How long had it been since she felt that deep a desire for a man? It was more than lust or simple attraction. She wanted to do things with him. Normal things. Snuggle on the couch watching movies, plant bulbs in the backyard, get coffee at Starbucks. She wanted to know how he liked his coffee. Black? Sugar and cream? She’d bet black. Her eyes watered and she brushed impatiently at her cheeks. He seemed like a no-frills kind of guy.

But how damaged was he inside? Maybe the nurse in her was simply reacting to someone in pain. And Alex had some of the heaviest emotional pain she’d seen since her own.

He might increase her load. He could easily leave her heart in shreds.

Two more gunshots echoed outside. Alex. Brynn grabbed at her armrests, sitting straight in her chair. The thumping in her chest beat a drum solo and her lungs refused to draw breath.

Lurching out of his seat, Ryan fumbled at the door. Jim’s voice filled the plane. “Ryan! Do not go out there. That is an order.” Ryan froze, swaying slightly, his back to Jim, one hand on the door.

“That was a handgun. I think the first shot was a rifle,” Ryan said.

Alex ducked from tree trunk to tree trunk, moving in the direction he thought the single shot had come from. It was taking him deeper into the forest, away from both pieces of the plane. No more shots. For now.

He’d heard something else. At first, it’d sounded like a man’s voice, but he was too far away to make out words. The sound wasn’t directed at him. If Besand had wanted Alex to hear him, he would have. Three times since the single shot, he’d simply heard…noise from this direction.

What was in the woods?

Please, not a bear.

Aim for the brain.

He clenched his Beretta and felt his hand start to numb. He breathed onto his fingers, wiggled them, doing anything he could to keep them from literally freezing. He couldn’t risk slow reflexes. Not out here. At least Besand would be suffering the same problem. He’d be an extra-lousy shot. Did someone just yell?

He blinked and listened hard, holding his noisy feet in place. Arguing. Somebody was arguing strongly. Not Thomas’s voice. Not Besand. He knew what Besand sounded like. His voice haunted his sleep and his waking hours. All the time he’d spent in little interview rooms with the killer as he’d recited the horrors he’d inflicted on his victims had imprinted Besand’s voice on Alex’s brain. Permanently. Who is out here?

Another voice shouted back. Definitely two men. Alex felt like he’d fallen through the rabbit hole. Hunters? In this weather? Most likely searchers. His entire spine relaxed. Until he remembered that he’d been shot at.

No one could possibly mistake his New York Giant’s colored jacket for a deer or bear.

He’d been shot at on purpose. Who else wants me dead?

He knew. At that exact second he heard the puzzle pieces click into place in his brain and his legs nearly crumpled. There was one person who had the means and motivation to send men into the forest with orders to shoot him. Paul Whittenhall.

Alex bent over, hands on his thighs, panting heavily. His ex-boss wanted him dead. Alex knew it as surely as he knew his nose was Rudolph-red from the cold. Alex had probed and poked at Whittenhall, and he must have hit an artery. Whittenhall was dirty.

Why now? Why would he go after me in the middle of a blizzard? Why not take me out in front of my TV?

Besand.

Whittenhall was afraid he’d find Besand.

But Alex had been meeting and talking with Besand on and off for months. What was different out here in the snow?

One of the voices grew louder, yelling orders. Alex’s heart stuttered as he recognized the voice, and his feet moved of their own volition. He awkwardly jogged between the trees in his snowshoes, feeling his lungs beg for more oxygen. He didn’t know what elevation he was at, but his lungs could tell the difference. Being thrown about in an avalanche might have a little to do with his weakened state too.

He broke into a small clearing and saw two men wrestling in the white fluff. Two backpacks had been thrown to one side and a sniper rifle’s butt stuck up out of the snow. He recognized both men immediately. Whittenhall’s right hand, Gary Stewart, was blocking blows from Matt Boyles. Stewart was on his back in the snow as Boyles straddled him. Boyles plainly had the upper hand.

Boyles would kick Stewart’s ass. Stewart was a pencil-pushing, ass-kissing asshole. Boyles was a Steven Seagal look-alike with the same physical skills. And the soul of a true cop. If this was the team Paul Whittenhall had sent to take Alex out, he’d fucked up royally.

Matt Boyles had been a groomsman at Alex’s wedding six years ago.

Out of breath, Alex leaned a hand against a tree as he trained his Beretta on the two men. He wouldn’t shoot, but Stewart wouldn’t know that. He just needed to distract him.

“Stewart!” Alex shouted hoarsely. He startled Matt, who spun his head to the side and stared at Alex in shock. Stewart flipped Matt off him and onto his back in the snow. Moving to his knees, Stewart drew his Glock and pointed it at Matt’s head.

He’s going to kill Matt.

Alex fired. Twice.

Gary Stewart fell back in the snow, a stunned look on his face. Through the snowfall Alex spotted the two small holes in his coat near his neck. Alex blew out a breath and his gun hand drooped.

I had no choice. Matt would’ve been dead.

Matt rolled over to Stewart and slapped a hand over the blood that spurted from the two holes. He looked back at Alex, shock on his face.

Alex jogged over and collapsed next to Stewart. His breath froze in his windpipe as he realized Stewart was still breathing. Holy shit. The dying man met Alex’s gaze and blinked rapidly.