a tool she’d left behind. Before she knew it, she’d succumbed to the lure of the dig. That had been two days ago.
Knowing she had to leave before the storm hit, she’d given herself half of the last day to dig. Immersed in her work, the sound of a helicopter cut through her intense concentration and she glanced at her watch. With a gasp, she realized just how long she’d been there and that it was nearing sunset of her last day on the site.
She still needed to get the tent down and stowed before dark. With a regretful glance at the ground, she pushed the flap back and ducked through. High clouds blocked out any chance for warmth or glare from the sun.
The thumping sound of blades churning the air drew her attention and she glanced at the sky. About a mile away, a green-and-white helicopter hovered low over the prairie.
From where she stood, she couldn’t see what it was hovering over. The ground had a gentle rise and dip, making the chopper appear to be almost on the ground. Emma recognized the craft as one belonging to the Customs and Border Protection.
There was a unit based out of Grand Forks and she knew one of the pilots, Dante Thunder Horse, from when he’d taken classes at the university. A handsome Native American, he had caught her attention crossing campus, his long strides eating up the distance.
He’d taken one of her anthropology classes and they’d met in the student commons on a couple of occasions and discussed the university hockey team games. When he’d finally asked her out, she’d screwed up enough courage to take him up on it, suggesting a coffee shop where they’d talked and seemed to hit it off.
Then nothing. He hadn’t called or asked her out for another date. He must have finished his coursework at the university because she hadn’t run into him again. Nor did she see him crossing campus. She’d been disappointed when he hadn’t called, but that was at the end of last spring. The summer had kept her so busy on the dig, she wouldn’t have had time for a relationship—not that she was any good at it anyway. Her longest one had lasted two months before her shyness had scared off the poor young man.
Emma wondered if Dante was the pilot flying today. She marveled at how close the helicopter was. In all the vastness of the state, how likely was it that the aircraft would be hovering so near to the dig? Then again, the site was fairly close to the border and the CBP was tasked with protecting the northern border of the United States.
As Emma started to turn back to her tent to begin the job of tearing it down, a loud bang shook the air. Startled, she saw a flash in her peripheral vision from the direction of the helicopter. When she spun to see what had happened, the chopper was turning and turning. As if it was a top being spun faster and faster, it dropped lower and lower until it disappeared below the rise and a loud crunching sound ripped the air.
Her heart stopped for a second and then galloped against her ribs. The helicopter had crashed. As far away from civilization as they were, there wasn’t a backup chopper that could get to the pilot faster than she could.
Abandoning her tent, she ran for the back of the trailer, flung open the utility door in the rear, dropped the ramp and climbed inside. She’d loaded the snowmobile on the off chance she couldn’t get the truck all the way down the road to the dig. Fortunately, she’d been able to drive almost all the way to the site and had parked the truck and trailer on a hardstand of gravel the wind had blown free of snow near the edge of the eight-foot-deep dig site.
Praying the engine would start, she turned the key and pressed the start button. The rumble of the engine echoed off the inside of the trailer but then it died. The second time she hit the start button, the vehicle roared to life. Shifting to Reverse, she backed down the ramp and turned to face the direction the helicopter had crashed.
A tower of flames shot toward the sky, smoke rising in a plume.
Her pulse pounding, Emma raced across the snow, headed for the fire.
As she topped the rise, her heart fell to her knees. The helicopter was a battered heap, lying on its side, flames rising all around.
Gunning the throttle, Emma sped across the prairie, praying she wasn’t too late. Maybe the pilot had been thrown clear of the aircraft. She hoped she was right.
As she neared the wreck, movement caught her attention. Another snowmobile was headed toward the helicopter from the north. Good, she thought. Maybe whoever it was had also seen the chopper crash and could help her free the pilot from the wreckage and get him to safety. She waved her hand, hoping the driver would see her and know she was there to help. He didn’t give any indication he’d spotted her. But the snowmobile slowed. The rider pulled off his helmet, his dark head in sharp contrast to his white jacket. He leveled what appeared to be a rifle across the handlebars, aiming at something near the wall of flames.
Emma squinted, trying to make out what he was doing. The pop of rifle fire made her jump. That’s when she noticed a dark lump on the ground in the snow, outside the ring of fire around the helicopter. The lump moved, rolling over in the snow.
The driver of the other snowmobile climbed onto the vehicle and started toward the man on the ground, moving slowly, his rifle poised to shoot.
Emma gasped.
The man was trying to shoot the guy on the ground.
With a quick twist of the throttle she sent her snowmobile skimming across the snow, headed straight for the attacker. At the angle she was traveling, the attacker wouldn’t see her if he was concentrating on the man on the ground.
Unarmed, she only had her snowmobile and her wits. The man on the ground only had one chance at survival. If she didn’t get to him or the other snowmobile first, he didn’t stand a chance.
Coming in from the west, Emma aimed for the man with the gun. She didn’t have a plan other than to ram him and hope for the best.
He didn’t see her or hear her engine over the roar of his own until she was within twenty feet of him. The man turned the weapon toward her.
Emma gave the engine all it could take and raced straight for the man. He fired a shot. Something plinked against the hood of the snowmobile engine. At the last moment, she turned the handlebars. Her machine slid into the side of his and the handlebars knocked the gun from his hand.
She twisted the throttle and skidded sideways across the snow, spinning around to face him again.
Disarmed, the attacker had turned as well and raced north, away from the burning helicopter and the man on the ground.
Emma watched as the snowmobile continued into the distance. Keeping an eye on the north, she turned her snowmobile south toward the figure lying still on the ground.
She pulled up beside him and leaped off the snowmobile into the packed snow where he’d rolled.
A man in thermal underwear lay facedown in the snow, blood oozing from his left arm, dripping bright red against the pristine white snow.
Emma bent toward him, her hand reaching out to push him over.
The man moved so quickly, she didn’t know what hit her. He rolled over, snatched her wrist and jerked her flat onto her belly, then straddled her, his knees planted on both sides of her hips, twisting her arm up between her shoulder blades.
Until that point, she hadn’t realized just how vulnerable she was. On the snowmobile, she had a way to escape. Once she’d left the vehicle, she’d put herself at risk. What if the man shooting had been the good guy? In the middle of nowhere, with a big man towering over her, she was trapped and out of ideas.
“Let me up!” she yelled, aiming for righteous contempt. Her voice wobbled, muffled by a mouthful of snow it sounded more like a frog’s croak.
She tried to twist around to face him, but he planted his fist into the middle of her back, holding her down, the cold snow biting her cheek.
“Why did you shoot down my helicopter?” he demanded, his voice rough but oddly familiar.
“I didn’t, you big baboon,” she insisted.