Page 4 of Mountain Challenge

“Less talking, more walking,” Beau grunted without looking back. Thecommandantwas not in a good mood.

By the time the road came into sight, Ry’s arms were burning something fierce. By now, it was impossible not to feel sorry for the newly engaged couple, with their wan, tired expressions. This clearly wasn’t how they’d expected to spend their afternoon. But Ry was having fun. He loved challenges, and loved competing. That was the reason he’d joined the PGHM—a job that put together the challenge, and the ability to put his medic training to use, and help people at the same time. Today was a new kind of challenge, one where nobody got hurt, and he was determined to enjoy it. Ry was pretty sure the only one whowas enjoying the afternoon more than him was Popeye, as he lay on the litter like a pharaoh.

The woman’s expression brightened up when she saw the sign to the car park.

“Finally! I’m going to go home and start a bath and?—“

Her words cut off as they were met by a mob of reporters. Or what passed for a mob of reporters in Chamonix, which was all of five people.

“What—“

“CommandantFontaine,” the first one, a tall, regal-looking older woman, called out. “Please tell us about today’s rescue.”

Beau and Ry set the stretcher down carefully on the ground. Ry stretched to get rid of a kink that had settled in the base of his neck, and looked over at his boss, whose teeth were clenched so hard it was going to be difficult for him to get a word out. With a visible effort and a deep breath, eventually Beau unclenched them enough to give the reporter a brief but civil response.Yvette would be proud.

Probably figuring that they would not get much more from Ry’s boss, the reporters turned to the couple instead.

“Is that your engagement ring?” a younger reporter asked the newly engaged woman. It was exactly the right question to ask. The woman forgot her aches, forgot about the bath she’d been looking forward to, forgot everything as she basked in the reporters’ attention.

One of the reporters pulled up his camera to take a picture of Popeye … just as the dog calmly stood up and stretched his back before making his way easily back to the car.

Hugo scowled. “Well, he looks nice and rested.”

Ry laughed out loud, looking down at his watch. “Two hours and ten minutes. Not bad.”

Hugo snorted. “Always so competitive.”

Ry smiled again, not bothering to deny it. “I can’t help loving a challenge. Come on, Hugo, let’s get out of here.”

“You want to go get a drink? I think we deserve one after this circus.”

Ry shook his head. “Not tonight, sorry. I have plans.” Plans he wasn’t about to share with his friend.

2

Isla

Isla Bernard lathered some Derma Shield on her hands, focusing her efforts on her fingertips and the area around her knuckles.

She made a mental note to order some more before she went home for the evening. It was the only product she’d found to help with her extremely dry hands, a product of the five or six hours per day she spent wearing latex gloves. The protective barrier was essential for her job as a tattooist, but it also made her sensitive skin split, crack and bleed if she wasn’t careful.

Still, she’d deal with the pain if it meant she could continue practicing the profession she loved. More than a job, really. Tattooing was her job, but also her creative outlet. And now that she had her own tattoo studio, things were even better. She was finally getting to create more of the tattoos she loved.

Most of the time, anyway.

Isla looked at the calendar on the wall.

February 14th.

Her most hated day of the year was almost over. And the end couldn’t come soon enough. Her brain and her wrist hurt from all the hearts she’d tattooed. So many different types of hearts. Double hearts, broken hearts, flaming hearts, hearts on breasts, hearts on butt cheeks … She was exhausted. Next year, she was closing shop this week and heading into the mountains.

Yeah, right.

It was the same thing she told herself every year, and she’d yet to do it once. But now that she lived in Chamonix, pretty much rightinthe mountains, things could be different. Perhaps next year she would.

She sighed and stretched her back, pulling on a new pair of latex gloves. This year wouldn’t have been the right time to close shop, anyway. Six months earlier, Isla had gotten the chance of a lifetime when Tim LePetit, one of her long-time mentors and someone she’d worked with when the European Chemical Agency had unfairly decided to ban Blue 15 and Green 7, had come to Brussels to see her. She’d known Tim was the owner of a successful tattoo studio in the Alps, but hadn’t been aware of the fact that his dream was to travel around the world on his bike or that, following a knee operation, he’d decided to do it now, in his early sixties, rather than postponing any longer.

He’d proposed a partnership whereby she would become majority owner of the tattoo studio, taking over the management and day-to-day running of the place, while he became a silent minority investor in the business. Because he knew she didn’t have the cash to buy him out, he’d offered a generous payment structure whereby she could pay him over the next three years.

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