By Alex Barclay
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Extra info for Blood Runs Cold
His body was on fire. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. In his panic, he couldn’t pin down the passing of time; did he still have a chance, or was it too late? Had he been there for wasted hours or just minutes? Finally, he heard a huge intake of breath. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Thank God. Jesus Christ. ’ The voice was faint. ’ ‘OK, Sonny. You wait right there …’ He paused. ‘I mean, I’m going to get help. ’ He heard a muffled reply. He sat back on the snow, his breath heaving. ’ He grabbed the radio from his belt and radioed down to the trailhead to call in Flight-for-Life, the medevac helicopter run out of Frisco, ten miles north of Breckenridge.
Ha. Ha,’ said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. ‘I’m not looking forward to this shitstorm,’ he said. ’ There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. ‘Hey,’ he said. ’ He turned back to Lasco. ’ The Summit County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI resident agencies – RAs – across the United States, usually with one to three agents.
It’s the scariest fucking shit …’ He laughed through the panic rising in his chest. Sonny’s skin was almost gray, his eyes shadowed and sunken, his lips pale and dry. Sonny was failing. Bob’s radio struck up. ’ ‘That’s great,’ said Bob. He looked up and down the slope. They were near the bottom, but there was no ground nearby at the right angle for a helicopter to land. And by the time the SAR team made it up to them from the trailhead, another half-hour would have gone by. Sonny Bryant had got a perfect score in his EMT exams, so he knew exactly how he was going to die.
Blood Runs Cold by Alex Barclay