Chapter 1 - The Red and White Rescue Cabin
The jolt of the winching cable pulling us into the gray sky knocked the remaining breath from my lungs. Below us, the jagged teeth of the snowy mountain summit shrank into a chaotic smear of ice and wind-driven powder. My fingers were clamped around the heavy metal carabiner Roman Vescari had just clicked into my climbing harness, the cold iron biting into my palms even through my knitted mittens.
Inside the red-and-white rescue helicopter cabin, the noise was a deafening roar of turbine blades beating against the gale. A rescue technician reached out with heavy gloves, grabbing the back of Roman's tactical jacket and hauling us both through the open side hatch. The wind shrieked as the hydraulic door slid shut, cutting the worst of the howling blizzard down to a steady, rhythmic thrum of engines and vibrating aluminum floorboards.
I slumped against the corrugated wall, my knees trembling violently beneath my beige trousers. My face throbbed where the ice crust had lacerated my skin, and the raw chill in my bones felt permanent. Roman knelt beside me immediately, his long dark hair plastered across his forehead by sweat and melting snow. His tattoos—inked spirals and dark geometric lines winding down his neck and across the back of his large hands—looked stark against his pale skin.
"Breathe, Elena," he said, his voice cutting through the engine noise with absolute calm. "You're inside. You're safe."
"I shouldn't be alive," I whispered, my teeth chattering so hard the words barely formed. The memory of the icy ledge, the creeping numbness in my limbs, and the sudden drop into darkness felt like a nightmare that refused to end.
Roman didn't offer empty platitudes or gentle smiles. He reached into a side pocket of his jacket, pulled out a thermal blanket, and wrapped it securely around my shoulders, tucking it tightly under my chin. His eyes, dark and steady, held mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten for an entirely different reason.
"Nobody dies today," he said, his tone carrying a quiet finality that anchored me to the moment. "The pilot is turning us west toward the lowlands. We have an hour before we touch down."
I pulled the blanket closer, resting one hand instinctively over my abdomen where my unborn child huddled against the trauma. My husband, sitting warm and secure in our brick colonial three counties away, was currently watching the evening news broadcasts write my obituary. The realization settled over me like lead. I looked up at the tattooed man who had dropped out of the storm to pull me back from the edge.
May you like
"He thinks I'm dead," I repeated, the words tasting like ash.
"For now," Roman replied, adjusting the harness straps on my chest. "And we are going to keep it that way until we find out why someone cut your climbing rope."
