?”
“I don’t think so.” He didn’t have enough verifiable evidence to indict Lewartow or Malesseur, so he would have to be careful how he included them in his final report—perhaps just a transcript of the interview on Iolchis. They’d lost the Fleece and their Omega protector; as a result, Lori Malesseur would likely rot in her cell indefinitely. That would keep the old man occupied for a while. In the meantime, Vaughn would press the bureau for closer surveillance of both men. It was only a matter of time before they crossed the line again. Vaughn would be there to nail them.
“You found the perps, then?”
“Found them, lost them.” Vaughn gazed westward into the thunderous monsoon. He could barely see the lake.
“Local predators, huh? Bad fish?”
“You could say that.”
He saw Fehr trussing Jan’s body in a field bag, and jogged over. Helping lift her onto the winch was his duty, to make sure it was done with the utmost respect.
“Vaughn, is it?”
“I’ll lift her legs, Fehr.”
The rock-hopper shot him a quizzical look.
“It’s okay. I know what I’m doing,” said Vaughn.
“That’s not—” Fehr grabbed his arm before Vaughn could touch her.
Vaughn threw him off. “Hell’s your problem?”
“You know what you’re doing, huh? Well then, hotshot, now that you’ve declared her dead, explain to me how she has a pulse...”