What had started as a chase was now a race; they all knew where Lieutenant Pace was heading and even the most generous of thoughts bode ill for the survivors on Coal Island.

One skirmisher fell in the deep snow, flailing to get up as Robert passed by. The pain of his arm was easing, the mule kick of numbness long gone as pain like fire claimed his shoulder. It was a nick. The mini ball had cut a grove in the flesh of his shoulder, yet Robert could use his arm now despite the pain.

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“Keep going,” Robert urged as his fallen man stood and rejoined the run, brushing snow from his face and clothes.

Their quarry was out of sight, lost in the storm, but Lieutenant Pace had left tracks that were slowly filling in. The hunters knew right where to go as they grimly continued their task.