Maybe that would have been better. She squeezed her eyes shut against the agony and mental terror the pilot must have gone through, knowing he was dying. This death would stick with her. This one she would see in her dreams at night. Along with the four-year-old boy hit by the Jeep. And the grandmother on the floor in her bathroom who no one had missed for a week.
“Brynn.”
She glanced at Jim, who stared back. “What?”
“I asked about the other guy.”
Brynn firmly put the others out of her mind and flexed one of the copilot’s arms. “Rigor’s come and gone. I’d guess he died on impact or was knocked unconscious and died soon after. He didn’t try to help his leg where he bled out.” She held up his clean, cold palm for Jim to see. Jim nodded.
“You think the other pilot suffered?” Thomas asked quietly.
She nodded and gestured at his bloody hands. Blood had soaked the pilot’s shirt up to the elbows. He’d fought hard for his life. Thomas abruptly turned and left the crowded cockpit.
“Let’s see if Alex found anything.” Jim gestured with his gun for her to follow Thomas.
“Don’t point that thing at me,” she snapped.
“Sorry.” Jim’s apology was clipped. She took a deep breath. Everyone was on edge. She couldn’t blame them. They’d worked so hard to get to this point only to be met with horror and disappointment. Why had she kept her hopes up against the odds?
Alex had arrived at the cockpit and was speaking with Thomas as she and Jim stepped out into the freshly falling snow. For once Brynn couldn’t appreciate its beauty. She couldn’t get the pilot’s lonely fight for life out of her mind. She turned a hopeful gaze to Alex, praying he’d had better luck. But his somber face told his story. Their gazes met and held.
“What’d you find?” Jim asked.
Alex split a glance between her and Jim. “One dead. The marshal.”
“Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry.” Her throat tightened.
“Darrin Besand is missing,” Thomas stated.
“You knew?” Brynn whirled on the big man. “You knew who was being transported in that plane?”
Thomas held up his hands in a surrender position. “Alex told me five seconds ago.”
“Darrin Besand. That’s the prisoner? You’ve known all along it was a dangerous, psychotic piece of shit like that and didn’t tell me?” Jim words got louder and his face grew black as he moved toward Alex. “Did Brynn know?”
“Alex told me just before you hollered me over to the cockpit, Jim.” Brynn subtly placed her body between Jim and Alex.
Alex met Jim’s stare directly. “I didn’t see the need to reveal the name before. But I think you need to know the type of person we’re dealing with now.”
“Dealing with? We’re not dealing with him. We’re getting out of here as fast as we can. There are no victims to help, and we don’t hang around to rescue serial killers who walk away from plane crashes.”
“He must have known the one pilot survived,” Brynn spoke.
“One lived?” Alex’s voice lifted, his dark eyes brightened.
Brynn touched his arm, shaking her head. Her heart cracked at the hope in his gaze. “He didn’t make it. He survived the crash and hung on for a long time, but he’s gone now.”
Alex stepped past them and ducked into the cockpit.
Jim eyed the hulk of metal. “I can’t believe Darrin Besand survived this crash. And I can’t believe Alex didn’t tell us until now. Anyone see any footprints?”
Thomas and Brynn shook their heads. It was a useless question. Too much snow had fallen overnight.
“Maybe he parachuted out.”
“Linus’s gun and holster were gone. I didn’t find a cell phone either.” Alex spoke behind them as he stepped out of the plane, his face emotionless. “Besand was here when the plane went down. He might have lifted weapons off the pilots too. I can’t tell. But he’s definitely armed.” Alex took a deep breath. “I’m sure Besand’s left the area, trying to hike out on his own. He knows his way around the wilderness and isn’t about to hang out waiting for a rescue team who’ll throw him back in jail. I’m going to suggest you guys get Ryan and head back to camp. I need to stay and try to track Besand.” Alex paused. Then he slowly but firmly stated, “I can’t let him walk out of this wilderness.”
Brynn lost her breath at the vengeance in his eyes.
Sheriff Patrick Collins was outside enjoying his morning coffee and scone and watching the media reassemble in their corral when a small helicopter buzzed his base camp. The copter swung in low and thundered in Patrick’s ears before making a beeline up and over the forest in the same direction that had been taken by the hasty team. Patrick swore at the retreating metal, his appetite evaporating.
“Goddamn stupid bastards. They’re gonna get themselves killed.”
Tim Reid jogged over. “Who the fuck was that? Was that a media bird?”
Patrick shook his head. “Liam Gentry and that cocky brother of his.”
“Liam? He convinced Tyrone to take him out in this shit?” Reid stared in the direction the copter had disappeared. Patrick gripped his coffee tighter as a strong gust of wind tried to blow the paper cup out of his hand.
“They’re gonna get blown out of the sky.”
“Are you sure that was Liam?” Reid’s forehead creased as he tried to comprehend the airman’s foolishness.
“I know it was.” The two men had waved directly at Patrick before flying into the Cascades. “That was his brother’s helicopter. We’ve used him before on searches.” Patrick had used Liam’s brother as little as possible. Tyrone had a nasty habit of taking unnecessary risks. Both brothers were brash pilots, but Liam exercised a little control. Liam knew if he wanted to continue flying the expensive, taxpayer-purchased birds, then he had to know when to pull back.
Patrick took a sip of rapidly cooling coffee and wondered what Liam’s commander would say about this stupid stunt. Patrick glanced at the crowd of media, speculating who would be the first to identify the helicopter and owner and then get the information on the air. One night had doubled the size of the crowd, and they were getting arrogant in their questioning. Patrick had held a brief press conference at seven o’clock last night, deliberately after the early evening news, and given as little information as possible.
He rubbed at his eyes. Three hours of sleep was taking its toll. So was the silence from his hasty team.
They’re a smart crew. No one knows the outdoors better.
But why had Alex Kinton gone to so much trouble to tag along with the team?
The question was giving Patrick a headache.
Paul Whittenhall strode up. The marshal had retreated to a hotel room for the night, and had now reappeared with two men outfitted for the wilderness. Patrick recognized one as the younger agent from yesterday.
“Who was in that helicopter? Did you finally get one off the ground? Have you heard from your team?” Whittenhall stopped directly in front of Patrick, rolling out his list of questions. Patrick coolly stared him down.
“That wasn’t one of my copters. Probably a media copter. You left strict instructions that you were to be notified when I heard from my team, so obviously I haven’t heard from them.” He struggled to keep his tone calm. He nodded at the two men behind Whittenhall. “Where are they going?”
“I’m sending in my own team. I’ve got a marshal and a felon out there. I want people with experience on the site.”
Patrick bristled. “You’re only sending two men? You need at least one more to go out in shit like this. I’ll find another—”
“No others. These guys know what they’re doing.”
Patrick watched the younger marshal’s Adam’s apple bob. His partner looked competent and prepared, but this guy looked scared to death. The agent had no idea what the fuck he was walking into. He’d probably never taken a sunny day hike in an open field.
“I can’t let you send—” Patrick started.
“You can’t stop me.” Whittenhall turned his back on Patrick to instruct his team. Patrick opened his mouth then clamped it shut. He’d said his piece and Whittenhall rejected his offer. Reid had witnessed it. If Whittenhall came begging for help later, Patrick wasn’t going to waste taxpayer money on this jerk’s screwup.
“You’re on your own,” he muttered at the big man’s back. The young marshal’s eyes briefly widened at Patrick’s words, but Whittenhall ignored him.
Patrick put some distance between himself and the marshals. He needed breathing room. Reid caught up with him as he stopped at a sheltered table with coffee urns, scones, and doughnuts where Patrick warmed up his drink.
“Why’s he need to send in a team?” Reid complained. “We don’t even know where that plane went down. His guys are gonna be cut off from communication just like ours. It’s stupid to have two groups wandering around blind out there.”
Patrick nodded. His cell buzzed against his waist, and he glanced at the screen. He shot a look at Whittenhall, but he was deep into instructions with his own men. Patrick cocked his head at Reid, and they stepped around to the other side of the table.
“It’s Ryan,” he told Reid and spoke into his cell. “Collins.”
The connection was horrid.
“…found plane…coordinates…all different…” Ryan rattled off several sets of numbers that made no sense to Patrick as he scribbled them down on a napkin he’d snagged from under the doughnuts.
“Did you say you don’t know which coordinates are accurate?”
“…GPS…fucked up…all different…one of them should be right…three dead but almost…”
Patrick swore. “Who’s dead?”
“…can’t find…”
“Is everyone all right?”
“…sick…almost didn’t make it…”
“Ryan. The agent who’s with you. Kinton. He’s not a US marshal. He lied. No one sent him out there.”
“…what? Kinton, what?” The crackling through the cell made Ryan’s voice nearly indecipherable.
“Kinton’s not a marshal. We don’t know why he insisted on going with you.”
The line went silent. Patrick looked at his screen as it flashed the length of the short call. How much had Ryan understood? He tried to call the man back. No luck.
Patrick studied the napkin, disappointment swirling in his chest. If these were coordinates, they were crap. They were all over the place and missing numbers. Ryan was the best navigator he knew. The call must have dropped half of what he’d said.
“What’d he say?” Reid stared at the numbers with a scowl.
“They found the plane, but he seemed unable to get readings from their GPS units. For some reason the units are giving different readings.”
“One of them’s got to be right. Any survivors?”
“I don’t know. He said ‘three dead.’ He didn’t use the words ‘made it’ or ‘survived.’ He did say someone was sick.”
“Who?”
Patrick shook his head, hating the powerless chill that had crept up his spine during the call. “I don’t know what the hell’s happening out there.”
“You gonna tell Whittenhall?”
“Fuck, no.”
Paul Whittenhall thought Gary Stewart was going to vomit.
The deputy marshal’s lips were pressed together as if he was keeping his breakfast down. His gaze was all over the place, and he wasn’t focusing on Paul or listening to his instructions. Paul itched to smack some backbone into the agent.
Damn it. Why wasn’t there someone else he could send out there with Matt Boyles? Stewart was more a pencil pusher than outdoorsman, but Paul needed someone who could keep his mouth shut and knew the stakes of the success of this mission. Boyles could be kept in the dark, but Paul needed Stewart out there in the woods calling the shots.
Boyles frowned at the map. “That’s a huge area to search for a plane. Why don’t we wait to hear from the other team? We don’t want to duplicate any area they’ve already covered.”
“Can you track the team? Can you just try to meet up with them?”
Boyles furrowed his brow, his eyes curious. “I can try, but the snow makes it nearly impossible.”
“I just want you to connect with the group that’s out there. Kinton’s a wild card. I don’t know what the fuck is going through his head. If he runs into Darrin Besand, he’s gonna kill him with no questions asked. And I don’t want to even think about the danger Kinton poses to the members of that hasty team. He’d risk their safety to get his hands on Besand.”