Off the Map (Winter Rescue #2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

this call?”
    “No—no, it’s nothing like that.” Newman paused, his silence weighty in a way that did little to provide reassurance. “If I remember correctly, Max has a well-stocked liquor cabinet. Get a drink of something, would you? Something strong.”
    Scott cringed. “Do I have to?”
    “I would.”
    That was all he had to say to confirm Scott’s worst fears. Even though he wanted nothing more than to hang up the phone and get back to Carrie’s juvenile card playing and sexual taunts, he prepared himself to carry Newman’s orders out instead. Sixteen years of service under the older man’s expert SAR guidance had trained him well. When the lives of innocent people were on the line, you did what was asked—plunged into freezing rivers or scaled icy mountains or drank to numb the pain—no matter how much you might not like it.
    Most of the time, you didn’t like it.
    Scott set the handset on the countertop and poked his head into the living room. “Hey, Max? What do you have that’s stronger than beer?”
    “Uh…on me right now?” Max looked around the poker table, as if expecting a bottle to appear on the felt top. “Not much, to be honest. I tossed everything out once Tina started spending weekends here.”
    “Really?”
    Max shrugged apologetically. “Parenthood.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “I have prescription-strength cough syrup in my purse,” Carrie offered. “Does that count?”
    “Not really.”
    “Amateurs.” Ace reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts—his standard attire at all times except on a rescue—and extracted a metal flask. “Here.”
    Scott took it and twisted the lid, giving the top a tentative sniff. “What’s in it?” He recoiled without waiting for an answer. Tequila. Vile stuff. “Is this the best you can do? What flavor is the cough syrup?”
    “Grape.”
    He shuddered. That was even worse.
    “I’ll pass.” With a gesture of thanks in Ace’s direction, he palmed the flask. He could tell Carrie wanted to say something more, but her mouth opened and closed in a rare moment of restraint.
    Of course, that didn’t stop her voice from reaching him once his back was turned. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Is this like some kind of long-distance drinking game?”
    “No,” followed Max’s grim voice. “It means Newman is about to say something Scott doesn’t want to hear. He hates giving bad news without something to take the edge off.”
    “It’s why I carry a flask,” Ace said. “Lotta bad news this time of year.”
    Scott wished he could argue, but it would have been a waste of breath. Winter was a busy time for them, and disasters always seemed to pick up as the holidays drew near. It was as if there was only so much joy that could be allotted in the world at one time. The universal law of happiness.
    Picking up the receiver, he willed himself to sound collected. “Alcohol acquired. Am I supposed to drink, or am I saving this for after?”
    “Drink.”
    He complied, the burn of the tequila not nearly strong enough to cover the sharp aftertaste. It also wasn’t strong enough to make him feel better about the upcoming conversation. He took another sip. “Okay. It’s down the hatch. Lay it on me—it’s about my dad, isn’t it?”
    “Your dad?” Newman echoed. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. Your dad is…well, he’s fine. Not in the best of health these days, but fine.”
    Scott felt a fleeting relief move through him, ghost fingers prodding his insides just long enough to leave a mark. His dad hadn’t been in the best of health for the better part of a decade. Three-parts gone to cirrhosis, he was a man who took Newman’s notion of drinking to numb the pain to extremes. Scott had spent most of his adult life waiting for the call that would inform him that the man had finally given up for good.
    But this, it seemed, wasn’t that phone call. He steeled himself for more. “Then who are you calling about?”
    “It’s Mara.