James Axler – Cold Asylum

He turned sharply to the right and began to dodge between the pines, making sure there was always a fringe of the forest between them and the nearer walls of the ville.

“We’re going to try and get back in!” Dean exclaimed. “Hot pipe, Dad.”

Doc was always the one who found it difficult to travel fast over rough terrain.

“Sneak into the lair of the great white worm itself,” he panted. “Your schemes are always a source of wonderment and delight to me, my dear Cawdor.”

THE IDEA HAD BEEN triggered by the realization that Sun Crest would be left distinctly short of sec men once all of the hunters had left in the pursuit.

But it was a plan hedged about with potential problems and opportunities for total, terminal disaster. They had to find a way into the fortified building, then get to the arms collection. If they could get that far, then the balance of power would tilt a little in their direction.

After that

Ryan stopped again, checking his chron. “Six minutes and forty seconds.”

They were close to the main generator, where the river foamed and tumbled over the huge lichen-covered wheel. It was possible to make out the massive stone building through the trees, less than a hundred paces away.

Lightning crackled a few miles off, and a curtain of rain came sweeping down, veiling the walls of the ville itself, close beyond the generator. Under the spreading branches of the dense wood, the seven companions remained dry.

For the plan to have any chance of success, its timing was crucial.

If they made their move too soon, then the hunt wouldn’t have set off and they might as well slit their own throats. If they left it too late, then they might well be tracked down before they could try to break into Sun Crest.

“Rain’ll make tracking harder,” J.B. said, his face a white blur in the Stygian gloom.

“Going to be around a hundred riders all bursting out of the main gate in about six minutes from now.” Ryan brushed away a spot of cold water that had already filtered through the dense foliage above him. “Bound to have the dogs with them. But the scent won’t be that strong, and they could easily get jammed up together on that main trail.”

“Should we have tried to cross the river?” Mildred asked. “Heard that hounds can’t follow over flowing water.”

J.B. answered her. “River’s flooded. Try to cross it and you get drowned. Better this way.”

More lightning flashed, turning everyone into wide-eyed, pallid ghosts. This time it was followed by a deafening crash of thunder that rolled on and on, the volume reaching close to the pain barrier.

“Won’t help the dogs any,” Krysty commented.

Nobody answered.

J.B. looked at his chron. “Five minutes before they start after us.”

“What if they cheat and come early?”

Ryan smiled at his son. “No need for that. What I’ve seen of Harry Guiteau, he’ll give the word when exactly fourteen minutes and sixty seconds are up.”

The only window in the mill that looked over the woods was high up. The black sky reflected off it, turning it into a blank mirror, making it impossible to see if anyone was on watch behind the dusty glass.

The rain had become torrential, and all of the friends were starting to get wet. For a brief moment it crossed Ryan’s mind to wonder whether the Mandevilles might abort the hunt, but he instantly dismissed the idea.

He led the way closer to the pounding wheel. There was now so much noise from the raging water and from the storm around them that it was pointless to try to move with any stealth. He’d noticed a couple of tin wires running from the mill to the nearest point of Sun Crests’s walls, which he guessed was some kind of comm device. Ryan held up his hand, gathering everyone around him.

“They get a chance to warn the sec men left in the ville, then we’re done. We have to be triple-fast.”

“Two minutes,” J.B. warned.

Now they were out of the cover of the pines, all of them soaked to the skin, pressed flat against the streaming granite walls. Here was the first step of the long, perilous road to safety.