A Curvy Widow Dragged 2 Pups and a Stranger From Black Ice — Unaware He Ruled the Mafia World

The dusk was settling fast over the Iron Ridge, turning the snowdrifts into deep waves of indigo and shadow.

From the mouth of the mine, Ramona crouched low behind a timber beam, her carbine barrel resting on an iron bolt. Down the slope, two hundred yards below the entrance, three figures in dark tactical coats were climbing through the deep powder, their snowshoes leaving wide, oval depressions in the crust. They were moving cautiously, using the massive granite boulders for cover, their short rifles held at the low ready.

"They don't know we're inside," Luca whispered from his position on the opposite side of the archway. He was kneeling on his good knee, the 12-gauge braced against his left thigh. "They're checking every old structure along the rail line. If we fire now, we give up the high ground."

"If we wait until they reach the entrance, they throw grenades inside," Ramona countered coldly. "This shaft is an echo chamber. One flashbang and we're deaf and blind."

"She’s right," Luca conceded, his jaw tightening. "Take the lead man. I’ll take the second when he breaks for the boulder."

Ramona didn't argue. She adjusted her breathing, her eye aligning with the iron sights of the .30-30. The front bead settled directly on the chest of the lead scout—a tall, broad man wearing a black ski mask.

She didn't feel a flicker of hesitation. These were the men who had thrown two puppies into a frozen lake, who had set fire to her life, and who were hunting them like animals.

She squeezed the trigger.

CRACK.

The carbine slammed into her shoulder. Two hundred yards down the slope, the lead man jerked violently backward, his snowshoes tangling as he tumbled headfirst into a five-foot drift, his rifle discharging harmlessly into the sky.

"CONTACT! HIGH MINE!" the second man screamed, diving frantically behind a granite slab.

BOOM.

Luca fired the 12-gauge from the entrance. The heavy buckshot load struck the granite slab with a deafening roar, showering the second man with razor-sharp stone splinters and sending him screaming down the slope, clutching his face.

The third man—a professional who didn't panic—immediately dropped prone into the snow and unleashed a full magazine from his suppressed rifle toward the mine archway.

THUCK-THUCK-THUCK-THUCK.

Heavy armor-piercing rounds chewed into the ancient oak beams above Ramona’s head, showering her with dry rot and iron dust.

"FALL BACK INSIDE!" Luca roared, grabbing Ramona’s coat sleeve and hauling her backward into the dark tunnel as another burst tore through the entrance.

"They have radio comms," Ramona panted, her back pressed against the cold stone wall inside the tunnel. "That shooter is pinning us while he calls the rest of Julian's sweep team up from the valley."

"Then we don't stay to be boxed in," Luca said, his dark eyes flashing in the lantern light. "Does this mine have an exit?"

"The lower drainage drift," Ramona said, her mind racing through the old layout her uncle had shown her thirty years ago. "It runs twelve hundred feet under the mountain and comes out in the gorge near the Black River. But the snowmobile won't fit through the lower timber cuts."

"Then we take what we can carry and go on foot," Luca ordered. "Move!"

Five minutes later, they were deep within the dark, dripping bowels of the mountain.

Ramona carried her carbine, two boxes of ammunition, and the willow basket strapped securely to her chest with a heavy wool scarf. The two puppies were tucked inside, their small heads poking out, wide-eyed and silent as if understanding the danger.

Luca walked beside her, carrying the shotgun, a single lantern, and a five-gallon gas can he had refused to leave behind. He walked with a heavy, swinging limp, his face pale with agony, but his determination was an immovable wall.

The lower drainage drift was narrow, cold, and ankle-deep in freezing water that ran over old iron ore slimes. They squeezed through rotting timber sets and ducked under low hanging stone arches until, after twenty minutes of dark, grueling marching, they felt a sudden draft of freezing outdoor air.

Ahead, the tunnel opened into a narrow fissure on the sheer cliff face overlooking the Black River Gorge.

One hundred feet below them, the Black River stretched out like a winding snake of thick, snow-dusted black ice, cutting through the dense wilderness toward the south.

"The ice on the river is four feet thick," Ramona said, pointing down a steep shale chute that led from the tunnel mouth to the riverbank. "It's a straight six-mile run down to Miller’s Ford. There’s an old trapper's cabin near the ford owned by a man named Silas Thorne. He was Neil’s uncle. He’s eighty years old, he doesn't have a phone, and he has enough guns to defend an army post."

"Can you slide down that chute without dropping the dogs?" Luca asked, looking down the dizzying steep drop.

"I’ve slid down worse," Ramona said. She pulled her coat tight around the willow basket, looked at Luca, and said, "Hold onto your hat, Mr. Falco."

She sat down on the slick shale, braced her boots, and pushed off.

She shot down the chute like a bullet, snow and shale spraying around her boots, her heavy canvas coat taking the friction as she navigated the forty-degree slope. She hit the bottom bank with a heavy THUD, sliding twenty feet across the smooth river ice before coming to a graceful stop near a stand of frozen willows.

She looked up instantly. "COME ON!" she shouted softly.

A second later, Luca came roaring down the chute, using the five-gallon gas can as a makeshift sled. He struck the ice with a low grunt that sounded like a cracked rib, spinning twice before Ramona lunged forward and grabbed his jacket, pulling him to a halt against the willow bank.

Luca lay on his back on the river ice, breathing raggedly, staring up at the darkening sky. A low, hoarse laugh bubbled up from his chest.

"You are... entirely insane, Ramona Halstead," he rasped, smiling up at her through the twilight.

"I'm efficient," she corrected, helping him to his feet. "Now move. If we stay on the open river, their snipers will pick us off from the ridge."

They set off down the frozen highway of the Black River.

The march was brutal. The temperature was dropping fast toward twenty-five below zero, and the wind blowing down the river canyon was a relentless, icy blade that cut through their coats. Luca was fading fast, his wounded body relying on sheer, terrifying willpower to keep his boots moving one after the other over the slippery ice. Ramona walked beside him, supporting his left side, her strong arm locked around his waist, carrying nearly half his weight as the night fell completely around them.

Near midnight, through the thick river fog, the dark shape of a log cabin appeared on the high western bank. A single, dim plume of gray woodsmoke rose from its stone chimney into the moonlight.

"Silas!" Ramona called out as they reached the wooden steps leading up from the river. Her voice was cracking with exhaustion, her face covered in a mask of white frost. "Silas, open the door! It's Ramona!"

The heavy oak door swung open six inches. Through the gap, the long, dark barrel of an old lever-action rifle poked out, illuminated by the flicker of a kerosene lamp inside.

Standing in the doorway was an old man with a long white beard, wearing a filthy bear-skin vest and wire-rimmed glasses.

"Ramona?" the old man grunted, his sharp eyes moving from her frost-bitten face to the broad, bleeding stranger leaning heavily against her shoulder. "What in the hell did you drag off the river, girl?"

"Neil’s widow, Silas," Ramona gasped, her knees finally buckling beneath her as she collapsed onto the porch steps, bringing Luca down beside her. "We need a fire... and we need shells."

Silas Thorne looked at the heavy falcon tattoo visible through Luca’s torn shirt collar, then at the willow basket strapped to Ramona’s chest where two tiny puppy noses were sniffing the cold air.